Marked by Passion (5 page)

"Just checking out your work. I didn't think you'd mind. You used to show me your paintings." He brushed the back of his hand across my cheek. "Did I tell you how proud I am of you?"

That shut me up. Not even Madame La Rochelle had told me she was proud of me, though it was implied. But of all the people I wanted to hear that from, Jesse was the last. I pulled back, a little, but it was enough that he noticed.

The corner of his lips lifted. "I seem to be hitting all your buttons tonight."

I opened my mouth, but I didn't know what to say so I just closed it again.

"Funny how fearless you are except when it comes to emotions." Sadness tinged his smile. He reached out to chuck my chin, and then he moved past me. "See you around, babe."

Dumbfounded, I stood in the kitchen, staring after him. I heard the door open and click shut.

What was up with him? I knew that he was still hung up on me, but he never pressed the way he did tonight. It reeked of desperation.

Why would he, of all people, be desperate?

Shaking my head, I went to deadbolt the door. Except as I stepped into the living room, I found one irritated-looking ghost hovering next to my futon.

"Who was that man?" he demanded, arms crossed.

"None of your business," was my automatic answer. Then I said, "What the hell are you doing here, anyway?"

"I told you I'm here to prepare you for the Guardianship."

"And I told you I don't want to be Guardian. End of story."

"The choice isn't yours to make."

The hell it wasn't. But I knew better than to argue the point with him. Shrugging out of my jacket, I dropped it on the floor and climbed onto my futon. I kicked off my shoes and pulled the covers over myself, clothes and all.

"Gabrielle, stop hiding. You need to face this. It's time to stop running."

Ignore the ghost,
I told myself, huddling deeper.
He'll go away.
Eventually. Hopefully.

"Is this how you want to spend your life?"

Hard, though, when he wouldn't shut up.

"Living like this?" he continued. "Looking like a punk?"

I stiffened. He must mean the blue layers in my hair. I'd started dyeing my hair to downplay our resemblance—I didn't want to be reminded of him. I'd continued coloring it because I liked the expression. Blue was my favorite. It matched my eyes. It was tastefully done and minimal. I did not look like a punk.

"Frittering it away working in a bar and sleeping with men you care nothing for?"

I shoved the covers aside, pissed. It'd been over a year since I'd slept with anyone, and that was Jesse. Of all the things to accuse me of, being a slut was the least true. "You don't know what you're talking about."

Wu glared back at me. "Your mother would be so disappointed in you."

Direct hit. Hissing, I hopped off the bed and stabbed a finger at him. "I will not let you or a scrap of decaying paper control my life. I make my own choices, and Mom would be happy about that. She hated the scroll."

"That may be true, but—"

"May be true?"
I snorted. "She gave up everything for you. She was going to be one of the top photographers of our time, and she stopped showing because you didn't want that kind attention on the family. And how did you show your love? By caring more for the scroll than you did her."

He glowed brighter, almost indignantly. But he didn't say anything. He couldn't say anything. How could he dispute the truth?

A bubble of energy drew up through the ground and filled my body. Fists clenched, I took a step toward him. "So don't you dare tell me how she'd feel—"

Before I could say anything more, he vanished.

"Damn you!" I swung my fist at the spot where he'd been standing.

Some
tu ch'í
shot out before I could stop it. Once I yanked it back, I looked around, expecting to see carnage but relieved to notice nothing had happened.

Shaking, I slumped on my futon. At least tomorrow couldn't get any worse.

H
alf the night I tossed and turned. The other half I dreamed that my father lived in my refrigerator and that a giant roll of paper chased me down the street whenever I left my house.

Okay, I also had dreams about my mom, although I don't know if you could call them dreams, since nothing happened. They were more like one snapshot that flashed over and over: only Mom's eyes, the vivid blue she'd passed on to me, full of shock and recrimination the moment before she died.

Needless to say, I didn't feel rested when I got out of bed. My head throbbed like I had a hangover, which made me wish I'd at least had something to drink. I considered going back to sleep, but I couldn't face more nightmares.

