Howl (Witches & Warlocks Book 4), page 4
“You could just take your shirt off again,” he whispers in between kisses, his breath dancing across my mouth. I don’t even have to think twice about complaining, about putting up a fight. I pull my shirt back over my head, unclasp my bra, and drop them both to the floor before losing myself in a Noah’s body once again.
*******
“I like watching you cook,” I announce from my spot at the breakfast bar, beer in hand, body still kind of quivery from Noah’s passionate greeting. And second greeting.
“Oh ya?”
“Yep.” I take a drink. “Was just thinking about it this morning.”
“Really?” He draws the word out and turns around, spatula in hand, and levels me with a look. “You into the whole role reversal thing?”
“Role reversal?” I say, shocked. He better not be implying what I think he’s implying.
“Ya, you know, you got your man in the kitchen while you kick your feet up, beer in hand.” He’s got that devilish little twinkle in his eye that means he’s joking.
“Oh, you mean, because it’s a woman’s place in the kitchen.” I purse my lips and raise my eyebrows.
“Typically, I’d agree with you.” Noah turns back to his cooking. “But I’ve seen what you do in here. The kitchen is most definitely not your place.”
“Hey!” I look for something, anything to throw at him and come up with nothing. I settle for flinging a little magic at his hair, setting it on end in a weird series of static-y spikes.
He laughs and runs his hands over his head, trying to set things back to rights. I’m laughing too, the tension of the early part of the day forgotten. This is just life with Noah. Happy. Silly. Right.
And the sex is fantastic.
And the man can cook.
The meal he sits in front of me is fantastic and we talk, and eat, and laugh until the candles are burned down to little waxy nubs and we have to turn on the lights.
“So, how was your day? You as sore as you thought you’d be?” I ask after we put dishes in the dishwasher and curl up on the couch. I blush a little, thinking about what we just did right here.
“Not a bad day, basically just waiting until I got to see you.” Noah stretches his back, a tentative look on his face. “Ya. I think I’m gonna be so sore I’ll be miserable tomorrow.” And then he laughs and I love the way it sounds and I almost regret not living with him. Being with someone has never been this easy.
Even Becca, who literally had spells on me to keep me constantly in need of her, made me uncomfortable most days. I can’t think of one time that I’ve regretted spending time with Noah. Not one time I’ve regretted having a conversation with him.
He plops his feet into my lap and wiggles his toes. With a smile, I start rubbing his feet and he throws his head back and groans. “How about you? What’d you do today?” he asks after a minute.
Well, this is a conversation I might regret having. For some reason, I’m hesitant to tell him what I found, hesitant to tell him where I was and what I was doing.
I don’t have a good reason not to want to tell him except, well, what if he’s working for Daya? What if he’s still getting missions and I’m not? What if he knows about the pages missing from the books? What if he’s not as good as he seems? Too good to be true? I mean, when has anyone actually been what they seemed?
“Not much,” I finally say and inwardly cringe from the lie. Maybe it’s a good thing we don’t live together after all. And that thought makes me sad. “Basically, just marked time until I could be with you again.”
And now I officially feel like a creep. Unless he’s the creep, and then I feel smart. Ugh. There’s a reason I moved out to a house alone near the woods. I just don’t do people well.
I move the conversation to less dangerous topics and we snuggle up and turn on a movie. Turn off the lights. Doze off in each other’s arms. I wake to find him carefully trying to extricate himself from me without waking me.
“Shhh,” he says, reaching for a blanket. “Why don’t you just sleep here tonight?”
But I’m already pulling myself up into a sitting position and rubbing my eyes. “Can’t. I need to check on the cat. He gets weird and unravels the toilet paper rolls if I leave him alone too long.
Noah shakes his head. “Should have gotten a dog.”
“Still would have had to leave to let him out.”
He grabs my keys and starts my car so it can warm up while I wake up enough to drive. Kisses me goodbye and traces his thumb over my cheekbone.
