Chapter 9

My parents’ Edwardian-style house had been built in 1904 and renovated in the mid-eighties in shades of mauve and grey. They’d bought the house in 1992, a few years after they’d immigrated to the city, and, for the most part, the interior had remained unchanged.

The exception was my father’s recliner. Every ten years or so, my mother forced him to replace it. Tragically, two years ago when he’d tried to get a new one, the company had informed him that his favorite model had been discontinued. The one he’d reluctantly chosen was close to the original but, according to my father, not as comfortable. That didn’t stop Nicolae Bucur from sitting in his throne like the patriarch of a clan from the Carpathian Mountains.

My mother had a delicate wing chair with a footstool in which she read her never-ending stream of true crime books and knitted blankets, hats, and scarves for her children and grandchildren, and for her friends’ children and grandchildren.

I took Harlan’s gun and ammo cases and one of his many bags downstairs to my room. The weapon and ammunition went in my gun safe. It had a fingerprint lock, so he’d need me to get it out, but I don’t think he’d mind.

After I changed into something more comfortable, I joined my parents and Harlan in the parlor only to catch my cat consorting with the enemy.

“Unbelievable.” I glared at Kirby as he stood on Harlan’s lap, purring like an outboard motor and rubbing his scent all over Harlan’s chin and cheeks like he couldn’t believe Harlan had come back.

Since I’d been fighting the same urge for the last two days, I couldn’t blame Kirbs. But he was supposed to be on my side, and my side was not yet willing to forgive Harlan’s ten-year absence.

“He remembers me.” Harlan looked awed, and I could swear there were tears in his eyes. “He’s happy to see me.”

Oh, Jesus. Seeing emotionally vulnerable Harlan was not helping me hold on to my hurt and anger. Was there no one in Harlan’s life that would be unreservedly happy to see him? Goddamn him for making me feel sorry for him. It was his own damn fault he didn’t have me to come home to every night.

“Cats have long memories,” my father croaked from the corner.

Thanks to his chronic laryngitis, a souvenir from twenty-five years in construction, my dad sounded like he’d been smoking a pack a day for his whole life. Though he and my mother had been in the States for almost forty years, his Romanian accent still clung tightly to his words. The combination of rough, strongly accented voice, dark-framed eyeglasses, and long grey hair and beard gave him a very Rasputin-esque presence.

But there were smile lines around his eyes and his voluminous pockets were full of candy and dollar coins for his grandchildren or any random child he might run into.

Even my traitorous cat owed his cushy life to my softhearted father. Eighteen years ago, on a cold morning, a scrawny, abandoned orange kitten had walked up to my dad and screamed at him as he exited the Cornor Mart. Being constitutionally incapable of walking past a living thing in need, my dad had tucked the dirty, flea-ridden kitten into his coat pocket and taken him home.

Seventeen years ago, a scrawny, abandoned boy had walked hand-in-hand with me into my house and my father had adopted him in much the same way.

Now my dad wanted to be angry with Harlan for my sake, but it had always hurt him to think of a child going through life unloved. And even if Harlan was thirty-five, he was still someone’s child.

“How are your parents?” my father asked carefully.

Because I was watching him closely, I saw Harlan’s hand still on Kirby’s back and he flinched. “My father passed away a few years ago. At my mother’s request, I didn’t go to the funeral.”

Well, that was a conversation killer.

My mother and father exchanged glances and got up from their seats. Mom went to the china cabinet and pulled out four small glasses and a bottle of ?uic?.

One of his old friends back in Romania sent a case of the plum liquor every year for his birthday. For me, it was the taste of every grief and each joy I’d shared with my family. We had it the night before I left for boot camp and the day I returned, weighed down with a broken heart and shattered dreams.

We drank a toast to Harlan’s father, both to acknowledge his passing and to mourn the relationship Harlan should have had with him.

My mother spoke into the silence that was beginning to grow awkward. “Harlan told us about his being assigned to California. Isn’t it lovely?”

“Lovely.” I sat on the couch next to Harlan. “Did he tell you all of it?”

My mother didn’t miss a stitch. “Now how would I know if what he told me was ‘all of it’? I do not even know what ‘it’ is.”

“I’m so glad you spent years learning English so you could be sarcastic in it.”

She gave me a look over the tops of her glasses. “I am also sarcastic in Romanian and Russian. And believe me, Russian is superior for profanity and sarcasm.”

Harlan laughed and tried to cover it with a cough and an innocent look. “What is Romanian best for?”

She stopped knitting and smiled at him. “Love.”

I heard the front door open and DT called out hello from the entrance.

“We’re in the family room,” my mother called back.

DT had changed from the club gear he’d worn earlier. Now he was in faded Levi’s and a Ramones t-shirt. With his hair in a soft bun and a pair of beat-up Vans that I was almost positive were originals on his feet, he looked like a college freshman.

The woman with him looked the dean of the college.

Rebecca Finch wore a grey-pinstripe designer skirt and blouse outfit with five-hundred-dollar sneakers. Her bag cost more than Imade in three months and her nails were painted courtroom-shark red. She was either naturally blessed in the hair department or she had a celebrity hairstylist because her thick hair shone like polished mahogany and perfectly suited her face. Her entire vibe said she’d be right equally at home protesting against sex education at a school board meeting or defending white-collar criminals in front of a judge.

In fact, Rebecca was an exceptionally gifted healer who worked with the homeless and low-income populations. She used her wardrobe as camouflage and a shield to protect herself and her family.

Actual healers were rare and highly sought-after by billionaires, pharmaceutical companies, corporations, and all the component members of the military–industrial complex. Unsurprisingly, there was a huge overlap of names within those circles.

