by Shona Husk
In her mind she saw him drying off and the heat in her blood rose. She was tempted to go up, but hesitated. She didn’t want to intrude and she didn’t want to be turned down twice. She knew when she was shattered all she wanted to do was lie down and be left alone. So she left him alone, hoping that when he woke up he was more like himself.
For the next couple of hours she made a list of all the diaries including the dates they spanned and then photographed them the way Caspian had done. This way there was record of them, just in case someone thought to destroy them and act like they never existed. There’d been no mention of the memorial in today’s paper, but she was expecting something and she was expecting the reporter to mention the diaries. She’d have to ask Caspian who he’d spoken to about them. But that would have to wait until morning, along with the rest of her questions.
As she thumbed the old pages she wished there was a way she could make a copy of them, but she didn’t have the time to photograph every page. There was just too much. Carefully she packed them back into the trunk and locked it. For the moment she’d done all she could.
With a sigh she walked around and turned off the lights, double-checking that the doors were locked as she went. She hadn’t planned to stay here tonight, but she wasn’t leaving him alone, and she didn’t want to wake him to take him home. It was better they were both here. While she wanted to slide into bed next to Caspian, it would be smarter to sleep in the bed she’d used growing up. But she didn’t think she could sleep in the same house in a separate room.
She used the little lie of checking on him. The bedroom door was open as if he was leaving an invitation… or he’d been so out of it he hadn’t thought to close it. Light from the corridor cut across the bed. He was on his back, his chest rising and falling with each breath. The mirror pendant was still around his neck, but she couldn’t see his face as it was in the shadow cast by the door.
“Join me.” His voice was soft like he was half-asleep.
She should leave him to rest, but she wanted him and her feet moved as if she couldn’t resist the request. Desire still ran through her body, aching and unsatisfied. She pulled her hair free of the grips so it tumbled down her back, still a little damp from washing it that morning. Then she took off her clothes, carefully placing the iron nail on the bedside table, and then slid into bed next to him, glad to feel his skin against her again and know he was safe. Even as she lay there she tried to clamp down on her rising desire. But her body was aware of every move and every breath he took. She was on edge from before. He turned toward her and drew her close, her back against his chest, the hair on his thighs tickling the back of her legs. She let out a shaky breath. Her thoughts were on everything but sleep.
Behind her his skin was cool against hers, even though he’d been in bed. His arm was looped over her waist, his fingers trailing along her stomach. When he placed his lips on the back of her neck she shivered. Then his hand slid higher and traced the curve of the underside of her breast. The simple touch made her stomach tighten. His thumb brushed the swell but never came close to her nipple, which was already peaked and aching to be touched. Yet his touch couldn’t be called seductive; it was more intimate than going straight for the erogenous zones where nerve endings made it easy to arouse someone.
He kissed another vertebra in her neck, pausing long enough to taste her skin with a flick of his tongue. Against her butt, part of him warmed up and hardened against her skin. She swallowed and tried not to wiggle her hips closer in invitation. He pressed his palm flat to her belly, the tips of his fingers barely brushing her curls. She wanted his hand to move lower. It did, but he smoothed down her hip to her thigh, his hand never slipping between her legs. Lydia pressed her teeth together to stifle the frustration at having him touch her everywhere but where she needed to feel his hands.
Behind her he moved, placing a kiss on the side of her neck, his teeth raking gently over her skin. His breath raised gooseflesh as he worked his way to her shoulder blade. She moved, separating her legs a little. But still he made no effort to realign his shaft between her thighs, and his fingers stayed away from the wetness slicking her sex. She’d been waiting hours for this and now he was drawing it out.
He cupped her breast, teasing as if he enjoyed driving her to distraction and knew she was enjoying it. Her belly was a tight knot of nerves waiting to unravel. One touch. She bit her lip, not wanting to make a sound in case it broke the moment somehow.
She reached her hand behind her, felt the curve of his waist and the bone of his hip before letting her finger dip lower, seeking him out. He caught her hand before she reached his hardened flesh and laid it across her belly, trapped beneath his. This time she didn’t care; she pressed her hips against him and rocked. She thought she felt him pause mid-kiss to smile, then he rolled her onto her stomach. The length of his body was along hers for one glorious moment before he pulled away.
The tearing of foil made her lift her head, but he was just out of view, kneeling between her legs. His thumbs brushed the crease of her butt as his hands slid over her hips. She lifted up, wanting to feel his fingers between her thighs and delving into her core. He leaned over her and she held her breath. But all he did was run his tongue between her shoulder blades.
In response she arched her back, curving her butt into the air. He was there, the heat and hardness against her for a moment.
“Caspian.” Was that her voice? All breathy and strung out when he hadn’t done anything to her yet?
“Mmm.” His hands swept along the sides of her breasts.
“Please.”
She gasped as his hand moved under her hip; his fingers were so close that another inch and they’d be on her clit. Her teeth ground together, but she couldn’t get him to give her the touch she wanted.