“Thanks for coming over,” he says, looking down at me with so much love, it ignites all kinds of wonderful feelings in my chest.
“Thanks for having me over,” I reply, certain that the look I give him echoes the look he’s giving me.
“Drive safe.” He kisses me again. “Text when you get home.”
I nod and wander through the cold to my car, grateful that he’s the kind of guy who’d get it warmed up for me. I flash the lights as I pull out and he waves and blows kisses my way before closing the door behind him. I watch through my rearview as the lights in the living room go off and the lights in the bathroom come on. Smile as I pull out into the street and drive home, lost in thoughts of him brushing his teeth and crawling into bed, wishing he was doing it with me.
********
Mr. Twinklebottom most definitely got upset with me last night. Not only did he unravel and shred an entire roll of toilet paper, he also discovered the paper towel roll and went to work on that. I’ve never heard of a cat with separation anxiety, but this little guy definitely missed me. He’s busy winding his way through my feet, and I’m tripping all over the place, trying not to squash him. I scoop him up and nuzzle him close. Can’t help but smile when his purr box kicks into high gear and his little eyes slide closed. Whoever said animals don’t have thoughts and emotion never took much time or paid much attention.
I survey the house, looking for any footprints in the snow, any signs that anyone’s been here and find nothing. Regardless, I ward the house against vampires and feel better afterwards. It’s gonna be another gorgeous day, warmer than usual, considering it’s almost the end of December. I know my parents are probably freaking out because I haven’t made plans to come and visit on Christmas. I also know they’re probably trying to be cool and give me some space while I deal with Becca’s death.
Ha.
If only they knew.
Deciding it’s probably best to be a good daughter, I shoot mom a text to let her know I’m looking forward to coming home on Christmas and ask her what time she wants me there. A string of excited texts comes in almost as soon as I hit send and I cringe, imagining her cradling her phone for the last day or two, swiping it open, checking for texts from me.
I need to be better about that.
Thinking about my parents brings up thoughts of Becca’s parents, which brings up thoughts of Becca. I wonder how she’s doing. I’m pretty sure they’ve got her holed up in Windsor Manor because, well, there’s lots of reasons.
First of all, she’s the first vampire/witch hybrid and no one knows what that means. What she’s capable of. What might trigger a bloody rampage on her part.
Second, since everyone’s busy recovering from her funeral, it’d be bad form for someone to find her out, wandering the streets.
And third, if the witches have her, the vampires don’t. And that can only mean good things for the witches, right?
Thinking of Becca has me antsy. I’m still really mad at her, but the anger has kind of softened, dissipated. It’s not just plain old fiery rage anymore; the hurt is more prevalent, now. There’s nothing like being betrayed by the person you thought had your back the most…
And then, for some reason, my thoughts line up in a line and I have a crazy idea. Who needs ancient books with missing pages when there’s a Becca? A Becca who might have the missing pieces of information I need to string together my history. And if she doesn’t have all of it, she most definitely has some of it.
I put Twinks down and apologize for leaving him again so soon after getting home, grab my coat and head out to find Becca before I can talk myself out of it.
Chapter Six
For some reason, despite the bright sun and warmer temperature, I’m tense and have the heebie-jeebies. Keep checking the rearview. Keep checking my side mirrors. Keep expecting to find someone behind me. Following me.
I so need to relax.
The valet gives me a strange look when I hand him my keys. What’s that all about? I mean, sure, I’ve been here a couple times in the last few days, more than I was here when I was actively working for Daya.
Ha.
Working.
That’s such a polite way to say she was ordering me to hunt and kill vampires.
Anyway…
Maybe he just finds it strange that I’ve been here so much. Still, I could do with a little less attitude. I gather my hair over my shoulders and duck my chin to my chest, embarrassed by what I read as his judgement. The snow is melting under the vibrant sun. Little drips and drops falling from branches in the trees and the gutters of Windsor Manor.