As with all powers, the ways a healer discovered their ability varied. With some people, it manifested early and was usually revealed by a miraculously healed beloved pet or family member.

Some discovered their gifts in a life-or-death emergency situation; desperation was a strong trigger. Even the way they handled healing differed from person to person.

Some treated it as a gift from God or the universe and leaned into the laying of hands and lighting of candles, letting the power do the work as it wanted. (The whole “powers are from god” verses “powers are from the devil” versus “powers are intrinsic to humanity” was a whole other debate that I tried not to get into.)

Others went to medical school to learn everything they could about how the body worked and used their powers as a stealth tool in their healing arsenal.

Since most healers were highly empathetic people possessed of a well-developed sense of justice who wanted to use their gifts freely and for the public good, they did their best to stay off the aforementioned groups’ radar.

Most. Not all. There were always those anxious to sell their skills to the highest bidder. I didn’t completely hold it against them, but we would never be friends.

DT hugged my mom, and she gave him a kiss. He shook my dad’s hand. Rebecca nodded at them. “Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Bucur. Ce mai faceti?”

My mother smiled, pleased. She loved when my friends made attempts to speak Romanian. “Very well, Rebecca. Nice to see you again.”

Rebecca turned her attention to Harlan, who struggled to sit up straight under her regard. “I assume this is my patient?”

“Are you a doctor?” Harlan asked.

“God, no.” She strode over to him and reached out for his arm. Harlan flinched away, and she sighed.

I laid a hand on his knee. “She’s a healer. She’s going to fix you.”

Harlan glanced at me, shock plain on his face, and then back at Rebecca. “Oh, no, ma’am. I’m fine. You should save your energy for someone who needs it.”

She rolled her eyes, then crossed her arms and looked down at him. “I’ll be the judge of who I help, thank you very much.”

“But I’ll heal eventually. It’s not urgent.” Harlan shifted on the couch as if he could escape through the back.

This was why I had to surprise him with a healer. Harlan was pathologically unable to accept help. Having him ask me for help had almost been more of a surprise than having him show up back in my life at all. Of course, it had taken him almost dying to drive him to that point.

The man needed therapy, but who amongst us didn’t?

Since shaking him wouldn’t help, I settled for gripping his shoulder. “It is urgent. Someone is trying to kill you. The way you are now? You can’t fight back. You can’t even run. If you want me to help you, you’ll let the scary lady help you.”

Rebecca bared her teeth at me in her version of a grin and accepted a small glass of ?uic? from my father. “Thank you.” She tapped glasses with my father and held her glass out to my mother in a toast. “S?n?tate.”

“S?n?tate,” my father replied.

My mother put down her knitting. Uh-oh. Now she was pissed. “Someone is trying to kill Harlan? Is that what was happening in front of your office yesterday?” Her tone said not to even try and lie to her.

Stabbed by the hard gazes of two powerful women, Harlan shrunk back against the couch, clutching at Kirby.

Kirby loudly protested and jumped off Harlan’s lap.

The urge to say, “Guess he didn’t tell you everything, Mom,” was strong, but I resisted. I stood up and put a hand on Harlan’s shoulder. Yes, I knew I was touching him more than strictly necessary. I was doing my best. “I’ll tell you more about it later, Mama, after Rebecca heals him.”

Her need to know who was trying to hurt Harlan warred with her desire to see him healed. She exhaled noisily through her nose. “Are you watching out for him?”

I spread my arms and motioned from Harlan to Rebecca and back to Harlan.

My mother sniffed but went back to her knitting. When no one moved, she looked back up at us. “Well? Are you going to get started? Your brother and sister will be here for dinner soon.”

Oh, Christ. Not that. Things between Harlan and I needed to be way more settled before we could face them. In the past, when Harlan had come home with me on leave, Florin and Elizabeta had given us both as much shit as my parents would tolerate. They saw it as their sibling duty.

I saw my panic echoed in Harlan’s eyes and shot a look at DT, silently willing him to help me.

He gave me a wink. “I got you.” He drained his glass and reached for the bottle. “Mama, I think the healing will take a lot of Harlan. He’ll need to rest until tomorrow. Right, Rebecca?” He poured my mother another shot.

She pretended to think about it, putting a finger to her lips and studying Harlan. I kicked her ankle. Gently. When she looked over, I whispered, “Special coffee every day for a week.”

“Deal.” I rolled my eyes when she held out her hand but shook it. As if I would try to cheat her.

“I do recommend that when someone needs extensive healing that they rest for at least a few hours.” I stared at her and mouthed, And? “And they should have someone on hand to watch out for them. Rapid healing can be painful and patients are often dizzy afterwards.”

“Painful?” Harlan asked.

DT sat in the chair nearest to my mother. “I’ll be more than happy to entertain Florin and Elizabeta.”

“And the grandchildren,” my father added.

Harlan stood up quickly.

“And the grandchildren,” DT promised. “I’ll make sure Harlan comes for dinner another night. After all, he’s going to be sticking around. Right, Harlan?” DT directed that last to me, not Harlan.

“He’ll be staying here.” A detail I’d forgotten to mention. “Until we catch whoever is trying to hurt him.”

“I would think so,” my mother said firmly.

“Thank you.” Harlan said. “But we should get started so Ms.… ?”

“Rebecca,” she offered.

“So Rebecca can get home soon.”

Enough chatting. I nudged Harlan’s arm. “We’ll go do this in my room. I’ll be back up later.” I kissed my mother and father and headed to my bedroom, grabbing Harlan’s bags as I did.

Harlan Dean in my bedroom again. Who would have thought?