He moved and then he was between her legs. The length of him stroking her slick folds, but never sliding in. His hand on her hip keeping her still. She couldn’t take it. Her hand moved to try and find her own release. Again he stopped her, catching her and pressing it to the mattress beneath his.
“Trust me.”
“Love me.” She ground out the words.
“I do.” It was barely a whisper, and the words were almost lost as he thrust into her with one smooth stroke.
Then he remained motionless inside her. That was just as maddening. She whimpered and tried to bow her body to entice more from him. His hand released her hip, his finger lightly brushing the curls at the apex of her thighs. Teasing, never quite touching, but getting closer. She stopped moving and waited. Her breath coming in small pants as expectation consumed her.
His finger circled her clit and the drought was broken. The wave rolled down her spine before crashing into her belly. She clenched around him, unable to do anything but give in to the pleasure washing through her body. He groaned and began to thrust slowly. With every nerve ending awakened she felt every inch. He leaned over her, his strokes becoming less controlled. She tumbled over the edge again, dragging him with her.
Caspian rested over her. She couldn’t move even if she wanted to. Her heart was still bouncing around, unable to settle. He placed a kiss on the back of her neck, much like the one that had started this, and pulled away.
She moaned at the loss. She hadn’t been ready for it to be over, but he came back to bed and eased in next to her. She turned into his arms and kissed his lips. He returned the kiss, but his eyes were already closed. Within minutes he was asleep. For a few moments she watched him. His dark lashes against fair skin. Whatever worries he had left him while he slept.
Caspian. It was such an old name. No one called their kids Caspian. And yet it suited him. She’d have to ask him in the morning where the name came from. Maybe it was a family name. But which family?
* * *
It was daylight when Caspian woke. This time there was none of the disorientation of being lost in the impressions left by other people. He knew where he was, and where he wanted to be, and he could al
most forget that he hadn’t been forced to relinquish his soul. He closed his eyes again. The sliver of mirror rested against his skin. That something so small and delicate could hold so much power over him… he huffed out a breath.
Best he get moving and stop wasting time.
His jeans and shirt were on the end of the bed along with a note.
Gone to work. Help yourself to food. I’ll call you later. XX Lydia.
He touched the piece of paper and a shimmer of concern ran through his fingertips. Her worry about him. She’d been here wondering what was going on while he’d struggled to hold on to her. Last night he couldn’t help himself. He’d needed her—even though the iron in her bra had been disconcerting. He still needed her. She had the Window. He couldn’t let himself think of anything but finding it, and it had to be here somewhere.
He dressed—thoroughly sick of these clothes, made himself coffee, and took a slow walk through every room. The Counter-Window hanging around his neck revealed nothing, only blackness, so he opened drawers and cupboards, feeling like a thief. His coffee grew cold.
“Damn it. Where is it?” He shut the drawer in old oak dresser too hard. He was having to rein in his magic because every time he used it, it would take a little from him, slowly killing him like any banished fairy.
“Damn the lot of you.” A futile curse given they couldn’t hear him and even if they could he doubted very much they’d care. He scrubbed his hand over his face. He needed to shave and get clean clothes. His cell phone was dead and needed charging.
Three days in Annwyn had cost him everything. If he didn’t find the Window and return it to his father he was going to have to walk away from Lydia. He didn’t want her watching him waste away by a disease human doctors couldn’t identify or fix.
What was he missing?
He closed his eyes, thinking about what he’d seen; one glimpse of Lydia in the Counter-Window. It had to be somewhere for her to use it. Around him the house seemed hollow for the first time as if all of its past had fled at his intrusion. The ghost was gone. The Window had been here all along. The Grey that lived here hadn’t been aware of what it was attracted to because of the magic of the Window. But if the Grey was gone, so was the mirror.
Lydia had taken it.
Which meant it was either at her place or at her work. How was he going to find it without arousing suspicion? Then he caught himself. Was he really thinking of stealing from her? He had to. The Window for his soul.
No. He shook his head. There was another way. He wouldn’t raid her house and take what he needed. He had to tell her his father had his soul and that she had the Window. And if she refused to save him? He wanted to believe that she wouldn’t, that they had something special… but he’d been wrong before. Been burned.
It was better to go out honestly than like a thief. However, even as he thought that, part of him disagreed. Stealing and living was better than dying honorably.
The loss of his soul had changed the way he felt inside; he couldn’t tell something was missing until he did something that didn’t seem quite right. Even last night, there’d been more fairy in his touch than he’d have liked. Sweeping her into his spell like any fairy after a human conquest. And he’d been unable to stop because he’d wanted her so badly; he’d needed her to make him feel alive. It had, he’d never felt closer to anyone, as if her thoughts were pressing into him. He’d meant what he said, he’d fallen for her, but it had taken him too long to remember how to love again after being wounded. Now it was too late, and the moment they’d shared reminded him how un-alive he really was.
Caspian looked at his hands. He couldn’t do that again. Glamouring someone into bed drained power and since he now had a finite amount he had to be careful. Very careful. Again he stopped himself. Glamouring someone into bed was wrong because it interfered with free will, not because it would drain power from him. He tried to recall every touch, and while he’d commanded her to bed, she’d been a willing participant with what followed. Did that make it okay?
