“Control someone,” Mae said. “Make them your slave.”
Nick blinked slowly, eyelashes sweeping the top of his cheekbones. “That too.”
He was devastatingly beautiful, Mae thought, and “devastating” was the word: She could see storms and cities burning in his eyes.
“I didn’t think I’d want to mark a human,” he said. “But I do.”
“Alan,” Mae whispered.
“Yes,” Nick whispered back. “And you.”
Mae went still, torn between the impulse that said the demon’s eye was on her, that she should run, and the impulse to move closer. Nick had never said anything to indicate she mattered to him before.
“Oh,” she said.
“And Jamie,” Nick continued.
“Oh,” she said, in a very different way. “Well. Thanks for my part in the compliment. Naturally I’d love to be watched and controlled, but I think I may be washing my hair that day.”
Nick grinned. “Yeah, all right.”
He looked more relaxed, Mae noticed. He was pleased about that book, she thought, pleased by the idea of the past and his father reading to him, his brother happy.
“I think we can get by without that,” she said. “Even if I, as the bombshell of the group, have to take one for the team and go seduce Gerald’s secrets out of him.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Nick told her. “I’m clearly the bombshell of the group.”
Mae laughed and held out her hand.
“What?” Nick demanded warily. “I’m not sure I’m ready for more hand-holding.”
“What?” Mae echoed back at him. “Another lesson for you, Nick: When you want to make a human happy, do something they enjoy with them. Besides, I’m having a moment of probably soon-to-be-destroyed optimism about the future. Don’t worry. It probably won’t last.”
She ran to put in a CD she liked that was a little bit rock and a little bit blues, and then she went over and grasped Nick’s hands in hers, pulling him to his feet.
Her confidence was checked by the way he just looked down at her, as if waiting for the human to explain her strange customs. She opened her hands and his slipped out of hers, down by his sides.
Mae’s skin was prickling with sudden shame. She wanted to run away so he would stop looking at her, slam as many doors as she could between herself and his eyes, and she wanted to somehow carry this off so he thought nothing was wrong.
“Come on,” she said, her voice going too high to be really light. “You know how to dance, don’t you?”
He reached for her waist and then slid his big hands down along her body, fingers curling around her belt. His ring was a cold shock on the strip of skin between her shirt and her jeans.
“Yeah,” Nick said, his voice curling in the air like smoke from a raging fire, filling her lungs and making it hard to breathe. “I know how to dance.”
Mae looked up at him and saw nothing she could read: lowered eyelids and the line of his mouth. She put her hands up anyway, catching at his shoulders and the rhythm. Her hands curved around the fragile barrier of his T-shirt, grasping the worn cotton as if it was all that was holding her up. Her knuckles pressed tight against the swell of his shoulders, feeling his muscles shift as he moved with her.
She dipped down with him a little, his hips touching hers, stepped back and then up against him again. Her breath hitched every time he stepped in to her, a warm scrape in the back of her throat, and she wished desperately that she could stop it, but she couldn’t. He must be hearing it, every time.
When they neared a wall, she almost blundered backward into it, not expecting it, barely aware of things like walls, for God’s sake. He palmed her hip, the hollow of his hand pressing down against her hipbone, and turned her easily, swinging her against him.
Mae’s death grip on his shirt went loose, fingers curling up of what seemed to be their own volition to touch his neck, and that was a mistake. Nick started slightly, his cut-short hair prickling under her fingertips, and then she completely lost her mind, because she suddenly had both hands in his hair and was pulling his head down to catch the part of his lips, his tiny indrawn breath.
His mouth brushed hers for an instant, and then strong hands grabbed her shoulders and pushed her back at arm’s length, hard.
“No,” said Nick.
Just that, short and brutal. He let her go and walked back to the window.
Mae’s first impulse was to die of shame, but she realized after a hot, stomach-clenching moment that this was probably impractical.
