by Lucy Auburn
Sleep doesn't come easily, mostly because I can't stop thinking about my mom. The funeral made her death real in a way that watching her stop breathing didn't. I keep thinking about how unfair it is that she survived cancer but died because some asshole decided it would be fun to kill her. There can't be any motive other than that, which makes it so much worse—with a kill that random, I have no way to figure out why, and that makes the who so much harder.
Tossing and turning for ages, I finally give up and throw the covers off, padding out of bed. Penny follows me as I slip into something black, borrowed from Eve's closet, and pull a pair of soft leather boots onto my feet. On the way out the door I grab my great-great-grandfather's hunting knife, just in case; this campus isn't without its dangers, after all, and my powers haven't been the most reliable lately.
On Monday classes start back up again, and this time I'm going to have to really go. There's plenty of leniency in most grad programs, but not this one, apparently. Now that I know what Eve told me about the thirst for killing that comes with our powers, it makes sense—even though I resent having my time taken from me.
Just a little over a week ago, I was in prison, my day decided for me down to the minute. Cain University isn't that much different, although at least here the food tastes edible and doesn't come with a side of curly hair or stink eye from the cafeteria workers. I'm not complaining too much, but it would've been nice to get a week or two to just fuck around. Maybe I would've finally gone down a water slide or danced drunk on a bar. I don't fucking know, and that's part of the problem.
Jack showed up in my life just when I was figuring out who Ellen Arizona is, other than probably the name of a porn star who didn't even know about me when she came up with the name. All the parts of my life that have the most to do with self-identity—the last two years of high school, college, my first two years of working on my own—are caught up in him, followed by the dark days spent in our shared apartment waiting for him to come home, then the time spent in prison, certain my life was over.
I almost had a chance to figure out who twenty-four-year-old me is, but the day I got released my mom was murdered. Now here I am, and figuring out me is inexorably linked with the blood on my hands.
Because there's nowhere else to really go, I let my despondent, depressing thoughts leads me to the courtyard, Penny pouncing in the bushes at my heels. At one point she strides out with a tiny gecko in her mouth, proudly chomping down and swallowing it. The sight of its tail wriggling between her teeth is enough to make me laugh—then gag—then laugh some more, until my dark thoughts are the furthest thing from my mind.
Still, because I need to tire myself out before I sleep, I head over to one of the fountains and wait for the stairs to appear. I wound up picking the fountain of the wraith with a lantern in its skeletal hand: Spiritual Class.
It takes me a moment to figure out that you have to touch the plaque on the fountain declaring the Class it is in order to open it up and reveal the staircase. The words on the plaque read,
Summoners of spirits, speakers to the dead, givers and takers of life force, wear your mantle with pride. Death is inevitable; death is your domain. Call forth the spirits and revel in their strength.
Macabre, yet a little poetic, if a bit stilted. The skeletal hand of the wraith reaches over my head as I descend into the darkness of the staircase, Penny at my heels. Halfway down, I can't see anything on either side of me, so I resort to taking out the smart phone Eve bought for me while we were in town, and fiddling with it until I get the flashlight to come on. I was barely in prison for ten months, but things have still changed since then, including where they put the stupid icons that make these things work.
Descending towards the bottom of the staircase, I'm struck by the fact that this was the first place I wanted to go when I couldn't sleep. It doesn't make sense; the arena is where I faced off with Mason, Levi, and Grayson, fighting each of them... and defeating them. But it's quiet, and more importantly, there's guaranteed solitude down here.
For some reason, right now, my thoughts feel so enormous that only an underground cavern could hold them.
Which is why I bite back a groan when I spot one of the Fuckfaces down here too.
Chapter 24
Mason Kincaide is sitting in the middle of the sandy fighting circle, his legs crossed, back straight, eyes closed. He looks like he's sleeping sitting up, but I'm certain that he's actually meditating. He's lit a dozen candles and set them into the edges of the sand circle, their tiny flames painting his bronze-brown skin shades of gold and yellow. In front of him, incense burns, its smoke giving off a distinctly masculine aroma.