The steps are wet and I stride up them, distracted by the thought that if it refreezes, someone might kill themselves when they ice back over. When I push through the doors, I’m struck by how quiet this place is again and realize I don’t even know what day it is. Could it be the weekend already? Windsor’s a full time institution, the witches and warlocks who get sent here end up living here and there are a smattering of classes on the weekends, but I remember it always being quieter on Saturday and Sunday.
My footsteps thunder down the hallway and once again, I find myself looking over my shoulder. I pause outside Daya’s old office. Still no sign of the new occupant, and realize that I have no idea where they’d be keeping Becca. And, without anyone actually being in charge, I mean, would they actually keep her here? As quiet as the place is, I don’t feel like wandering the halls, knocking on doors, hoping that she’s somewhere easily attainable and not locked up in a room in the basement or something.
Damn. Would they do that? Lock her up? My stomach drops and damned if I don’t look over my shoulder again. What the hell is up with this place? I lean against the wall and cross my arms over my chest. I try to be casual about it. Try to make it look like I needed a place to rest and think, but really, I’m leaning on the wall so I can see both ends of the hallway. So no one can sneak up while my back is turned.
Even though I don’t know where Becca is, I don’t want to give up and leave. I guess I could go back to the library and do some more research while I wait for someone who’d know where she is to show up. But research feels like shooting at a moving target, like throwing balls up in the air and hoping the right one will land in my hand. I want to ask direct questions and get direct answers and Becca is the only person I know who might actually talk to me about this.
Plus, if I get really honest, I want to see her. Not necessarily to make sure she’s OK, not necessarily because I’m worried about her, but maybe those things a little. Call me dumb. Call me a softie. But Becca’s been around for every major event in my life. There’s not a memory I have where she’s not there, smiling, laughing, championing me on. It’s weird for her to be alive — OK, alive-ish — and to just basically ignore her.
I start to conjure a tracking spell and stop when Becca materializes in front of me. All the hairs on my arms stand on end and I jump. Choke a little on my sharp intake of breath.
Her eyes pierce my soul. “Hey.” Her voice runs cold fingers down my spine.
“Hey.” I take a breath. “Where is everyone?”
She closes her eyes, one slow, emotionless blink. “They don’t trust me around people yet. They’ve been getting the students out of Windsor whenever they can.”
What am I supposed to say to that? I just nod like that makes the most practical sense of anything I’ve heard today. “They leave you alone?”
Her eyes slide to the door and she squints against the sunlight. Seems to shrink back inside herself a little. “They’ve set up … precautions.”
If talking to Becca after she revealed that she was a witch holding me captive was strange, this is one hundred times more strange than that. Before, Becca went from vibrant to hard, from happy to hunted. But now? This isn’t even like talking to Becca at all.
I struggle, searching for words. “So, uh, how are you?”
She laughs and it’s like she’s going insane. “I’m here. I’m alive.” She swallows. “Gonna be alive for a long time.”
My curiosity gets the better of me. “What’s it like?”
“What do you mean, what’s it like?”
“I mean, being a vampire. And still being a witch. Are you more of one than the other? Is your magic still strong? What do you eat?” The questions roll out of my mouth without permission, born of genuine curiosity. “And seriously,” I add, “how are you doing.”
Becca smiles and it looks foreign to her. “Honestly, I’m struggling. Nothing about my life is the way it used to be. Nothing makes sense. I don’t even understand what I am.”
“I can relate. I’ve been there.” I want to smile to take away some of the sting of all that I’m leaving unsaid, but I’m not sure she’s earned my compassion quite yet.
“I bet you can.” She blinks again and I realize it’s the first time she’s moved since the last time she blinked. Her stillness is just one more thing in this whole eerie adventure. “Look,” she begins, “I’m really sorry.”
“It is what it is,” I say and shrug, wondering just how much I believe that. It’s like touching a bruise, talking to Becca. Checking how much things still hurt. Judging how bad the injury actually is. Discerning how close it is to being healed.
