Sunday's Child Read online

  “I’m fluent in several languages.” A thousand years of exile in Midgard had provided ample time to learn the many tongues of the humans.

  Claire slid the list to him, her mouth tilted in a faint smile. “What does it say?”

  He translated the bill, pausing only when Dee held up her hand. “We’re convinced,” she said. “Read it again, and we’ll report and catalog as you go.”

  An hour later, Andor left the lab for one of the exhibit halls where another team of preparators worked to set up an exhibit of 19th century art glass. The sound of footsteps paced on a long stride drifted to his ears. His heartbeat sped up. Claire.

  “Mr. Hjalmarson, wait.”

  He stopped and turned. She offered him a wider, friendlier smile than the one she gave in the lab. It transformed her features in subtle ways. The hollows below her cheekbones filled out, and her eyes sparkled, reminiscent of the young girl who saw an elf for the first time, standing in her mother’s living room. The refined angles of her face softened and warmed. Andor thought her lovelier than any ljósálfr woman.

  “Just Andor is fine,” he said. “The only people who address me by my last name are my accountant and the police.”

  Her eyebrows shot up and the smile wavered a little. “Do you often deal with the cops?”

  He grinned. “Not in the way you’re thinking.” Her skin pinked at his teasing. “Two speeding tickets is the extent of my life of crime.” At least by the definition of 21st century laws. He chose not to mention that caveat.

  She chuckled. “Oh, well then, I’m a more hardened criminal than you. Two speeding tickets and an expired tag.”

  Curious as to why she sought him out, Andor didn’t continue their banter. “What can I do for you, Ms. Summerlad?”

  Her blush returned a little rosier this time. “Please call me Claire. I hope I didn’t insult you with my doubt about your claim to read Armenian. It just seemed too convenient to be true. Our temp preparator helping us at just that moment and also fluent in a language not at all common in this city? No one gets that lucky, you know?”

  Andor shrugged. “No offense taken. And maybe it was more fate than luck.”

  Claire laced her fingers together and clasped them in front of her. “Paul will be back and you at the Menil before Dee gets started on the main work of her exhibition. However, I’ve already begun work on research and provenance for some of the illuminated manuscripts we received from the Fitzwilliam and the Morgan. I’ve located texts that describe the manuscripts in more detail. Unfortunately, some of the descriptions aren’t translated.” She took a breath and continued. “I can hire out a translator, but having someone in-house who can do it would be a lot easier.”

  “You want me to translate for you?”

  She nodded. “I do.” Her hands came up in a gesture that warded off argument. “I know you’re as busy as the rest of us with the Gallé exhibit and the upcoming benefit dinner, but if you can carve out any time to do a little translation, I’d be grateful. Weekends even if that’s all you have. We’ll expense it through my department, and I’ll deal with accounting later.”

  Time with Claire, grown to adulthood and no longer aware of magic. This was definitely fate more than luck. Andor had a wary respect for the Norns and sensed Verđandi’s weave in this scenario. If the jötunn giantess were here now, he’d thank her.

  “Have lunch with me today,” he said.

  She backed up a step, and her arms crossed. Her eyes narrowed. “You’ll help me with translations if I have lunch with you?” A touch of frost glazed her voice.

  Since his exile, Andor had lived amongst humans, immersed in their ways and behaviors. Nicholas only required his presence a few days out of each year, and he’d embraced the saint’s suggestion that he learn more of Midgard and its people, disguised as a human himself. Nicholas didn’t voice what they both knew: a bored elf was a troublesome one.

  Andor had at first protested against Nicholas’s single restriction on his plan, but the saint had been adamant. “You will not engage in their wars as a fighter, Andor. If I find out you have, I’ll send you back to Ljósálfrheimr where you can fight for your life against Dagrun and Alfr.”