“Right, sorry,” she said, forcing her voice to sound entirely unmoved. She’d just been carried away by the music. It was no big thing. “I get it.”
She paused and knew for a sinking moment that Nick wasn’t going to respond, and she could think of absolutely nothing to say, and the best she could hope for was that he would just leave in total silence so she could work on her dying-of-shame plan. Then Jamie, her beautiful, beautiful, timely brother, opened the door and looked rather surprised.
“Nick!” he said, smiling. “What are you doing here?”
“Looking for you,” Mae lied promptly. “Where have you been?”
“Oh, I think we know where he’s been,” Nick said in a dark voice from the window.
Mae hadn’t even thought about where he’d been until that moment, when she looked into his sunny, open face and saw magicians written on it, as if Gerald had already set his mark there.
“I suppose you wouldn’t believe I was signing us both up for Yogilates.”
Nick’s silence was answer enough.
“Would you like me to read you a couple of chapters?” Jamie offered, brightening further at the thought of homework rather than knives. “We can’t practice self-defense now—what a shame! Because it’s too dark.”
“Knife work at night is something you’re going to have to learn,” said Nick. “You have to train your eye to catch the glint of metal in the dark.”
There was a horrified pause.
“Seriously,” Jamie said. “I think Yogilates is my calling.”
Nick laughed and moved toward Jamie in a few quick strides. His glance over his shoulder at Mae said he was leaving this situation and they would never speak of it again.
“Okay, you can read one chapter. And you can stop talking about Yogilates.”
“Oh, but”—Jamie’s eyes flickered to Mae—“I could come down here with the book,” he suggested. “I could do a dramatic reading!”
“I’m good for dramatic reading just now,” Mae told him, and waggled her fingers in clear dismissal. Nick shepherded Jamie out of the door.
Mae went over to her armchair and tried very hard not to relive the last few minutes of the dance.
She clutched her hair in her hands, remembered grasping Nick’s soft hair in handfuls, and let go, nails biting into her palms instead.
She didn’t know what was wrong with her. She’d made passes and been shut down before. That happened when you had a tendency to take a chance rather than wait for guys to make their move. It didn’t matter, not at all.
It had just been a stupid thing to do. That was what had her tied in knots. She wasn’t usually stupid.
Nick had already made it very clear he wasn’t interested.
So she’d leap at Seb next time she felt leaping urges, Mae told herself firmly, and went downstairs to make herself some coffee. She had gone through half a pot and had Dorothy Parker’s Here Lies propped up on the table in front of her when she heard Annabel’s heels going off like gunshots in the hall.
“Hello,” her mother said, going for the fridge. Mae waved her coffee cup in greeting and watched as Annabel drew out a packet of lettuce leaves that had turned brown and dispirited. “Oh dear,” she said. “Thai food all right by you?”
“I’ll be honest: I wasn’t going to eat salad either way.”
Annabel nodded with just a hint of pain. She and Mae had gone back and forth on this a thousand times, and Mae had made
it extremely clear that she cared more about eating cheese sandwiches today than being skinny when she was forty. “Is James home? I’ll ask him what he wants.”
“Yeah. Um, he has a friend from school with him. They’re studying.”
Mae realized what an enormous tactical error that had been when she saw her mother’s face light up.
“A friend?” she asked. “Jamie?”
“Yeah,” said Mae, getting up very quickly and almost spilling her coffee in the process. “Look, maybe you shouldn’t—”
“A girl or a boy?” Annabel asked, and went for the stairs.
She was much too fast for a woman in six-inch heels, Mae thought, and dashed after her.
“A boy,” she called after Annabel’s swiftly ascending back, stricken with horror at the very idea of her mother opening Jamie’s bedroom door expecting a studious young lady, possibly in a blouse and spectacles, and finding Nick Ryves.
“He must stay for dinner,” Annabel said with determination, doing a wickedly fast turn on the landing and heading for the second set of stairs. “I’m so glad that James is getting on better at school. I couldn’t think what to do. He said he didn’t want to move schools.”