I could turn back now. Take my phone, go up the stairs, and find solitude in the courtyard instead. His eyes are still closed, and unlike Levi, I'm not as loud as a herd of farting elephants. Sneaking away is still a possibility.
Before I can make a decision, a little beast makes it for me. Penny scampers into the circle of the sand and leaps directly onto a tiny hopping bug, biting at it delicately with her front incisors. Mason's eyes fly open, and he stares in confusion at the little kitty for a moment before he sees me.
"Ellen." Clearing his throat, he lumbers to his feet. "What are you... I guess you're here for the same reason as me: you couldn't sleep."
Penny is still hunting bugs at his feet. The sand, plus the warmth and light of the candle flames, seems to have attracted them. With a wiggle of her butt and an athletic leap to rival a grown lion, she pounces onto one of the bugs—and winds up sinking her front claws into Mason's toes.
He howls and yanks his foot away; I scramble to apologize, rushing forward to grab at her. But Penny is no easily tamed cat, and she runs away from my reaching hand, the fur at the base of her spine standing comically on end. Here she is, the reason why Mason is gasping as he clutches his foot, and she has the nerve to be scared.
"Sorry! She just—well, I kind of accidentally adopted her, you know after the other day... and I guess she doesn't really have manners."
But Mason isn't gasping in pain; he's guffawing, the sound quiet but growing louder, his laughter half gasps and half gulped chuckles. Putting his scratched foot down gingerly, he wipes at tears gathering in his eyes and lets out one last wheeze.
"I didn't even know we were fighting a second round, and still you managed to defeat me."
I laugh too. "It wasn't a fair fight. You'd barely opened your eyes."
Grinning at me, he points out, "We can go again, if you'd like. Just you and me. Illusions and foresight. I wonder what you'll see this time."
The reminder of what I saw the last time we were down here flashes between us. My thighs prick with heat, and I draw in a sharp breath. Mason is staring at me, seemingly not shy or uncertain at all, and just the look in his eyes, the flare of his wide shoulders, is a reminder of what he looked like from a different angle.
Licking my lips, I desperately search for a change in topic. "Why can't you sleep? I've got a good excuse: my mom's funeral was today."
"Ouch." He winces. "My condolences. And I'm sorry that the four of us made it worse by accusing you of murder—clearly we were, uh, quite wrong about that."
"Someone tell Grayson," I quip, though without any heat. Now that I know Bernard had memories falsely implanted into his mind, I can't exactly blame the mind reader for believing what he saw. "You're not the only ones who thought I killed my mom. I swear, most of the people at the funeral today were just there to gawk at me. I'm sure my ex's mom was on the local news again last night, demanding that I be locked away for life. It's apparently very suspicious when the people you're staying with die the very same day you're released from prison on murder charges. Who knew?"
"Yeah, well." He rubs the back of his neck, finger slipping beneath the length of his braid. "I'm still sorry. It must suck, all of that."
"You didn't tell me why you can't sleep," I point out, wanting to focus on someone else's misery for a change. "Unless you have a secre
t stolen pet too, there shouldn't be anything waking you up."
"Oh, on the contrary." He flashes a grin at me, and we both watch for a moment as Penny stalks a moth. "I may not have a literal pet, but since I'm still a free agent, I have a roommate. My roommate is Levi. And if you thought his footsteps were loud... let's just say that a drunk elephant fucking a bulldozer would make less sound than he makes at night."
"Yikes." I wince, because I've heard Levi walk—or more accurately, place his feet down carefully only to make as much sound as a twelve-footed giraffe.
"It's impossible to imagine he was ever a tight rope walker."
"He was?" This gets my attention. "Was he raised in a circus?"
"Yep." Mason grins, clearly enjoying dishing on one of his friends. "It explains his manners, doesn't it? I swear, the lions must have taught him how to eat, because he gets more food on the front of his shirt than actually in his mouth. I used to make bets with Wyatt on how big of a stain he'd leave behind after lunch, but we had to stop, because the big guy owes me too much money now. One time Levi managed to get the table next to ours dirty."
