Lover Unveiled, page 21
They might get one night out of her at Safe Place. Here, though? She wasn’t comfortable with that, even though she’d been assured there would be social workers and staff always around: He could tell by the way she did not meet Mrs. Mary’s eyes whenever Luchas House came up. At the moment—and tragically—Elyn was exhausted and hungry and cold. But she was going to run at nightfall tomorrow, and none of them were going to see her again.
“So let’s get going, shall we?” Mrs. Mary said as she stood up. “I’ll drive you to Safe Place—and hey, it’s cookie night.”
Rhage smiled at Elyn. “It’s always cookie night at Safe Place. Just so you know.”
The Brother escorted his mate and the social worker to the door—and as the three went out and clustered together to talk quietly on the front stoop, Nate had a feeling they were doing it on purpose, to give him and Elyn a chance to say goodbye.
“You’re going to be okay with them,” he said as he looked over at her. “I promise you.”
As Elyn’s hands twisted in her lap, he wanted to hold them. Hold her.
“I am sorry I lied to you.” Her silver eyes lifted to his. “About knowing English. But I do not know who to trust.”
“Totally forgiven.” He swept the air with his hand. “Forgotten.”
Her head turned toward the front door. “I think perhaps I must go the now.”
God, he could listen to that accent for hours. “Maybe I’ll see you again—”
“Yes, please,” she said. Before quickly adding, “But I do not want to be a burden—”
“Never!” He cleared his throat. “I mean, you know, don’t worry about that. Ever. Let me give you my cell phone number.”
He all but jumped over the sofa to get to the kitchen. And when he started to frantically pull open drawers, Rhage came back in and took a Sharpie out of the pocket of his leather jacket.
“Here,” the Brother murmured with a knowing look. “And use this to write on, it’s not perfect, but it’ll do.”
Nate took the Tootsie Pop wrapper he was offered like it was a sheet of gold and hastily scribbled his digits. On the way back to the couch, he flapped the purple waxed paper back and forth to make sure the ink dried.
Elyn got to her feet as he came over to her, and he really wanted to put his digits deep into a pocket of hers, just to make sure nothing was lost. Instead, as she took the wrapper, he removed that leaf that was still nestled in the lengths of her hair.
When she seemed startled, he flushed. “Sorry, I just . . . would you like it back?”
Dumbass. Dumbass—
Except she wasn’t looking at him.
Instead, she was focused on a mirror that had been mounted on the opposite wall, and as she stared at her reflection, she seemed haunted. Almost afraid.
Like she was in a trance, she went over and stood before the glass. With a shaking hand, she touched the hair that curled out of the hood.
“Are you all right?” he said softly.
Her eyes met his in the mirror. “No, I do not believe I am.”
Abruptly, tears trembled on her lashes. But she wiped them away and squared her shoulders.
Clearing her throat, she said, “I am very sorry I lied to you. I do not know who to trust.”
Nate nodded—and had a thought that she had no idea what she was saying, no clue that she was repeating things.
Abruptly, she turned away from herself and looked at what he’d written. As her brows pulled together, he worried that the numbers had been smudged. They hadn’t been—so he worried whether she was rethinking taking them.
At least she put the wrapper away in her robing.
As wind whistled outside, he wanted to give her his coat. But of course, he hadn’t put one on as he’d bolted out of his house.
“Good eve, Nate,” she said as she lowered herself in a brief curtsy.
Nate bowed even though he had no clue what he was doing. “Just call me. Anytime.”
Today, he thought. Maybe as soon as you get to Safe Place.
Before he could say anything else—although, really, what else was there that wouldn’t make him seem like more of a jackass—she was gone, that long, loose cape-thingy she was wearing trailing behind her as she stepped out of the house. As the door closed behind her, the smudges of mud on its hem stuck with him, and it took him a minute to figure out why: She knew what it was like to be alone and afraid.
Guess that made them soul mates.
“You okay, son?” Rhage asked.
Nate did a double take. “Oh, I thought you’d left.”
“I am now.” The Brother went over to where he’d been on an armchair. “I forgot my jacket and had to come back for it.”
There was a pause, and it was clear the older male wanted to say something. And not about the weather.
“Please don’t tell my dad . . .” Nate mumbled.
“What, that you gave a female your number for the first time?” As Nate blushed, Rhage nodded. “Not to worry. That’s your story to share, not mine. Take care of yourself, son.”
Ten minutes later, Nate was still standing in the newly kitted-out living room when the front door opened again and the guys started coming in with their overalls and their tools. As he nodded at the crew, and tried to play it cool, he had a thought that there wasn’t much else to do at the site—and what a pity that was. Considering this was an extension of Safe Place, he felt like as long as Elyn was there and he was here, a connection between them still existed.
Yeah, unlike that cell phone number, which seemed way too tenuous, and not because it was on a lollipop wrapper. She had to choose to use those numbers, and time was running out before she took off—
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
With a start, he turned to Shuli—and felt like he didn’t recognize his friend. Which was nuts because the guy was wearing the same Izod polo, cashmere sweater, and khaki shorts kind of thing that he always did. He even had a pair of Ray-Bans tucked into the V-neck—like James Spader in that old movie. Pretty in Purple? What was the title?