“I didn’t know you wanted him to change schools!” Mae shouted after her. Annabel was outside Jamie’s door now, and Mae wasn’t going to reach her in time. Disaster was inevitable. “How do you move so fast?”
“All my shoes are designer,” Annabel informed her. “Quality always tells,” she added as she opened the door.
“‘There are few people whom I really love, and still fewer of whom I think well,’” Jamie read out, doing what Mae thought was supposed to be an upper-class Victorian lady’s voice. He sounded as if someone was choking him to death with bonnet ribbons.
He was sitting on the window seat, feet up on a chair.
Nick was sitting on Jamie’s bed. Only the lamp in Jamie’s room was on, a yellow pool of light stopping short at Nick’s feet, throwing tiny yellow shards of light into the dark hollows of his eyes. He was turning his magic knife over and over in his hands, the rough carvings glinting in the light.
“Mavis and I were wondering if your friend wanted to stay for dinner,” Annabel said in a voice that lacked all conviction, but also belonged to a woman so dismayed she had no idea what else to offer.
Nick lifted an eyebrow. “Mavis?”
“Shut up,” Mae told him.
“All right,” said Nick. “Mavis.”
Annabel was going to do damage to her manicure, hanging on to the doorknob like that. Jamie got up from the window seat and went and stood between Nick and Annabel, hovering a little uncertainly but with clear protective intent.
“Sure, Mum,” he said. “Everyone likes food. Um, so where’s the menu?”
Annabel kept sneaking peeks at Nick over Jamie’s shoulder, as if to verify the full horror of the situation. Nick did not look especially surprised that someone’s mother was clearly appalled by him.
“Yes,” Annabel said, her voice distant because she was obviously trying to place herself in an alternate universe, one where her son did not entertain knife-wielding delinquents in his bedroom. “I’ll go find it. The menu. So we can choose what to eat.”
She turned away and, very carefully, closed the door behind her. Then she began to descend the stairs. Despite the high-quality designer shoes, she was tottering a little.
“You two must get these tastes from your father,” she said as Mae drew level with her. “I was never in the least drawn to the dangerous type. Even in college!”
“Dad dated dangerous guys in college?” Mae asked. “I had no idea.”
“You know what I meant!”
“Also,” said Mae, “I think you have a firm grip on the wrong end of the stick. Nick and Jamie are just friends.”
“Oh, please,” said Annabel. “Boys like this Nick aren’t just friends with anyone.”
They reached the bottom of the stairs, and Annabel went to the hall table, sliding out the drawer where they kept the menus.
“I think the Thai menu’s stuck up on the fridge,” Mae said. “And Nick’s my friend too.”
Her mother gave her a shocked look and went to the fridge, sliding the Thai menu out from under the ladybird-shaped magnets that Jamie had bought once in an attempt to make their kitchen look more cheerful.
Nick and Jamie came downstairs while she was looking at the noodles list.
“So I’m leaving,” Nick announced.
“No, you should stay. Mum, tell him,” said Jamie, and Annabel made a noncommittal gesture that could have meant anything between Certainly and Get off my property before I call the police.
“You guys don’t have any food in the house, you’re ordering in, it’s a pain to have to order for me, too,” Nick said. “I’m leaving.” He paused and added slowly, as if remembering something Alan had taught him long ago, “Thanks for having me.”
“You’re quite welcome,” Annabel said automatically.
“We’ve got plenty of food in the house,” said Mae. “It’s just none of us can cook and our housekeeper leaves early Mondays and Tuesdays. We order takeout half of the days in the week. You wouldn’t be a pain. Stay.”
“Oh,” Jamie offered in a bright voice. “I could cook some—”
“No!” Mae, Annabel, and Nick all exclaimed as one.
Annabel gave Nick a slightly startled look. He was too busy giving Jamie a forbidding look to notice.
“Look, I am getting better,” Jamie argued.
