A CACOPHONY OF sound rushed by, punctuated by the snap and flare of misshapen voices. Comprehension was futile. When she managed to grasp hold of anything, it disintegrated into blind, meaningless noise. Then darkness settled, calm until a whoosh of air inflated her chest. Heat rolled over her skin. Pain registered, then a heartbeat, pounding, earsplitting. She sucked in the air, hungry for more. Pins and needles shot down every nerve. Pressure built, and Angelina’s eyes flew open.
Who are you? The question echoed off luminous walls.
A figure hovered close by. His hair was long, and water dripped from the ends onto her exposed neck. For a moment, she could see the contours of his face. Then they blurred into memory, a strong jaw, full lips. A man planting his mouth over her own, breathing life back into her body. His shoulders, beautifully curved as he leaned in, were marble white . . . Then the shouting started.
“What in the dead bone’s deep did you bring her here for? Have you lost your mind?”
“She would have drowned otherwise!”
“Who cares?”
“I do!”
The words tumbled together, mixing with the incessant ring of high-pitched water drops and rolling waves that surged up and down the walls of her reasoning. A shadow streaked into view and was immediately banished. Angelina licked the salty tang of the sea from her lips. It tasted like blood.
“Fine. Protect her if you want. But Teern will never let her live, now that she’s seen you.”
“She won’t remember!”
“Are you sure about that?”
Angelina’s head throbbed. Water splashed over her face, and a deep, commanding energy slammed her.
“You have interfered with the hunt, again!”
“Teern, forget what Salila says. The girl can be useful.”
“How?”
“She knows about the bridge.”
Bridges, Angelina thought. She managed to lift herself up on her elbows.
A hand pressed ever so gently on her bosom. It replaced the swirling void with warmth. Peace. She closed her eyes and drifted away.
“I can take the human girl back. Learn more of their plans.”
A single word taunted her. Human? Angelina fought against the confusion as she was swept up in strong arms. The rush of cold air forced her eyes wide open. Into them stared two jewels, gray-green like the sea. She stared back. “Who are you?”
Chapter Two
04:12 P.M.
Monday, April 16, 1906
SOMETHING TERRIBLE HAD happened, Angelina was sure of it, but for the life of her she couldn’t recall what. Sun shone onto her face, and she could hear waves pounding the sand. Buoys clanged, or was that the sound of cable cars? Her fingers traced across the sand. “Where am I?”
“You’re safe, Miss.”
She opened her eyes to find a gentleman bending over her. He reminded her of someone, and she wondered at herself for imagining smooth marble skin beneath his white, high-collared shirt. He wore ferndale striped trousers, a gray-green vest that matched his eyes, black silk puff tie, black riding boots, and a tweed frock coat. His face was . . . beautiful, and his long, wavy hair was secured at the nape of his neck. She studied him until the sun’s glare made her look down. He must have been wading in the surf, for his trouser cuffs and boots were soaked. With his help, she sat up. Her clothes were wet and utterly disheveled. She touched the top of her head. “My hair’s come down,” she said, her mouth feeling like it was stuffed with cotton.
“What do you remember?”
Angelina frowned. “I was returning from Oakland with Mrs. Blackwell, taking photographs for my father.” She rubbed the back of her neck.
“On the Bay City ferry?”
“Yes!” Her hands went to her mouth “There was an accident! People went overboard!” She raised her voice. “My fiancé’s mother, Mrs. Blackwell! Gerald, our manservant! Did they survive?”
“The event was in the papers this morning, Miss. No mention of names, but seven people were still unaccounted for.”
“And I must be one of them.” She buried her face in her hands and exhaled long and slow. “This is terrible!” With another deep breath, she looked up. “But you saved me? Pulled me from the sea?”
“From the surf,” he said. His voice was warm and rich. “You washed up on a raft of driftwood. I spotted you from the wharf.” He pointed to the pilings near the water channel.
She took in the industrial waterfront, with its warehouses and longshoremen working the docks. Facing west was a sign reading PIER 42. “China Basin?”
“Indeed.”