  Andor had reluctantly agreed, and in the centuries that followed, he didn’t take up a weapon as a warrior for someone else’s war. That didn’t mean he didn’t take up a weapon or end up in war. Time, magic and curiosity had set him on many paths, and he learned many things. He’d been a battlefield medic, Bow Street Runner, wagon train scout, and a bodyguard. He pursued other occupations and vocations as well, some far more peaceful, like the current one as a preparator.

  Humans lived short, intense lives, compressed into a handful of years the nearly immortal ljósálfar considered less than a breath of time. After almost ten centuries, he probably knew more about humans than any of his kin, and they still puzzled him mightily. He gazed at Claire, with her stiff posture and cool expression, and wondered what had made this previous child of magic into such a cynical adult.

  “If you have lunch with me today, I’ll pick up the tab,” he said. “As far as the translations, I will be happy to help you regardless of your answer to my invitation.”

  She winced. “I’m sorta clumsy at this—”

  He held up a hand to forestall the apology hovering on her lips. “It’s fine, Claire.” He liked the feel of her name on his tongue. “Have you been to Paulie’s?”

  Her eyes lit up. “Every chance I get. Great food.”

  They settled on a time to go. Claire gave Andor a small wave before she headed back to the lab. “See you in a couple of hours.”

  He inclined his head. “Claire.” He watched her walk away, her long strides carrying her out of his sight in moments. A hint of the soap she used on her skin still lingered in the air, a touch of spring in autumn. A tide of heat in his blood.

  5

  Claire was certain she’d made a terrible mistake. She could argue that asking Andor Hjalmarson for translation help had simply been a request rooted in the pursuit of professional efficiency.

  A louder, more honest part of herself called bullshit on that.

  And it was. While Andor’s fluency in Armenian certainly came in handy in helping her with some of her provenance research, it had been a far more convenient way for her to spend time with and get to know him without ever mentioning the dreaded, painfully awkward word “date.”

  A good plan, but it didn’t take long for her to see the major flaw—Andor himself. Handsome, intelligent, well-read and charming without the arrogance and hubris that often came along with the positive traits, he seemed too good to be true. Claire entertained more than a few stray thoughts that she was meeting a serial killer for lunch or a man who harbored a secret, unnatural affection for livestock.

  A week of lunch meetings every day blunted her paranoia but did a fine job of escalating the gossip among her co-workers. She shrugged off the sly glances and smiles that followed them anytime she and Andor met, whether for lunch, in a meeting or just passing in the halls. Once the rumor mill cranked up, it was hard to stop it. Trying to stop it just fueled the speculations, and she refused to feed that monster.

  She succumbed to her own suspicious curiosity today. It was their fifth consecutive lunch meeting (she refused to call it a date), and Andor had driven her to a Vietnamese noodle house perched on the edge of downtown Houston that locals praised as having the best pho and banh mi sandwiches in the city. Andor placed their order in Vietnamese, surprising the woman behind the counter.

  Unlike her, Claire no longer gaped at Andor. She had learned from their previous outings that he was fluent in several languages beyond Armenian. They placed their order, found seats at a table and settled into one of the easy conversations that had Claire trying not to check her phone or the clock on her PC every five seconds before lunch time.

  At least that’s what happened before this lunch. This time, Claire strangled two napkins into mangled wads of paper under Andor’s cur
ious gaze. “Can I ask you a question?”

  His broad shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Of course.” He sipped from his water glass.

  “Have you ever killed anyone for fun or had an affair with a sheep?”

  Andor sputtered and choked. His glass hit the table surface at the same time his knees knocked the underside in reflexive shock. The action rocketed the glass across the slick surface. Claire caught it in one hand, her quick reflexes the only things that saved her lap from an ice water dousing. She thrust one of the crumpled napkins at him. He snatched it and coughed into the crinkled folds until his eyes streamed tears and a flush reddened his face and neck. He motioned for his glass. She handed it back to him, wincing as he struggled for enough breath to sip the water and calm the cough. If he walked out right now and stranded her at the restaurant, she wouldn’t blame him.

  Instead, he wiped his eyes and leveled a baffled look on her. “No to both questions,” he said between shallow gasps.

