The Wolf in His Arms (The Runes Trilogy) Read Free Page B

behind her eyes like
a manic drum. She could read the faces of those in the crowd. Some, their faces
shifting with doubt, wondered if Stella (unknown to her and her mother) was a
plant. Others, their faces aglow with wonder, believed in psychics.
    They
were all so dreadfully wrong.
    Their
whispers were like a torrent over a cliff onto a pool. Babbling. Babbling.
Babbling.
    And it
never ended.

 
Beauty and Pain
    Rebecca
Kemper sauntered up to a metal sculpture and circled it to enjoy the work from
all angles. She tried to picture the sculpture in her warehouse loft, but
couldn’t visualize a spot for it. It was fashioned from barbed wire and sharp
metal—and while intriguing, it was also unsettling.
    Although
she rarely purchased, Rebecca was a regular at art openings at The Space in the
trendy Wicker Park neighborhood of Chicago. She enjoyed the ambiance. A solo
cellist played in a corner. Muffled laughter and conversation drifted through
the rooms. Artists discussed their work—and she sipped wine. Normally, her
sister, Rindy, joined her, but tonight she had been away on work. Rebecca was
startled as she heard a man’s voice behind her.
    “What’s
your opinion of this?” He asked.
    She
turned to face the owner of the deep, gravelly voice. He had sharp green eyes,
thick, dark expressive eyebrows. One was arched with his question, and he
smiled warmly. “I don’t love it,” she said, and then thought, Damn! He could be the artist.
    “Hmmm,”
he replied. He circled the sculpture, taking in its sharp, dangerous twists. “ Angels bound ,” he read the name of the
sculpture. He raised his eyes from the name plate and looked at her through the
barbed wire.
    Rebecca
looked at the sculpture again, seeing that the barbed wire in fact did seem to bind
two angels, their sharp metal wings extended like a crown.
    “I
think it’s grotesque. And beautiful,” he said. “The artist sees the beauty in
pain.” He extended his hand. “I’m Griffin.”
    “Are
you the artist?”
    He
laughed. The throaty rumble was joyful yet unnerving. “No, not at all.”
    “I’m
Rebecca,” she said, taking his hand. “The one who disagrees with you about this
sculpture.”
    “Perhaps
we should look around together, to see if we agree on any others?”
    “And if
we don’t?”
    An
overly confident smile blossomed across his face. “Then we should go for a
drink and find something to agree
on.”
    “There’s
wine here,” Rebecca said. She didn’t want to seem easy. She took a few
tentative steps away from him, her posture coy, and he followed. They chatted
as they strolled through the gallery, commenting easily on the art, disagreeing
amiably. After winding their way through the collection of prints, paintings,
and sculpture, Griffin suggested they go for that drink and Rebecca agreed.
    They
walked from the gallery to a wine bar just a block away. He ordered an Oregon
pinot noir and she ordered a gewürztraminer. Rebecca laughed at their
selections, and Griffin smiled, noting the odd pair they made. What the
desultory conversation lacked, his keen, smoldering eyes made up for in
Rebecca’s mind. He had a chiseled attractiveness, “super-model attractive” her
sister would have called him. She couldn’t wait to tell Rindy about it,
especially since any other night Rindy would have been at the gallery with her.
    The bar
cleared out as the night wore on, and Rebecca announced that she needed to call
it a night.
    “May I
have your number?” He asked. He pulled his phone from his pocket.
    Rebecca
smiled and rattled off her number. “Good night.” She felt elated as she walked
down the empty street toward her car. She paused to look through the dark
window of the gallery. She peered past her reflection in the glass to the
sculpture of the sharp-winged angels wrapped in barbed wire. She gasped as
Griffin’s reflection appeared in the glass behind her. Before she could scream,
he covered her mouth and nostrils with a cloth and