She stared at him, her mouth open. Angelina didn’t remember hitting the water or swimming to the driftwood, or anything else past hanging on to the railing for dear life when her tripod went over. “My camera!” She looked about as if it might appear beside her.
“No sign of that, I’m afraid.” He helped her to stand. “Please let me introduce myself. I’m Stellan Fletcher.” He shrugged off his coat and draped it over her shoulders. “Is your home far away?”
“Pacific Heights.” Her mind was in a whirl. Stellan. She turned the name over with her tongue. Where was he from? She couldn’t detect an accent. “Mr. Fletcher,” she offered her hand. “I’m Angelina Ralston and deeply in your debt.”
“You mustn’t mention it.”
Their eyes met, and chills went down her spine. For a moment, she thought her knees would give way. “This is a most peculiar event, Mr. Fletcher, but I do think you’ve saved my life. That is worth more than a passing mention.”
He gave a small bow. “I’m at your service.”
Angelina smiled and brought her hand to her neck. It was wet even though her lace collar was beginning to dry in the breeze. Her fingers came away bloody. “I must get home.” She lowered her voice. “And avoid the press if at all possible.”
“I will find a cabdriver and escort you.” He pointed toward the docks. “It’s not far to King Street if you can manage.”
“I can.” Angelina allowed him to take her elbow and lead her up the sandy dune to the pier and on toward the bustle of the city. She sat on a bench while he hailed a taxi. It didn’t take long. Inside, she sat for a moment with her eyes closed.
“Directions?” he asked.
“Fillmore and Washington Street.”
Stellan repeated the location to the driver and climbed in the other side. With a chug and backfire, they were off, swerving through the traffic. The cab was a Model A Ford that had seen heavy use. It moved at a snail’s pace, which was fortunate considering the reckless driving on Market Street. Stages, hack carts, donkey traps, and cable cars vied for right of way along with what Angelina thought were far too many pedestrians. They bumped over the tracks, veering out of the way of oncoming cable cars just in time. The noise jarred her mind. Out the dusty window, the angle of the light was severe.
“What time is it?” She stuck her head out from under the canopy before Stellan could answer. Captivated by the light, she watched it cross the tall buildings, glinting off windows, forcing shadows to lengthen.
“Nearly sunset,” he said.
“It’s been twenty-four hours?”
“Since the accident? I believe so.”
Angelina pulled her head in, suddenly thinking of her hatless appearance and her wild hair blowing in the breeze. “I suppose it’s a miracle I survived.” The smell of city refuse, horse manure, engine oil, and bricks wafted in. It jolted her back to the present, reminding her there was a strange man, her rescuer, sitting quite close. Automatic manners took over. “Do you live in the city?” she asked.
Before he could answer, the driver slammed on the brakes and pounded the horn. A man on a wheel, one of those bicycles she’d been wanting to try, much to her family’s vexation, had nearly plowed into them.
Stellan stared after the contraption. “I’m a visitor.”
The way he looked at the world going by, she was sure he was glad of that. “Where then?”
He hesitated. “Europe.”
“That hardly pinpoints it, Mr. Fletcher,” she said, and pressed her forehead into her hand. It was getting more and more difficult to keep up the social niceties.
He noticed. “I’ll tell you my full life story if you like, but perhaps for now you’d rather rest.”
Angelina closed her eyes. “I think I will. Please rouse me when we reach Fillmore and Washington.”
NOTHING’S CHANGED, STELLAN thought. He didn’t want to breathe. The air was foul, the land dust dry, and the crowds of humans, more visible than ever in daylight, smelled acrid. San Francisco had no order, no symmetry. There certainly had been no improvement to the system of traffic since his last visit. People crossed at any and every point, as did riders trotting into view from behind wagons or blind corners. He’d witnessed three near calamities since they started and it had only been a matter of minutes. At that point, Stellan wondered if his whole plan seem mad. Maybe it is. But when he looked over at Angelina, resting quietly, with her hands in her lap and her eyes closed, her long hair falling in tangles over her shoulders to brush the seat of the car, he knew he’d made the only possible choice. He drank her in until the driver dropped speed and shifted into low gear. They were moving away from the business district, driving nearly straight uphill. Upon reaching the top, they turned again and descended a short way, pulling over to the curb. Stellan placed his hand lightly on Angelina’s shoulder. “Miss Ralston?”
