I sucked in a breath. The strong aroma of roasted coffee beans grounded me somewhat. I felt a little more solid, but still embarrassingly gooey around the edges. I took a sip of my latte, and then tightened my fingers around the ceramic coffee mug, letting the heat seep into my hands. My silver ring cut into my finger just a bit. This was all feeling a little surreal.
I tried desperately not to focus on his mouth. Honestly, he must have some weird voodoo Sunwalker powers or something. His mouth truly couldn’t be that sexy. It just wasn’t right. Every time I looked at him I wanted to nibble on his lower lip. It was embarrassing. I was a Hunter, for crying out loud.
I gave myself another mental head slap. I was going to have a psychic bruise if I wasn’t careful.
I curled one leg under me and sank back into the comfy couch, mug clutched to my chest. “So, this amulet, why would Darroch claim you stole it and hire me to get it back from you if he’s the one that has it?” Good. Logic was good. When in doubt, attempt logic.
“I would have thought that was obvious.” His voice dripped disdain. I wasn’t sure if it was for me or for Darroch.
OK, right. Obvious. Now, normally I was reasonably good at obvious, but unfortunately in this case my brain had long ago turned to mush. I flashed his backside another look as he strode by me again. Oh, gods, I was in trouble.
“He wants me dead.” Jack’s voice was completely flat. No anger, no fear, no nothing. Just the facts, ma’am.
“Why would he care?” Honestly, what was one Sunwalker in the world of Brent Darroch?
He shrugged. “Perhaps he’s afraid I’ll get the amulet back. That I’m all that stands between him and absolute power.”
“Absolute power. Seriously? Melodramatic much?”
He paused to give me a glare before continuing his long strides back and forth across the dark tiles of the coffee shop. I caught the barista drooling again. “He probably also thinks he has a score to settle, taking the amulet from me wasn’t enough.” He raked his fingers through his dark hair.
I shook my head. Men and their macho bullshit. “OK, fine, whatever. So he wants you dead. That still doesn’t prove the amulet belongs to you.”
“Then maybe this will.” He strode across the floor and leaned over, right in my face. I wasn’t sure whether I should hold my ground or run like hell. What I did know was that, despite everything, I suddenly had the irresistible urge to plant a big, sloppy kiss right on that mouth of his. Down girl!
From the looks of things, a very similar thought had just crossed his mind. Oh, man, was I in trouble. He shook his head slightly then slapped his palm on the scarred wooden table. In his hand was a photograph.
Now, I’d seen nineteenth and early twentieth century photographs. In fact, I used to collect them as a kid. I’d look at them for hours on end, imagining the lives of the people in them, making up stories about their adventures. What could I say? I’d always been a little weird.
The Sunwalker’s photo was definitely nineteenth century, late nineteenth century, from the looks of it. I could tell by the style of clothing. Only instead of some random long-lost relative staring back at me, the face was an exact replica of Jack’s.
I gaped from the Sunwalker to the photo and back again. It didn’t just look like Jack, it was Jack. Right down to the tiny scar on his chin. I wondered vaguely what could cause a scar on a Sunwalker. Did they have the same healing abilities as vampires? Or did Jack get the scar before he was turned? Something I should probably find out.
Then my attention was caught by something else in the old sepia toned photo. Around Jack’s neck on a thin chain hung an amulet. The same amulet Darroch had shown me a picture of a few days before. The supposedly worthless one he claimed the Sunwalker had stolen only recently. Yet here Jack was wearing it in a photograph taken over one hundred years ago.
A lot could happen in a hundred years, sure. He could have lost the amulet in a card game, sold it, anything. But I strongly doubted it with that same sixth sense that had saved my ass on more than one occasion. Darroch had claimed his family had owned the amulet for generations. Granted, one hundred years was a lot of generations, but still.
“Nice pic.” I handed it back to him. “Ever hear of Photoshop?”
He smiled. “I thought you might say that.” He handed me another photo. It was a Polaroid. An old one. Circa the 1970s.
Jack was lounging against the side of a hippie van wearing a pair of bellbottoms and a ridiculous vest thing covered in beadwork. Around his neck was the amulet from the previous photo.
I glanced up at Jack. As far as I knew, Polaroids couldn’t be faked. Damn.