by T. L. Martin
On one half of my body, anyway. I’m lying on the left side of my bed, flat on my stomach. My right arm, hip, and leg are directly touching the source of the heat. The opposite side of me has been left in the cold, prickly needles racing down my arm and leg. Ugh, it isn’t enough.
I need more. Yes, if I can just get a little more.
Keeping my eyes closed, I lift my right arm, wrapping it around the solid warmth and scooting myself closer.
Closer.
And closer. Until I’m more than halfway on top of it.
Finally. My stomach, chest, and hip make full contact as I drape my right thigh across it, capturing the penetrating warmth. The solid form shifts beneath me. A breath exhales, low and ragged, but it feels distant, hazy, and I think I might be imagining it.
It’s so solid, so hard. I nestle my head into it, relaxing every part of me. Mmm, this time the sound pours out of me as a moan. It’s like my body is sighing, finally tasting the relief it needed. Eyes still closed, my right hand starts to roam, idly teasing the warmth. Ah, so good. The tips of my fingers touch upon a thin layer of cloth. A barrier. I inwardly growl.
No, I need to be closer.
The heat, give me more.
I’m rough when I tug at the fabric, ruthlessly breaking the barrier away as I slide my hand beneath it, not stopping until my palm lies flat against the source.
Much better.
Hard lines ripple beneath my touch, flooding me with a deep warmth that settles into my stomach. What is that? I press my body closer, practically rubbing against it until I feel the solid mass beneath me stiffen.
For a second I almost freeze up at the strange movement, then resume blindly feeling around. Searching for clues. It’s smooth, hard, everywhere, slightly dipping and curving in spots like a sculpture. And then, is that . . . a line of hair? Um . . . My fingers wander lower, taking in a hard, V-like curve as they do.
Then lower—
A sharp intake of breath sounds from above my head, and large fingers clasp over my own. My hand is yanked out from beneath the fabric, then dropped like my skin could burn.
Oh, crap.
This time, I really do freeze. Every part of my body tightens, from my arms to my stomach to my thighs . . . the same thighs that are wrapped around his. This isn’t good. The tightening of my muscles has me clenching his and, well, our thighs aren’t the only body parts touching. We’re almost perfectly aligned. Too aligned. The shiver that sears through me now no longer has anything to do with my illness.
My arm is wrapped stiffly around his chest, rising and falling with the heavy pattern of his breathing. Oh my god, I don’t even want to know what’s going through his mind right now. He must have lain beside me to provide warmth, an innocent act of kindness, and here I am mauling him, sensations far from innocent pooling between my thighs.
Crap, crap, crap.
I need to move, right? I don’t know what to do. If I scurry away from him now, it’ll be obvious that I’ve woken. That I figured out what I’m doing, which will just make things way too uncomfortable between us from here on out. But if I remain in place, his warm breaths teasing my hair, the curves of my breasts pressed up against his hard chest, my open thighs gripping him in a way that sends delicious sparks of fire right there . . .
Yeah. I know what I need to do.
Without opening my eyes, I murmur a groggy groan, hoping it sounds like I’m just starting to stir, then lazily roll off him so I fall onto my back. Calm, steady breaths, Lou. Just like any ordinary sleeping person would do.
With our bodies still so close, I hear the distinct sound of him swallow. Feel the movement of his arm lifting, the sound of him running a hand through his hair as he lets out a long, uneven breath.
He doesn’t move from beside me, though, and I can’t decide if I want him to. Having him this close to me now, when I know what he feels like, the way my curves fit against his muscles . . . it’s torture in the most unexpected way. But my chills are already coming back, cold bursts of air tingling across my skin, and I don’t want to lose the single source of warmth I have.
I don’t know how long we lie like this, two electrical wavelengths attempting to keep the sparks of our currents from ever touching. Twice, I feel the bed shift beside me, hear it creak as though he’s about to distance himself. And twice, he curses under his breath and lies back down. I try to quiet the sounds of my shivers, try to will the chills away so he won’t feel obligated to stay. But my body won’t listen.