She straightened and attempted to put her clothes in better order. “Hello.” She gave him a soft smile. “Come. You must see the view.”
Stellan got out to get her door, but she was already climbing out. She pointed toward the sea.
The homes lining the hilly street were grand, but the vista took his breath away. He could see all the way to the marina. Beyond that was the Golden Gate Channel, turning red with the sinking sun. And beneath it . . . ah, beneath it lay the sheltering tombs. “The light is extraordinary.”
Angelina tilted her head. “Are you an artist?”
“Not like you.”
She raised her brows but didn’t reply. For a few moments they stood side by side, watching the sun go down. It was a rare sight for Stellan, considering what it took for his kind to tolerate the day. He glanced at her neck and frowned. Hopefully, no harm would come of his choice.
The driver stepped up, dusting off his cap and clearing his throat. Stellan pulled a fine leather wallet from his breast pocket and paid.
“Mr. Fletcher, I will not be any more of an inconvenience.”
“It is no trouble, I assure you.”
She curtsied. “Shall we face the family then?”
He offered to support her, but she kept a slight distance between them.
“I’m rattled, Mr. Fletcher, I’ll admit, but I’m not an invalid. I only hope the news is that all have been as lucky as I to survive.” Angelina led the way up wide steps that began at the sidewalk. They were lined with an ivory, wrought-iron fence. Wandering roses grew over the metal, their vines following the contours of every loop and curlicue, dotting them with apricot and yellow blossoms.
“This is your home?” he asked as he tilted his head to take in the three-story mansion.
“It’s my father’s.” Her back straightened. “He designed it when he and my mother first married.”
“Your father is an architect?”
“In more ways than one.”
Stellan looked at her sidewise. “Controlling?”
“He’s planned my life from birth to grave.” She shook her head. “But it is a lovely house.”
Stellan felt obliged to make some show of actually looking at the building and not her. “Marvelous rooftops. Copper cupolas?”
“Yes, capping the turrets and oriels, too.”
“Wonderful bay windows.”
“My favorite is on the south wall. The stained glass is from Italy. I will show you.”
He smiled. His face actually hurt from how much he’d been doing that today. “I anticipate viewing it with pleasure, Miss Ralston.”
Angelina laughed, and he felt heat rush through his body. “I think you really are an artist, Mr. Fletcher, a quite famous one perhaps, who is keeping his identity a secret.”
He wanted to say he had no secrets, but instead, he winked at her. In moments, they reached the entranceway, where pillars and arches supported the high ceiling. From the beams, hanging baskets overflowed with ferns and colorful flowers. “Your home is extraordinary, Miss Ralston.”
She leaned toward him. “I must warn you about my family . . .”
For a moment she was close enough for him to catch the pulse of her heart. It was so distracting, he didn’t immediately register the front door’s opening and the voices’ exclaiming in surprise. Soon shouts and a rush of people crowded the entrance, all talking at once. Angelina was whisked inside, and Stellan followed, for the moment forgotten.
“Gerald! Call for the physician!” a booming voice commanded. “And send word to the Blackwells this instant!” He pointed his finger at Angelina. “Twenty-four hours, young woman! That’s how long you’ve been gone without a word! Nearly ruined our new connections. Your fiancé was ready to cut all ties. He thought you were dead!”
She went red in the face. “My sincere apologies, Father.”
The family closed in, assaulting Angelina with questions.
“What were you thinking, not doing as Mrs. Blackwell asked?”
“Have you no concern for your own future?”
“How did you survive?
“You look like something the tide washed in!”
“I feel like something the tide washed in,” she managed to say. “But I’m alive and well, and it’s a relief to know that Mrs. Blackwell and Gerald are, too.” Her eyes went to the servant.