“I saw you put rice in a toaster once,” said Mae. “I was there when you made that tin of beans explode.”
“It was faulty,” Jamie protested, his eyes shifty. “I am sure of this.”
Nick took a short breath, as if coming to a decision, and took the three steps down to their kitchen in one bound. Annabel craned her neck in order to look up at him in alarm, and Nick looked back down at her, eyes narrowing into dark slits. He reached out, hands strong on the wasp waist of her business skirt, and pushed her onto a stool as if she was a child.
“Are you people helpless?” he asked. “Sit down. I’ll make you something to eat.”
Jamie came over and sat at the kitchen counter on a stool beside hers.
“Nick cooks quite well, Mum,” he assured her.
Nick started to look in the fridge and take out things like peppers and onions, and Mae drifted over to the kitchen counter so they were all sitting in a row observing Nick perform the mysterious ritual of preparing food.
“I cook better than you,” Nick corrected absently. “I think monkeys can probably be taught to cook better than you.”
“I’d like to have a monkey that cooked for me,” said Jamie. “I would pay him in bananas. His name would be Alphonse.”
“I agree, that would be awesome,” Mae said. “People would come for dinner just to see the monkey chef.”
“You’re raving,” Nick said, defrosting chicken in the microwave. Mae was a bit impressed with how he seemed to look at the appliance and instantly comprehend its mysteries, when she’d been heating up ready-made meals for years by a method of pressing random buttons and hoping. “I know that’s the only way Jamie communicates with people, but I expected better of you, Mavis.”
“We’re cutting out the whole Mavis thing right now, Nick,” Mae said warningly.
“How many bananas would be good payment for a monkey?” Jamie wanted to know. “I would want to pay Alphonse a fair wage.”
Jamie kept talking, the way he did, and Mae batted back ideas about the monkey chef. Nick threw in an occasional withering remark that did not wither Jamie in the slightest. Annabel propped her chin in her hand and watched Nick, looking suddenly thoughtful, and then surprised everyone by saying that if they were studying, Nick was welcome to stay the night.
Things got awkward again when they were sitting down to dinner. Nick’s face was impassive, of course, but his shoulders were set a little combatively. He was obviously used to eatin
g in a kitchen at a slightly shaky table, and not in a dining room with low lights gleaming on a mahogany table so polished it looked like their plates were suspended on the surface of a dark lake.
Mae should not have grabbed some plates when Annabel said they had a guest and were going to eat in the dining room, but she’d thought it seemed like a good sign.
Now here they were, and Nick might as well have been wearing a T-shirt that said NOT SUITED TO POLITE COMPANY. It wasn’t a huge surprise that he was no good at making conversation.
“So you’re in class with James,” Annabel remarked, bright and brittle as cut glass. “Are there any particular classes that are your favorites? I know James enjoys science.”
“No,” said Nick.
“In science you are allowed to blow things up,” Jamie said wistfully. “Sometimes.”
He seemed a little squashed by how badly things were going. Mae wished she could think of some way to make things go better, but really she knew the best-case scenario was just to get through this. There was not a single thing that Nick and Annabel could possibly have in common.
“And what are your interests and hobbies, Nicholas?” Annabel asked faintly, sounding like a cross between a television interviewer and a hostage.
Nick considered this for a minute, and then said, “I like swords.”
Annabel leaned over her plate and asked, her voice changing, “You fence?”
“Not exactly,” Nick drawled. “I’m more freestyle.”
“I used to take fencing classes in school,” Annabel told him, eyes bright. “I won some trophies. I wasn’t bad, if I do say so myself. I was in a fencing club for my first couple of years in college, but Roger was a tennis fanatic, and I couldn’t keep up both sports. I’ve always rather regretted it.”
“I knew a fencing master once,” Nick told her. “He did proper tournaments and things. My dad used to bring me to see him at the—every month for a while, when I was a kid.”
“I thought everything in the trophy case was for tennis,” Mae said, startled.
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