And I had a lifetime of this to look forward to. Yay, me. At least it felt manageable this morning. I could feel it inside me, but it was dormant, not threatening to engulf me. Plus I hadn't had any ghostly visitors. Yet.

I was making myself a stiff pot of coffee when someone knocked on my front door. Taking my cup, I went to see who it was.

A courier—the typical kind, in battered, holey clothes, bicycle shoes, and a bag slung across his chest. He bowed over his clipboard, and all I could see of his head was his dirty dreaded hair. "I have a package for Gabrielle San-saucy."

I stared at the package suspiciously, but since I didn't believe I was heir to any other magical ancient texts, I nodded. Plus, he pronounced my last name incorrectly, which was actually reassuring. "I'm Gabrielle."

"Cool. Sign here." He held out the clipboard, lifting his head and looking at me for the first time. His eyes widened. "Whoa."

Ignoring his drool, I signed beside the X. I didn't underestimate the effect I had on the opposite sex, but come on. I was wearing an old sweatshirt and yoga pants.

"Thanks, man." He gave me one last all-over look, as if to memorize me for future wanking material, and grinned as he handed me the package. "Have a great day."

Right. I nodded and closed the door. I didn't waste a second opening the package this time—I ripped open the tab as soon as the deadbolt slipped home.

This time it really was the contract from the gallery. I stared at it for I don't know how long, trying to figure out how I felt. Sad, pissed, stressed, guilty—everything except ecstatic, which should have been at the top of the list.

Another thing that should have been at the top of my list: working on my next canvas. I had seven weeks to finish the three remaining paintings in the
Enter the Light
series. Normally it wouldn't have been a problem, but I had a time bomb in my fridge. How could I concentrate on my art with that looming over my head?

And it was nonnegotiable: Chloe agreed to show my other twelve canvases only because of this new series. Without the next three paintings, I might as well kiss the art show good-bye.

"What is that?"

I spilled my coffee over my hand and the package. "Damn."

Arms crossed, Wu frowned at me. "Fighters set their weight when they get scared. They don't jump like a bunny."

"Well, I'm not a fighter." Even as the words came out of my mouth I knew they were a lie.

"What's that, then?" He pointed to the corner of the room.

Grabbing yesterday's T-shirt to clean up the mess, I didn't have to look to know he meant the foam mat I'd rolled up and duct taped—I used it as a sparring dummy when I worked out. Wince. "I stretch my back on it," I lied.

He raised his eyebrows, his disbelief clear.

Okay—I liked fighting. A lot. I still practiced my forms and shadowboxed with my makeshift, duct-taped partner. But no way was I admitting that. It felt like a betrayal to Mom, who didn't want me to become like Wu.

I may not admit I still worked out, but I had the feeling Wu could see straight through me, much like I could see through him. Not that working out changed anything. "I am
not
going to be the next Guardian."

"You can't fight destiny."

"This"
—I shook the package in front of his ethereal face—"is my destiny."

"What is that?"

"The contract from the art gallery that wants to feature my work." I smiled with bitter triumph. "You were wrong."

"What do you mean?"

"You said it was all a pipe dream and that I'd never make it as an artist. But I'm doing it. The best gallery on the West Coast offered me a showing."

"That hardly matters." He waved his hand dismissively. "The most important thing right now is getting your power under control."

"That's it?" I gaped. "I just told you I accomplished the incredible and all you can focus on is how I can't keep it together?"

"You caused a tidal wave last night."

I paused, frowning. "Excuse me?"

"You caused a tidal wave. Well, a small one," he conceded reluctantly. "Nevertheless, you let the scroll's gift overwhelm you. Again."

My heart stalled, and I went cold with fear. Was anyone hurt? I started to ask him, but I saw the look on his face and realized he was manipulating me.

Well, I'd had enough. I pointed away from me. "Out."

His aura intensified. "Stop acting childish and accept the fact that you have a duty to fulfill. You can't run wild anymore. You have responsibilities."

"The only responsibilities I have are to myself."

"We didn't raise you to be so selfish."