“Hello?” Shuli waved a hand. “Anybody in there?”
Absently, Nate’s eyes tracked the glint of the fancy watch on his buddy’s wrist. And because he didn’t want to think about anything else, and because he certainly didn’t want to talk about all the things he didn’t want to think about, he blurted out, “Why do you work here?”
“Huh—oh, why am I on the crew? My sire thinks minimum wage builds character.”
“I don’t think it’s working.”
“Ouch—but you’re probably right. I can be a prick sometimes. And on that note, why are you looking like someone punched you in the nuts?”
“I’m not. I don’t. I mean—let’s go finish the painting in the garage.”
As Nate started hoofing it, Shuli chuckled and followed along. “So that’s why you’re not rubbing one out on a regular basis. It explains a lot.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“No nuts, no erection. Problem solved.”
“Not even close,” Nate muttered.
“No, really, it’s how it works—”
“Please, for the love of God, stop talking.”
“Like, about nuts? Or anything at all?”
The glare Nate sent over his shoulder answered that one. And as they filed out into the garage, he prayed Shuli gave him two minutes to recalibrate. When the guy blessedly started opening the cans and organizing the paint brushes in silence, Nate tried to pull it together, and looked down at the leaf he’d taken out of Elyn’s hair—
Frowning, he turned it over to check the back. And then turned the thing faceup again.
When he’d first seen the maple leaf in her hair, out by where the meteor had landed, it had been dried up, brown, past its life cycle.
What he was holding now was pliable and yellow with red tips, as if it had just fallen from its autumnal branch.
“What the hell you looking at?” Shuli said. “And for what it’s worth, if it’s your love line, I’m worried about where that’s headed.”
“It’s nothing,” Nate muttered as he put the leaf into his pocket. “You ready to paint?”
• • •
Collective wisdom was wrong. You could, in fact, be in two places at once.
As Sahvage stood in front of Mae inside her garage, another part of him was out in the dark with that other woman. Female. Thing-that-shall-not-be-named.
With the specificity of a newscaster, he was replaying everything the brunette had said to him, what she’d looked like, how she’d behaved. It was like searching for underground mines in a field, lifting rocks to see if he’d found all the danger.
“So?” Mae prompted tersely. “What do I have to agree to.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Let’s have your caveat.”
Shaking himself back into focus, he said, “If I tell you to leave me, you have to promise you will. When I go down, you need to leave me where I fall and save yourself.”
As her eyes widened, he couldn’t help her. Something inside of him was once again looking into the misty future . . . and seeing a moment in time for them both where only one walked away.
He stared into her eyes. “You have to leave me when it counts. Promise me.”
Mae’s brows went down hard. “What if I refuse?”
“Then I leave you now.”
“That makes no sense.”
“Well, that’s the way it’s going to be.”
She opened and closed her a mouth a couple of times, but he just waited for her to come to whatever conclusion she did. This was a nonnegotiable, and even though she’d pissed him off, he was glad they’d had to renegotiate their—well, whatever this was between them.
“Okay. Fine.”
Sahvage put his dagger hand out. “On your honor. Swear to it.”
She hesitated for a moment. Then she shoved her palm forward and clasped what he offered her with a serious squeeze—as if, in her head, she was ripping his arm off and beating some sense into him with it.
“Say the words,” he demanded.
“I promise.”
He nodded once, as if they’d made a blood pact. And then he glanced at her car. “Leave that here and let’s dematerialize back to the cottage. I cracked the shutter on the front left on the second floor. We can get in that way.”
“Did you seal the second-story windows, too? With salt?”
“Evil can only enter a place on the ground floor or with an invitation.”
“And if a house isn’t protected?”
“She can walk in any way she pleases.” He rubbed his aching head. “Come down the chimney like Santa Claus if she wants. I don’t fucking know.”
“I’ll say it again, thank God you did what you did.” Mae went over and got her bag and purse out of her car. “And you’re sure this house is safe.”
“You saw for yourself. She couldn’t get in.”
“I can’t believe this is happening.”
Sahvage went across to a rear window. The daytime shutters were down, and he released the locking hooks to pop the seal—but made sure things stayed mostly in place.
“I’ll get you back to the cottage,” he said, “then I’m going to my place to pick up some more weapons.”
“I can help. I’ll go with you—”
“You need to stay with Tallah. You two should be safe together and I’m not going to be gone long—”
“Can I ask you something?”
He glanced over. Mae had her purse up on her shoulder, and a two-handled bag in her left grip. She looked frazzled, her hair fuzzing out of that ponytail, her eyes too bright, her cheeks too pale. But it was clear she wasn’t going to quit.
Fucking hell. He was going to miss her when he left.
“Depends on what you want to know,” he said softly.
“Where do you live? Who is . . . do you have anyone in your life?”
“Don’t worry. Nobody is going to wonder where I am or what I’m doing and get nosy. Your privacy, and Tallah’s, is locked tight.”