“Why are you here?” Becca takes a deep breath in through her nose, nostrils flaring, and I very decidedly do not like the look that comes into her eyes.
“I want to know about my parents.”
“Have you asked Daya about them?”
“Yes, and all she told me was their first names. Tara and Malichi.”
Becca flinches. “I don’t know much more than that. Tara was a light witch, a member of the Archer family. She was the most powerful of the whole bloodline. An anomaly. They weren’t prepared to have someone like her. Malichi was a Dalton. A prominent and nasty line of dark magic users.” Becca leans in a little closer and I watch her gaze slide down to the vein in my neck. “It’s the whole Romeo and Juliet deal, Zo. Forbidden love that ends up with everyone you care about dying.” Her voice has gone all dreamy and I’m quite sure she’s unaware how close she’s gotten to me.
“Hey!” I snap my fingers. “My eyes are up here.”
Becca looks surprised and then laughs. Steps back a little. Shrugs in the most graceful off-hand apology I’ve ever seen. “I always did feel bad for keeping you so locked up inside yourself. Figured you were a bit of a firecracker underneath all that blushing.”
“Ya, well, you and me both I guess.”
How do I tell her how miserable I used to be? How do I make her understand how much I hated having thoughts and feelings and desires that wanted out and no matter what I did, no matter how many pep talks I gave myself, they just stayed locked up inside? Or maybe I don’t have to tell her. Maybe she doesn’t deserve to know. Maybe it’s time to stop regretting all that happened to me, suck it up, and deal with who I am now.
“Hey,” she says after a few seconds of extended silence. “Will you keep me company for a little bit?”
“Really?” And while I mean to ask if she really wants my company, it comes out sounding like I’m asking if she really has the audacity to ask such a thing of me. Which, I realize, is probably the better of the two questions.
“I know I have no right, none at all. I’m just so alone. Just so…” She shrugs, but her eyes finish the sentence for her. Just so scared. Becca — the turncoat best friend, the peppy little disco ball turned double agent, the brand new supernatural being who requires entire buildings being empty as a safety precaution — is scared.
I reach out to touch her arm and regret the decision as her eyes dilate and her head whips towards my hand. Slowly, I pull back, showing her my hand as if she were an unfamiliar dog. “Sure,” I say ignoring the whole crazed predator thing. “But how about we go somewhere that’s not the hallway.”
Becca laughs, a tight sound. Tension rolling off her body. Suggests we sit in one of the lounges. “There’s a fire in the fireplace back there. Feels good on my skin.”
“Lead the way, OJ,” I say and gesture down the hallway, needing her in front of me because I don’t think I could stand having my back to her. Instead, I get to watch her new serpentine way of moving that’s just setting every fight or flight instinct I have on fire. And I hate to admit it, but I’m not feeling much like fighting.
The fire does feel good, though, and Becca seems to relax in the somewhat darkened lounge. I comment on it and she tells me the sun makes her irritable and weak. I remember how many times she forced us outside simply because it was a sunny day and “humans need sun on our skin.” Her new existence seems more and more like a prison sentence.
“So,” I say after it starts to feel like I’m talking to my lifelong friend again. “Not to get all up in your business, but what do you eat?”
Becca puts her hands to her face and shakes her head. “Oh Zoe,” she mutters and her voice is thick with tears. “It’s so terrible. I can’t eat food at all.” She lifts her face from her hands and I gasp in horror. Her tears are blood. She swipes at them, smearing garish crimson streaks across her pale skin. “Ya, I know,” she says rubbing her face, “it’s awful. I’m disgusting.”
I feel like I should go to her. Wrap an arm around her, tell her it’s gonna be OK. But I don’t. I can’t. It’s all I can do not to run screaming from the room. And, if I’m being totally honest, there’s a tiny little part of me that feels like she’s getting what she deserves.
