Page 150 of The Wild Charge

He was staring out the window, but turned to look at her when she spoke. Every time she thought she’d gotten used to his gaze – that emotionless, cold-water blue – she was shocked all over again by the sight of it. She wondered if he ever smiled; if that intensity ever dropped away.

For a moment, caught in his intense regard, she forgot why she’d spoken. Then she gave herself a mental shake. Face heating, she said, “Um. Tenny. Is he, uh – is he actually nice to you?” Oh God, had she really asked that? She winced. “I’m sorry. Pretend I didn’t say anything.”

He blinked, expression not changing. “Nice.” He said the word as if he’d never heard it before, testing it. The tiniest line appeared between his brows as they drew together a fraction. “He says lots of cruel things, but he doesn’t mean them. I know he doesn’t.” He shrugged. “That’s what counts.”

“Here, here,” Devin chimed in. “It’s actions over words, isn’t it?”

“Both are cruel, in your case,” Reese said, and Cassandra choked on a shocked laugh.

On her right, Toly let out a quiet “heh” of amusement.

The rest of the trip was spent in silence, though a less uncomfortable one, thankfully. Cassandra would have spent the time scrolling through Twitter or Instagram, but Fox had kept hold of her phone, and had been messaging her friends in the chat. God knew what he’d told them; in different circumstances, she would have enjoyed seeing his attempts at sounding like a seventeen-year-old girl in type. She wondered how many emojis he was using.

Finally, the Parker-Holloway gallery came into view, and Cassandra’s belly clenched with nerves. She would have been jittery anyway, here at this gallery, with a clinic ahead and new friends to meet in person. Knowing that this had become one of her brothers’ ops made her want to throw up.

The building was an old pre-war, three story, red-brick box with plenty of windows. Its parking lot was tiny, but a metal portico out front offered a place for drop-offs. Cass climbed out of the SUV on shaky legs and numb feet, trying to keep her breathing steady. When Devin came to her side, and pulled her arm through his, she leaned into him, grateful for the physical contact.

“Right then,” he said cheerily. “Here we go.”

Fox, expression unbothered behind a pair of dark sunglasses, joined them and held the door open, not speaking. Devin steered her through, into a wide, open-air reception hall with polished concrete floors, brick walls, and a sleek, minimalist desk. A girl about her age was checking in, flanked by her parents. Her probably-very-normal, not-assassin parents.

God, she was going to besick.

“Chin up,” Fox murmured as he passed behind her, their sleeves brushing, and then strolled deeper into the gallery, hands in his pockets.

“Sir? Excuse me, sir!” An employee all in black went hurrying after him.

A quick glance over her shoulder proved that Reese and Toly had ghosted off somewhere, too; she hadn’t even heard their boots across the floor.

When she faced forward again, the girl ahead of her had turned around, name tag clipped to the front of her sweater, looking a little nervous, gaze alighting hopefully on Cass. It was an expression she knew well from her years at school:are you friendly? I don’t want to be here all alone.

Cass could only smile slightly in response, throat tight, and let Devin steer her up to the desk. The woman seated there offered a warm smile. “Hello. Checking in to the Bright Spark Clinic?”

Cass started to respond, and only managed a sad croak.

Devin slipped his arm around her shoulders and turned all his considerable charm on the receptionist. “That’s right: my angel here got into this fancy program all on her own merit. She’s going to be the next Rembrandt.”

“Dad!” There was one way to get her voice back. “Yes, checking in. I’m Cassandra Green.”

“Oh, you’re our British attendant! Welcome! If you’ll just sign here, and here – here’s your name tag.”

There was an array of brochures, and an orientation packet; a complimentary pen, lanyard, and a small art history book written by their clinician, a professor of modern art at NYU. A Parker-Holloway tote was offered to hold it all, and then she was being directed toward the second-floor room where orientation would begin in a half-hour. Devin remained at her side as she headed for the staircase.

“Sir?” the receptionist said, “only clinic attendees are allowed at orientation.”

“Oh. Oh, right, of course. I’ll just say my goodbyes here, then.” He pivoted around so he and Cass faced one another, and Cass swallowed a fresh surge of nerves. “Good luck and have fun, darling. I’ll pick you up at six, right?”

She nodded, and went willingly when he pulled her into a hug.

“You’ll be fine,” he whispered before he pulled back. “Just do like we talked about, and leave the rest to the boys and me.”

~*~

A variety of boutiques and cafes occupied the ground floor of the building where Howard Models was located. The din of voices bouncing off the terrazzo floors provided sufficient privacy for their conversation. Raven walked between Ian and Albie, and there was a headache building at her temples.

“Waverly funding a modeling agency establishes financial ties between him and Howard,” Albie said. “And maybe a good lawyer could do something with that in court, who knows. But it doesn’t automatically prove that Nikola’s involved with Abacus directly – or at all.”

“We’ll need hard evidence or testimony for that,” Ian said, sounding grim. He’d pocketed his sunglasses, and a few auburn wisps of hair had escaped his beanie. “Coffee, anyone?”

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