Page 6 of A Rhapsody of Ravens and Revenge

Ahh, she loved the city. No one paid attention. No one cared. You could slip into the shadows without anyone knowing, and you could stand in the middle of a crowded street and be completely anonymous.

The muted sound of a phone ringing had her digging around in her backpack until she found what she was looking for. One look at the caller ID and she almost didn’t answer it. Their conversations had been the same for the last several years. And she didn’t have the energy for it today. She needed to soak up what was left of the sunlight and get rid of the pounding headache that her cubicle tended to bless her with on a daily basis.

“Hello, Daddy,” she answered.

“Evie, come for dinner tonight. Carla made that roast chicken thing you like. And she says there’s chocolate cake for dessert.”

“Carla doesn’t make dessert unless company is coming. Who else will be there?”

She crossed the street at the crosswalk and contemplated grabbing a newspaper from an outdoor stand. A lot of interesting information could be gleaned from what was reported in the papers. And by interesting information she meant the truth. She never knew where her next job was going to come from. She dug for some cash in the front pocket of her overalls and paid the guy, grabbing a paper and shoving it in her backpack.

“Dr. and Mrs. Reinhold and a couple of private contractors from Dynicorp. It’s very casual.”

“And I’m sure the private contractors are both single and meet your requirements for a suitable husband?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Evangeline. I’m a busy man, and I take offense that my own daughter thinks of me that way.”

“Uh-huh,” she said. “I’m sure you’re crushed. You always say the truth hurts.”

Her father had made it his mission since her mother’s death to get her settled down. He thought he was being subtle, assigning her bodyguards when she was required to play hostess for him. Or sending former agents or analysts to her home if she needed something done around the house. She’d almost laughed to the point of pain when he’d sent one of them to help her build a fire pit in her backyard. She’d have had it done in a couple of hours if it weren’t for the “helpful” interference of a man who thought he could do it better.

“Little girl, that’s no way to talk to your father.”

“I’m going to have to pass tonight. I’ve got plans.”

“What kind of plans?” he barked.

Her father wasn’t used to being told no. He’d been the boss for too long. Fortunately she’d had lots of practice over the years.

“You never have plans,” he said, not giving her a chance to answer. “You’re going to rot away in that house alone. Go out and have some fun. Make friends. Your isolationism is getting past the point of ridiculous.”

“When did you turn into a nosy old woman instead of my father?” She smiled when he hmmphed on the other end of the line.

“I beg your pardon? I am not a nosy old woman. I’m the ex-Director of the CIA.”

“Ahh, there he is,” she chuckled. “Why don’t we talk about your hobbies, Daddy? Like maybe you should get some because being a matchmaker doesn’t really suit you. You’re quite bad at it.”

“You’ve become entirely too cheeky since you turned thirty. Which is well past the age of settling down and starting a family.”

“And the old woman is back,” she said with a sigh. “Maybe you should be tested for multiple personalities. I’ve got to tell you though, if you start wearing one of those lacy scarves on your head like Aunt Tilda I’m going to call in a professional.”

“I’ve never looked good in lace,” he said dryly.

She laughed and said, “Enjoy your chicken dinner and chocolate cake. I love you.” She hung up before he could bring up her lack of a social life again. She lived her life exactly the way she wanted to.

The crosswalk sign turned white and she went against the flow of pedestrians to the other side of the street, heading away from the snarl of traffic. The smell of red sauce from the little Italian place on the corner made her mouth water, and she thought briefly about stopping in for dinner. But she immediately felt the guilt of turning down her father’s invitation and walked on by. She had salad stuff in her fridge at home. That was punishment enough.

The sun sat like an orange ball of flames just above the row of buildings on the opposite site of the street. It was hot enough to melt the soles of her shoes to the sidewalk, and she could feel tendrils of hair curling at the base of her neck. It was the miserable kind of heat—the kind that made it hard to draw in a breath and sucked the energy right out of the soul.

She stopped for a moment to dig her sunglasses out of her bag and remembered she’d left them on her desk. She swore and slung her bag over her shoulder and a man jostled her as he passed by, not bothering to say excuse me. Her head snapped up to say something sarcastic to him but the words stuck in her throat.

“Oh, God,” she said as a silent prayer.

A silver car jumped the curb of the sidewalk, not ten feet in front of her, sending a couple of outdoor restaurant tables flying. The glass vases that had sat at the center of each table shattered against the pavement, and it was nothing but good luck that no one was seated outside.

Time slowed and her eyes widened in horror as the car door swung open. All she could think was that it was just like a movie. An arm lifted and the dull sheen of the black gun glinted in the sunlight. His hands were nice. Like an artist. Or a piano player. With long fingers and a light smattering of dark hair on the back of the hand. She was close enough to see the gleam of a gold wedding band just before his finger moved to the trigger.

She was the daughter of the former Director of the CIA. She’d trained and taken classes her entire life just in case. Her father always told her it never hurt to be prepared. Her instincts kicked in and she dropped to the ground, rolling for whatever cover she could find. It happened to be one of the overturned tables and she prayed no stray bullets would end up coming her direction.

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