I laugh, throwing my head back, surprised by the size of my joy. The sound that comes out of me is part guffaw, part squeal, followed by a gasp, then another peal of laughter. Mason watches me, delight in his eyes, and after I manage to pull myself together—it was less the joke that was funny, and more that I need this—I look back at him and realize we're standing very close.
Somehow, in the middle of our conversation, we moved together. Step by step. Inch by inch. And now we're maybe six or seven inches apart, in the middle of the sand circle, warmed by candlelight. The smell in the air isn't just incense, I realize. There's a distinctly masculine tang that's all Mason—his shampoo, maybe, or whatever he uses to detangle that magnificent braid of his.
For a moment he's completely silent, his eyes half lidded, gaze roaming the stretches of my mouth from corner to corner. In a rough voice, he says, "I'm glad Levi chose tonight to saw enough wood to destroy the Amazon rainforest, because otherwise, I might not be the one down here with you."
My breath catches, and I wonder aloud, "Is this what it feels like when your astrology chart is correct?"
"Maybe." He takes a breath in through his nose, sharp and deep, like he's trying to steady himself. I find myself wondering how fast his heart is beating. I want to put my palm against his warm, strong chest and find out. In a low, roughened voice, he asks, "What do you want?"
I want a lot of things. But I answer with the one thing that made it impossible to sleep tonight. "To speak to my mother one last time."
Reaching out, he twines his fingers in mine, his palm calloused and broad. It takes me a moment to realize why, but then the flush of power surges within me, along with the heat of my lust.
I feel so full of desires that they prick at my skin and make my breathing unsteady.
Mason is a sweet man, though. So he gives me what I want as a prelude to what we both know is coming next.
He uses his powers to grant my greatest emotional desire.
The arena around me melts away. Even Mason himself disappears, though I can still feel the warm presence of his hand on mine. Instead I'm standing in my childhood home, right at the threshold of the kitchen, watching my mom. She's pacing back and forth in front of the counter, baking supplies strewn everywhere, a bowl full of delicious cookie batter in front of her. My breath catches at the sight of her, and all at once I'm lost to the illusion.
At the sound of my voice she turns. There's a smudge of flour on her cheek, and her eyes are merry and bright. Everything about her is smudgy memory: she has the short hair I remember from the times she visited me in prison, but the vibrant, unlined eyes and mouth from my childhood. Here in a world created by what I remember and want most, she's somehow the mother who wiped away my tears and the one who survived cancer.
"Oh, Ellen." She paces over to me and throws her arms around me. There's very little weight to her grip, but the warmth is overwhelming, and it suffuses me. "Baby, you look upset. What's wrong? Tell Momma. I'll always be here for you, no matter how old you get."
Stepping back, Mom puts her hands on my shoulders and looks up into my eyes. I take a deep breath, which hitches with unshed tears, and try to hold myself together, aware that in reality Mason is watching every second of this.
"I wanted to tell you... what I said at the mausoleum, and so much more." I swallow as she patiently stares at me, willing to reflect back anything I want or need. "I want to ask you questions, but I know you don't have the answers."
"Ask me anyway." She tilts her head, inquisitive. "You never know what I might know."
That's not true, exactly: I know everything she knows, because she was born from my memory. But maybe asking can help me get through not knowing.
"You knew what Dad was." Mom nods, quiet and patience. "But... you loved him. His picture was in our house growing up. It was still in your house, long after you married Herb. So how could you...?"
"Love a killer?" She raises her eyebrows, tut-tutting at me. "Do you know, no one has ever asked how I could love an Air Force officer? But we all know what they do with planes. He didn't drop presents on the heads of children when he was deployed. People still expected me to love him. All the military wives loved their husbands. Even the ones who dropped bombs on villages. Even the ones who brought war home."
I suck in a breath. "Was he like that?"