“Fuck.” He dragged his hands through his hair. He was becoming more fairy by the second, willing to split hairs so fine most humans couldn’t even see them.
He called a cab on Lydia’s landline, and while he waited he put on his shoes and socks, and gathered his useless cell phone and wallet. He was collecting his car, getting changed, finalizing the valuation so Lydia wouldn’t be left in the lurch again, and then finding a way to get the Window off Lydia without stealing or lying or glamouring or doing anything vaguely immoral and fairy.
Given that he was no longer human he didn’t like his chances.
* * *
Lydia skimmed through the day’s newspapers, and then yesterday’s, catching up on the news and making sure there was nothing in the papers that she needed to action. But she was thinking of Caspian. He’d been different somehow. Exhausted. He’d barely spoken to her. And yet when he’d hugged her it had been like he hadn’t wanted to let go.
He loved her.
He hadn’t exactly said it as much as admit it and that was worth more. An unguarded moment had revealed the truth. And she hadn’t responded. She hadn’t known what to say. She still didn’t know what to say. She’d been so worried and scared while he was gone, and now that he was back she just wanted to be with him and find out what had happened.
She did love him. Not the kind of love where the words are spoken to be kind and return the favor; she’d done that before. But the kind that made her unable to say the words because she was scared if she did it would all fall apart.
Should she call and check on him?
No. He’d been dead to the world when she’d left this morning. She’d considered waking him to show him the mirror, but had decided that a few more hours wouldn’t hurt. Besides, if he had to face Shea again it was probably better to do it well-rested.
Her gaze glided over the story about a new drug-resistant strain of malaria that was killing fast. Some were calling it a bioweapon test, others that it was the beginning of the end and listed a whole bunch of other diseases that were springing up. Others dismissed the notion and blamed the new outbreaks on climate change. She shook her head and moved on. There were always people preaching about the end of the world.
Deeper into the paper there was a small heading about the memorial service, nothing salacious just that there’d been a good turnout to farewell Nannette Callaway. Of course the reporter had mentioned the House’s past, but it had been balanced by the mention of family and community. She smiled; that was probably as good as it was going to get. But then this was the respectable paper. It was reading the other one she dreaded.
Her cell rang, she checked the number, then let it go through to voice mail. The reporter had already rung once this morning wanting to know if she’d changed her mind about selling the diaries.
Changed her mind?
She’d hardly had time to think. She was still waiting for the repair quotes to be finalized and she hadn’t had a chance to mention the offer to Caspian. She hadn’t had a chance to talk to him about anything. They’d barely spoken, even though they’d needed each other so badly.
She hadn’t spoken to the lawyer yet either. She added that to her to-do list. Was she even allowed to start repairing the house before the will was finalized? Probably not; she was in limbo.
Damn it. She needed that valuation turned in. She hated waiting. She forced herself to take a breath. Once the valuation was in it would settle. Helen wasn’t going to contest—unless her name was mentioned. How was she going to keep the media from scrounging that up?
Her stomach gave a quiver as she picked up the other newspaper. It wasn’t front page, but then she hadn’t expected that. But it was page three. A photo of Gran in her heyday coupled with a headline about secret diaries. Her stomach contracted and for a moment she thought she might be ill.
If that didn’t stir up a shit storm, nothing would.
She wasn’t afraid of what was in the diaries, but
as long as she kept them hidden other people would be. Her mother would be. She could see a fast settlement evaporating. As if on cue her cell phone rang. Blocked number. For a moment she considered leaving it, then answered. She couldn’t ignore every call she received.
“Hello?”
“The Callaways will burn for what they’ve done,” a male voice snarled down the line.
Lydia froze and said the first thing that came to mind. “Pardon?”
“You’ll be left with nothing but ashes if you go public with those diaries.” Then the line went dead.
It was a moment before she lowered the phone from her ear. She put down her cell and took a sip of water. Her hand shook as she placed the glass down. The media outlets chasing a story was to be expected, that kind of venom wasn’t. Her heart continued to skip and race.
He must think there were names or mentions of backroom deals in the diaries. There wasn’t; going public would be the best way to prove that, right?
Her phone rang again. The reporter this time, the one who’d mentioned the damn diaries in the first place. She was beginning to wish she’d never found them. She hit ignore and let the reporter talk to her voice mail.
She wouldn’t sell the diaries to that paper on principle.
Would Caspian sell the diaries to fund the repairs? Was that the smart thing to do? She was sure it was, but it didn’t feel right. The other option was to give them to the historical society and let them take care of them. She worried her lip. Gran had left no instructions and no clue that they even existed in her will.
She pressed her teeth together and forced out a breath. She’d never needed anyone to help her make a decision before, and she wasn’t going to start now. She’d work it out on her own, the same as always. She didn’t need Caspian… no, it was much worse. He was under her skin and lodged in her heart.