Mae cleared her throat. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“That you’re alone.”
“It’s by design, I assure you—”
“So that’s why you’re telling me to leave you before we even start, huh. Even if you’re hurt. Even if you’re . . . dying.”
All Sahvage could do was shake his head at her. “Don’t play the hypothetical game.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m not changing my one demand just because you’re restating it to me, sweetheart. Now let’s head out, I need some fucking air—and yes, I did just sweetheart you again. You want to yell at me for it, hold your breath for when we get back to the cottage.”
Mae walked over to him. Tilted her chin up. And—
“Not now,” he all but groaned. “Please. Just go and I’ll meet you at that old female’s. She’s the one you care about, remember?”
“You don’t need to remind me where my priorities are.”
With that, Mae left—and for a split second, as he glanced around the garage, he entertained a brief, insane fantasy where he came home at the end of the night, and she was back from whatever work she did, and they sat across from each other at a dinner table and talked over the hours they’d been apart.
Never going to happen, he thought as he ghosted away. For so many reasons.
As he traveled out of suburbia in a scatter, he followed the echo of his blood in her out into farm country—and re-formed inside the bedroom at the front of the cottage. She was already there and going for the stairs, her purse clapping against her side, that bag swinging in her hand.
“Checking on Tallah?” he asked.
“What do you think,” she muttered.
Or at least he assumed that’s what she said.
As he listened to her descend the old, rickety staircase, he came to two conclusions, neither of which gave him any comfort: They were going to need weapons she could use, too. And shit, he wished he believed in the Scribe Virgin.
He could have used someone to pray to.
“I’ll be right back,” he called out.
No response. But he hadn’t expected one.
Listening to her move around down on the first level, he gave her a chance to walk off some stress. Then he heard her go into the cellar, the sound of her footfalls growing dim.
Closing his eyes, he sent his instincts out, just to make sure that there were no sounds, scents, or strange disturbances of any kind in the cottage. When nothing came back to him, he figured things were as safe as they were going to get.
Needless to say, the trip back to his place was going to be a real fucking quick one. And shit, he didn’t think he had enough firepower.
Then again, he could have had a missile launcher in the side yard and still felt like he was light-packing.
As Lassiter walked through the forest of the Brotherhood’s mountain, it was not with a swagger, like he owned the joint. Instead, he carefully picked the places in the leaves and craggy underbrush where he could safely put his booted feet. And he constantly brushed off his shoulders, convinced things were dropping on him from overhead. And that sweet, natural pine smell? Irritated the fuck out of his sinuses.
For all the dominion he had over earthly matters, and vampires in particular, he fucking hated nature. Something was always sneaking under your collar and fifteen-feeting it down your spine. Or pooping on your head. Or poking you in the eye. Or giving you rabies.
Plus rain. Snow. Sleet. Hail. Which led to the fun and games of faucet-running noses, frostbitten toes, and oh, yeah, black ice that sent your car face-first into a tree trunk.
And then, because June through August didn’t want to miss out on the opportunity to harass people, you got the too-hot summer. So in addition to bees, wasps, and yellowjackets, you had armpit sweat. Chafing. Flip-flops.
He couldn’t fucking stand flip-flops. Nobody ever needed to see anybody else’s piggies-go-to-market.
And there was another part to it all. To make his climate intolerance and allergy to nature’s so-called wonders worse? He lived with Vishous. Who was only too happy to call a person out as a “pussy” if they happened to bring up the fact that maybe staying indoors was a great idea when the temperature was higher, or lower, than seventy degrees.
Whatever. Put that snarky SOB in a world full of Hallmark cards, MLM hun-bots, and “Save Britney” hashtags, and see how he did—
As the wind changed direction and half of the angel’s pec-length hair spidered into his face, he batted the stuff away and glared to the northeast.
“I swear to fucking God, I will put a muzzle on you.”
Aware that he had just told a force of nature to quit it or he’d give it something to cry about, he decided maybe he was just spoiled. His office was on the Other Side, up in the Sanctuary. Where it was always seventy degrees with no breeze—and no ticks, hornets, or mosquitos. Brown recluses. Asps.
Vishouses.
Talk about muzzles. Technically, there were options for dealing with that brother. In the hierarchy of things, the real flowchart of authority? Lassiter was the apex asshole, above even Wrath. And no matter how annoyed that made V, it was what it was: Gravity. The rise and fall of the sun. The supremacy of Eddie Van Halen’s guitar licks, Bea Arthur’s sense of style, the New York Yankees’ batting average . . . and Lassiter’s buck-stops-here.
Actually, he didn’t really give a fuck about baseball. He just really enjoyed messing with V’s Red Sox obsession.
“Like shooting fish in a barrel,” he said to himself.
As he considered fresh approaches to winding up tall, dark, and judgy, the cave he was looking for came forth to greet him. The craggy hole in the side of the mountain was utterly unremarkable, nothing but a split in a vein of granite that was camo’d by trees and brush. Unless you knew it was there, you’d never see it—and that was the point.