That barb hit a soft spot, but I stiffened my spine. I refused to let him play me. "It's not selfish to work your ass off for what you want. And you know what? I'm not letting you ruin this for me." I headed to the bathroom.

"Running away again, Gabrielle?"

I whirled around and pointed a finger at him. "Which is it? Running wild or running away?"

"With you, they aren't mutually exclusive," he said coolly.

I don't know why that hurt as much as it did. I knew he had a low opinion of me—I shouldn't have been surprised by his words. What did I expect? That he was going to see I was talented and accomplished in myself? That I was good as I was? That I wasn't a failure?

Right. I shook my head. I was such an idealistic idiot.

And there was one thing he was correct about—my running away. I slipped my arms out of my sweatshirt and pulled it over my head.

"What are you doing?"

"You were right. I'm done running." I dropped the sweatshirt on the futon. "Especially in my own home. If I want to get undressed, I'm getting undressed."

"Undressed?" His voice practically squeaked.

"Yep." I reached behind me for the snaps of my bra. I hadn't popped even one before he was gone.

"Good." I speared a hand through my hair and went to get dressed. Madame La Rochelle expected me, and that wasn't something I could flake on.

I was out the door and about to close it when I heard Wu say, "Where are you going, Gabrielle?"

Looking in, I expected him to come rushing after me, but he just stood in the living room. "What? You aren't going to follow me to work?"

A frustrated look pinched his face. "I can't."

"What do you mean you can't?"

"I'm tied to the scroll," he mumbled. "I can't go beyond a certain distance from it."

Good to know. "Then I guess I'll see you later." I closed the door before he could get another word in, knowing I'd have to deal with his anger when I returned home.

What else was new?

The feeling of being watched hit me a couple blocks after I left my apartment. I paused to look around. A busy late morning in the Mission like usual—nothing stood out.

"Now you're just being a freak," I muttered to myself. Maybe the scroll had infected me with paranoia as well as its mad powers.

Shaking my head, I stopped at the corner store to buy the
Chronicle
before hopping on the bus. The unusually long earthquake and resulting high waves overnight were mentioned on the front page, but the article was brief. No one was injured. Thank God.

Madame La Rochelle lived on the other side of town, both literally and figuratively. Her neighborhood, Pacific Heights, and mine were at complete opposite ends of the spectrum. Crackheads hung out on my street; the only things on her street were her neighbors' Mercedes and BMWs.

Hopping off the 22, I walked the few blocks to her home, a three-story Edwardian. I rang the bell at the gate and waited until she buzzed me in.

Unwrapping my scarf, I dropped it and my coat on a chair in the foyer, which, incidentally, was as big as my entire apartment.

Madame had original artwork from all kinds of modern masters hanging in her house—it was like walking through a museum. Minus the security. I didn't know how many times I'd chided her about her laissez-faire attitude regarding protection. She always replied that if the paintings were stolen it'd only add to her infamy.

I couldn't count how many times I'd visited over the years, but the house still awed me. The building aside, the furniture was all antique. Each time she served me something to eat or drink, I worried I was going to spill it and ruin some priceless thing.

"Madame?" I called out. My voice echoed from the high ceilings.

"Je suis dans la cuisine."

Gripping the packet that held the contract, I headed for the kitchen, which was at the back of the house. It was my favorite room, mostly because it was less formal than the rest of the house. It also had one wall of floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the entire bay.

"Bonjour, mon chou,"
she said when I entered. She turned to put a kettle on the stove.
"Tu as reçu le contracte?"

Trust her to get down to business. I bent to kiss her papery cheeks. "Yes, the contract arrived this morning."

"Give." She made a give-me gesture with her fingers.

Her English wasn't great, even though she'd lived in the States for over twenty-five years, so I wasn't sure she'd understand much of the legalese, but I handed it over anyway.

She hobbled to the kitchen table and seated herself. Without a word to me, she pulled it out of the sleeve and began scanning the contents.

I frowned at her. "Are your joints okay? You're moving stiffly."

She waved a hand to dismiss my concern, never lifting her head. I rolled my eyes and finished making coffee for the two of us. By the time I'd poured two cups, she was on the last page of the contract.