Twiceborn Read Free

seal. Who was I kidding? It had to be for me.
    I drew out the single sheet of paper inside. No weird shiny disks this time.
    You are in danger , it said. Do not go home or try to contact anybody. Go straight to a hotel and wait for me.
    That was it. Frowning, I turned it over to be sure there was no more. No signature, or any explanation of how the writer meant to find me at some random hotel. And I was supposed to take this seriously?
    I shoved it back in my bag. Yeah, right. Like that was going to happen.

CHAPTER TWO
    By the time I got back to the The Dress-up Box, that sick feeling I’d had in the bathroom had come back big time. My stomach had been hesitating between diarrhoea and throwing up all the way back from town, but now it seemed pretty committed to the throwing up idea.
    Ben had set up The Dress-up Box in an old warehouse space, cool and cavernous, with windows along the back wall too high to open and too dusty to let in much but the vaguest hint of daylight. Row after row of costumes packed the floor, leaving a warren of little pathways in between. Magic happened down those paths. Anything from a romantic velvet ball gown to a Cavalier’s feathered hat could be waiting around the next corner. We stocked wigs, shoes, swords, hats and any other item of fancy dress you could imagine. Our neighbours were smash repairers and auto electricians, but being in an industrial area meant cheap rent, and the business didn’t rely on passing trade anyway. No one experiences a sudden desire to dress up as Zorro or Cleopatra just because they see a costume shop.
    I paid off the taxi and staggered in through the big roller door at the end of the drive. We left it open all day anyway, to let in some light and air, so most people ignored the front door.
    Ben perched on his customary stool behind the counter, face stuck in another pulpy thriller. He wouldn’t read a decent book if you paid him, but show him some third-rate Clive Cussler knock-off, and he was your man. He’d let his dark hair grow long enough that its natural curl gave him the look of a Greek god. All he needed was a laurel wreath and a white robe, though he cut a pretty fine figure just the same in jeans and a T-shirt.
    He looked up at the sound of my heels on the concrete floor and laid the book down.
    “How’d it go?”
    I wobbled to a stop, one hand groping for something to lean on. The rough brick wall was all that held me up while I focused on not heaving my guts all over the floor. Dust motes spun lazily in the late-afternoon sunlight streaming in through the roller door, and my vision danced too. Ben’s handsome face flickered as if I were watching him on a badly tuned TV station.
    “Kate? You okay?”
    He came round the counter in a smooth movement, long legs eating up the distance between us in three steps, hands reaching out to steady me. A familiar scenario. Ben had been holding me together for months now. Dark, worried eyes searched my face as I breathed in the familiar woodsy scent of his aftershave. He smelled of forests and bracing fresh air. His hands were warm on my bare arms as he half-carried me past racks of costumes to the tiny staff kitchen at the back.
    He pushed me into a chair and felt my forehead, hand lingering almost in a caress. “What’s the matter? You’re all clammy.”
    My skin prickled with heat, as if a million tiny spiders crawled on me. I shut my eyes against a wave of nausea and lay my head back against the cool bricks behind me. “Feel sick.”
    “Getting-a-cold sick or throwing-up sick?”
    “Throwing-up sick.”
    “Let’s get you to the bathroom, then.”
    I felt his hands on my arms, ready to help me out of the chair, but I shook my head. Even that much movement hurt.
    “Just let me sit here.”
    “Hang on. I’ll get you a bucket.”
    He left and I heard him clattering around in the laundry room next to the kitchen. Thank God for Ben. Always so practical.
    It wouldn’t be the first time he’d held a