  Claire didn’t need to look in a mirror to know the heat blooming on her face turned her as red as Andor. She didn’t know which was the worse blush—hers for mortification or his for near-asphyxiation of which she was the culprit.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said. “That came out wrong.”

  “That came out odd.” Andor took a cautious swallow of water. “I don’t think I can imagine a way such a question might come out right.”

  He had a point. Claire sighed and prayed her effort to dig her way out of this self-created awkwardness didn’t end up digging her deeper. “Gossip is flying left and right at work. Everything from us having wild monkey sex in one of the supply closets...” If her cheeks grew any hotter, she’d combust. “To you being a psychopath living the double life of a nice, handsome museum preparator while keeping your mom’s mummified corpse in your attic.”

  Andor’s eyebrows had slowly ratcheted up his forehead during her recitation, accompanied by an ever-widening smile. By the time she finished, he wore a full grin. “And where does the sheep come in?”

  “That’s just the icing on the cupcake.” No way would she admit to the sheep conjecture.

  The server’s arrival with their food delayed his response. They spent the next few minutes in silence, Claire doctoring her pho, Andor taking bites of his sandwich.

  “What do you think of the pho?” he asked her after she took a few sips and ate some of her noodles.

  “Excellent.” She dabbed her mouth with her napkin. “You have amazing radar for places that serve good food.” She didn’t flatter. While they took turns picking up the bill—at her insistence—he chose the restaurant, and he chose well every time. Greek dolmades in lemon sauce, grilled tuna steak sandwiches with wasabi mayonnaise, ropa vieja with white rice smothered in black beans accompanied by a side of sweet plantains. Andor knew where to eat well and not break the bank for the indulgence. Accustomed to a quick lunch of a sandwich from home or a bag of chips from one of the vending machines near her cube, Claire had eaten better this week than in the past year.

  She twirled a bundle of noodles from her soup bowl onto her chopsticks. Andor paused in wolfing down the second half of his sandwich and wiggled his eyebrows at her. “Don’t tell me you pay attention to office gossip?”

  Claire squeezed more sriracha sauce into her broth and stirred vigorously. “Not usually, but I’ve never been the center of it before, and it’s driving me crazy.” She looked up at him, her spoon halfway to her mouth, and paused.

  A shaft of sunlight, partially guillotined by the aluminum blinds covering the windows, bathed the side of Andor’s face, casting his profile in high relief. His was an aesthetic visage, beautifully constructed but unyielding, as if he’d been created from marble instead of clay, his creator a sculptor instead of a potter. The only nod to softness in his features was his mouth, with an upper lip as wide and generous as his lower one. A mouth that smiled easily and often. Surely, whoever first wrote the definition for sensual kissing was inspired to do so after they kissed someone with a mouth like that.

  “Such deep thoughts, Claire. What’s going on in there?”

  She blushed and spooned soup into her mouth to keep from answering right away. “Sorry to startle you with my weird questions.”

  Andor grinned. “To answer both, I’ve never killed anyone for fun, nor have I harbored an unhealthy fascination for anything remotely ovine.”

  Claire waved her spoon at him. “That’s good. You don’t live in your mom’s basement and keep her mummified corpse in a rocking chair, do you?”

  “No. I live in a garage apartment that I rent from a landlord named Sal Hopkins. He looks nothing like my mother, who, as far as I know, is alive and well. And while I’ve experimented in different professions, mummification hasn’t made it to the list yet.”

  His levity faded. “If the gossip disturbs you that much, Claire, we don’t have to meet. I’m at the Carmichael temporarily. You work with these people long-term. I don’t want to cause you problems.”

  The thought of no more outings with this lovely man soured the soup in her stomach. She put down her spoon. “Don’t be silly. Just because I’m not used to being the focus of gossip, doesn’t mean I’m going to let it dictate what I do. Besides, this is fun.” She gave him an uncertain look. “Are you enjoying it?”

