Free Knight Predator by Jordan Falconer Page B

Bronwyn. “No.”
    Her brow furrowed. “Okay.” She looked back at the doors. “You want to go inside and stare at the art work?”
    I nodded, and she took my hand. She led me through the throng of hot, throbbing humans and into the cool interior of the Civic Center.
    An older man approached Bronwyn. He was balding and had a thin mustache. He glanced at me. “Bronwyn, it’s good to see you.”
    “Hi, Mr. Rowland,” she said cheerfully, as we brushed past him.
    He gave her an odd look.
    “Thanks,” I said.
    She squeezed my hand. “Like I’m going to forget your rules any time in a hurry. ‘Do
not
tell anyone about me.’”
    I laughed. “Like I said, thanks.” We continued through a field of bizarre and sometimes wobbly and self-conscious sculpture.

    “Where do you want to start?” I asked as she pulled me into the main hall. There were less humans in there, and I was glad for the break from my prey.
    “How about down the back corner?” She blushed. “I think I want to start where it’s quieter.”
    She pulled me forward again, and I found myself in front of a painting that would have done Michelangelo proud. It seemed a cross between Whistler’s Mother and the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. It was a picture of a man on his death bed, surrounded by family, eyes closed and features limp. All the onlookers—and it was a mix of young and old—were in varying stages of mourning. Naturally enough, it was entitled “Last Moments.”
    I winced. The technique was brilliant but the subject matter was too close to home. I had seen my father die like that, and it brought back the sting of memory. I closed my eyes and sighed.
    “Are you all right?” Bronwyn asked, concerned.
    I opened my eyes and gazed at her. Her green eyes were gentle and kind, and I smiled at her. “I’m all right. This picture just brought back some memories, that’s all.”
    “Oh. You want to talk about it?”
    “No, I really
am
all right.” I felt a little embarrassed. “It just reminds me of my father, that’s all.”
    “Is he still alive?”
    I snorted. “Oh, no, he died a long time ago.”
    “You were there when he passed?”
    “Yes, right by his bedside. He was a good and kind man.”
    She slipped her arms around me and gave me a gentle squeeze.
    “How long ago was it?”
    “A long time ago.” I couldn’t tell her it was going on fifty years.
    Her eyebrows shot up at the sharpness in my tone. “You must have loved him very much.”
    “I did.”
    She was quiet for a moment. “You really don’t like to talk about yourself much, do you?”
    I looked at her and sighed. “There really isn’t much to tell even if I wanted to.”
    “I really wish you would tell me more.” She must have seen the traces of exasperation in my eyes. “It’s not because I have a crush on you, and officially I don’t. I love you. There’s a difference.”

    “God, Bronnie,” I said, rolling my eyes.
    “Let me finish, will you? As I was saying, it’s because despite your prickly, unapproachable exterior, your eyes are so gentle. You’re not a bitch, and I don’t understand why you keep yourself so isolated.
    You’re so beautiful, why don’t you take advantage of your youth and loosen up a bit? I don’t get it.”
    I sighed and moved closer to her, cupped her beautiful face, and stroked her soft cheeks. “My life is very complicated, and I don’t really feel young anymore. I’m also not as young as I look. I’m old and tired.” I think it was the distress in her shining green eyes that forced the words from me.
    “You look young enough to me,” Bronwyn replied, sinking into my caress. “You’re so beautiful and you’re alive. What more could you want?”
    “Peace,” I said. “One day I think you’ll understand.”
    “I want to understand now,” she said.
    “In time, I’ll tell you more, if you’re still around. But until then, leave a girl some secrets, will you?”
    “In time? God, I want to be around you