"Would I have loved him if he was?" There's a challenge in her voice. "He wasn't like Jack, if that's what you mean. I loathed that boy for what he did to you. No, my Vincent was no saint, but he was no devil either. He treated me well, and he loved me. Whatever blood he got on his hands, he washed it off before he came home. The world was a little better because of the work he did, for the United States military and... otherwise."
I swallow thickly, pressing. "You say that, but you didn't know everything, did you? He couldn't have possibly told you the details."
"Oh, Ellen, darling." She strokes the side of my cheek, sympathy on her face. "What makes you think that the mother who bore you, wasn't strong enough to face the truth? I was, after all, the mother who visited you in prison even knowing what you'd done—not just murder, let's remember, but dismemberment too—and loved you anyway."
"You don't have the answers," I whisper softly.
Mom challenges me softly, "Don't I? You remember me well, darling. Take off your rose-colored glasses." Stepping back, she smiles at me and wipes the flour from her shirt. "The next time you talk to me, make sure you do it in the way that counts. Power isn't meant to be swallowed, my darling. It's meant to be used."
Then she fades away, and the house disappears all around her, tiles and counters folding in. I'm back in the arena, anchored to reality by Mason's warm hand, his eyes anxiously studying my face.
"Well? I didn't watch, but... I hope that helped, some."
I stare at his eyes, blinking, and two fat tears roll down my cheeks. It's stupid, really—first I barely cried, and now I'm crying at barely anything. If I didn't know better, I'd think the Red Wave was about to descend on me, and make the amount of blood that left Jack's body seem like a thimbleful.
Mason reaches up with a warm thumb and brushes the tears from my skin. His touch is slow, deliberate, intentionally soft. If I told him to stop, he would—then probably drop my hand, step back, bow like some seventeenth century idea of a gentleman, and skedaddle right out of here.
There's no pressure with him, but no artifice either. I know he's not just a soft kind man. I've already seen the secrets that lie beneath, the killer that lurks in the shadows. This isn't an asshole with a sugary sweet surface. I'm staring at a killer like me.
Maybe that's why it's so easy to lean forward, breath skimming the heat of his cheek, and slowly raise my mouth towards his.
He doesn't press insistently at my lips with his. Instead his are hesitant, letting me come to him, even as the thumb that wiped tears from my che
eks moves lower. His careful touches settles at my pulse and, he presses lightly against the flicker of my heartbeat against the surface of my skin.
Then he opens his lips, just a little, to kiss my top lip. His mouth slides against mine, pressing and moving away, sucking lightly until my skin feels numb and tingly at the same time. I feel heat surge inside me at his touch, heat and power as whatever impossible connection that binds us together flares to life like a live wire.
Mason spends a while on my top lip. His hand untwines from mine and reaches out to stroke, hesitantly, at the strip of skin just above the waistband of my sweatpants. Grabbing his wrist, I urge him upwards, pressing forward against him without shyness. His hand moves up my side and against my rib cage as my breath comes hotter and faster—only for him to suddenly rip himself away, touch leaving me, mouth pulling off mine, his eyes wide and pupils blown.
"Do you want this?" His voice is urgent. "I know what we both saw, but... you're grieving, and I don't want to push anything on you, especially if—if all the things I've heard about..." Mason trails off, then simply says, "I don't want to make you feel as if you have to have sex with me. We barely know each other. If you don't want this—"
"What I want," I tell him, my voice raised with certainty, "is for you to make me forget the last man who fucked me.”
“And you want me to do that by…”
“By stripping me naked, picking me up, and slamming me against that wall. Well," I amend, "maybe forcefully but lightly push me up against the wall, but I want, Mason, to be fucked by another man. One who isn't him. You seem like a good choice, so I hope you're ready to get hard and put what I saw in my vision to good use."
Stalking forward, I reach out, grab the tight white T-shirt he seems to have worn to bed, and tug on the front of it until he obliges me by moving towards me again.
"Fuck me." I say it crudely, and clearly, with everything I feel, because I want him to believe me. "I want you to fuck me."