  Tiny flames kindled in Andor’s eyes. “Very much. I want to keep meeting, even if you have nothing for me to translate.”

  She’d have to be thick as a brick not to read his not-so-professional interest. Dread and anticipation brewed a roiling potion inside her. It had been a long time since she even considered courting a man’s interest. She didn’t want to get her hopes up and have them shattered later, and she had her son to consider in every dating equation. In her experience, few men were willing to entertain more than a couple of dates or a one-night stand with a woman who parented a special needs child.

  She liked Andor—a lot—but lunch was all she’d be willing to risk, no matter how tempting the company.

  They finished their lunch with a much more mundane but enjoyable conversation between them. Claire waited by the door while Andor left the tip. His hand on her back as he guided her out of the restaurant sent a pleasurable wave of heat through her body.

  On their way back to the museum, Andor turned down the radio and asked the one question Claire hoped he wouldn’t. “Have dinner with me tomorrow night.”

  She groaned inside, sick with disappointment. “I’m sorry. I must decline.”

  6

  Nearly a thousand years living in Midgard had not dulled Andor’s fascination with humanity. The basic behaviors didn’t change much over the centuries, a reason he believed history tended to repeat itself. Humans, however, were a curious, restless lot. The ljósálfar lived countless years, content to let one day, one year, one century remain the same as the many before it. Sometimes there were battles with the dökkalfar, sometimes with a jötunn bent on mischief, but the long lives of both light and dark elves were but ripples on the surface of a still pond compared to humans. Short-lived, contentious, often chaotic, humanity raced and lurched by turns through time, desperate to experience everything it dreamed before a Norn cut short its existence.

  When he began his exile with Nicholas and moved among the men of Midgard, Andor had disliked the frenetic ignorance that seemed woven into the very fabric of the human spirit. His opinion changed over time. His kin would say he’d been corrupted or tainted by his long exile. Their verdict might be true. With his glamour in place and generations of experience behind him, he could easily be mistaken for a human—except for one small unconquerable puzzle. He’d never understand the minds and hearts of human women. Then again, from all the moaning and groaning he’d heard across centuries and countries from human males, that complaint was hardly a singular ljósálfar failure.

  Andor smiled to himself. Claire Summerlad, the Sunday’s Child who had captured his memory and forgotten her magic, proved to be exceptionally confusing. He didn’
t think he’d ever met a more guarded woman, human or ljósálfar, and he’d courted many of both during his life.

  Their lunch dates, initiated by him to satisfy his long-standing curiosity about her, had become something far more. He watched the clock for the noon hour, his eagerness to see her palpable in the rising beat of his heart and the restlessness in his limbs. The job at the museum kept him interested and busy, but always, always, Claire’s elegant features and rare smile lingered in the back of his mind.

  Reserved and business-like during their first lunch meeting, she had slowly opened to him as he helped her translate documents from Armenian to English and joked that some of the commentary in the margins of a few manuscripts she’d researched were anything but religious.

  She didn’t bring her laptop for lunch date number three, and he didn’t ask. They spent a too-short hour chatting of inconsequential things—favorite movies, favorite food, favorite songs. She was far more fascinating than research notes on medieval hymnals. During lunch number four she spoke briefly about her son Jake.

  Andor recalled that part of their conversation, short as it was.

  “I overheard you tell Delilah yesterday you had to pick up Jake. Your son?” He crossed his fingers in his lap and hoped Jake wasn’t a boyfriend or even worse, a husband.

  Claire nodded, a softness entering her eyes along with an odd wariness. “He’s ten. I have a babysitter look after him once school is out and until I get home.”

  She said nothing else about her son after that. No stories of childhood antics, sports events or personality quirks. No bragging of grades or tales of trips to friends’ houses. Just his name, his age and the fact he had a babysitter who watched him after school. Andor wanted to ask more, but the look in her eyes warned him he’d get nothing else. He smoothly switched subjects and watched, confounded, as she visibly relaxed.