Eventually, who knows how long after, my heart regains a steady pace. My pulse quiets, muscles relax. The enticing lull of sleep pulls me into its soothing rhythm.
And the last lucid thought in my mind is that he, the unfeeling wall that is Death, stayed. He stayed beside me. Offered his warmth to soothe me, when he thought I wouldn’t know. Maybe he’s not the icy, stone-like being those haunting, steel eyes would have me believe after all. No. Maybe he’s the evergreen buried beneath them.
Chapter 21
Mr. Blackwood has been absent for most of the day. I was surprised when he asked to see me after only an hour since my arrival this morning. He never asks for me. Never speaks at all, in fact, unless prompted. He grumbled something about having someplace to be and said I’d be on my own for the rest of the day, and that was that. He was out the door before I’d even formed a response.
It’s not until my last hour, when all that’s left to do is a final round of dusting, that I find myself eying the crinkled pieces of paper cluttering the coffee table and bookshelves. After all the time spent inside his house, avoiding any physical contact with the wadded-up pages, my fingers itch to pry them open. This is the first day he’s left me alone, and I know better than to break his trust, but the curiosity is practically burning. Begging me to take advantage of the moment.
What could possibly make him so adamant about keeping me from looking at those papers? They aren’t even organized or well-cared-for. In fact, from the wrinkles etched into most of them, they appear almost neglected. That, or overused. I suppose if he were constantly adding more notes to the pages then wadding them up again, that could cause them to wrinkle like this.
Shaking my head, I shrug the urge away. Don’t be that person, Lou. Let the man have his privacy.
Finally, the dusting is complete. I restore the remaining cleaning supplies to the living room closet and am just about to lock up, when I remember I left my jacket upstairs. I’m extra achy as I climb up the steps, pacing myself to avoid another wave of nausea. It’s been two days since The Fever—yes, I thought it memorable enough to give it a title—has come and gone, but I’m still waiting for my body to snap back to normalcy.
Once in the guest room, I grab the jacket, looking around the space as I tuck each arm through the sleeves. I can’t help but wonder why he even has a guest bedroom if he never gets any visitors. It’s obvious the room hasn’t been used in ages, if ever, and the decor isn’t exactly set up to receive guests, either. I mean, there’s a spare bed and a nightstand, sure, but that’s it. The closet is barren, there are no accent pieces on the walls or surfaces, no blinds on the window. There’s not even a pillow on the bed, just a single, thin, grey blanket.
Strange.
A soft thump sounds as what looks like the spare key he’d lent me this morning slips from the jacket’s pocket, tumbling beneath the bed. I groan as I lower myself onto my knees, the soreness from today’s work already catching up to me. Where is it? I straighten out my legs and wiggle my way under the bed like a snake when the back of my head thumps against the metallic frame above me. A surge of pain shoots through my scalp, and small pieces of paper suddenly fall from over my head like rain sprinkling from the sky, before settling soundlessly onto the carpet.
“Shit. Shit, shit, shit.”
I barely manage to wrap my fingers around the key before I scoot out and pull myself up into a sitting position. I rub a hand over the tender spot beneath my hair, flicking my gaze back toward the bed, wher
e randomly sized paper cutouts are now scattered over the carpet. There aren’t many of them, maybe five or six, but just the fact that there are any at all is odd. Where did they come from?
I duck my head back beneath the bed and scan the frame, until my eyes land on a manila folder that’s been tucked into the springs, nestled against the mattress. Seriously, this man and his papers. Letting out a sigh, I begin to gather up the pages, intending on putting them back. When a scribbled word that reads dead catches my eye, I freeze. Lift the small, square-shaped paper. Narrow my eyes. It’s a single sentence, all capital letters.
I AM NOT DEAD
My hand releases the sheet like it’s made of poison. What. The. Hell. Slowly, I reach for it again, thinking maybe I read it wrong.
Nope.
The words are clear. Sloppy, but legible.
Cautiously, I pick up another one.
I CAN’T HOLD ON
Fingers now trembling, I reach for the next.
SAVE ME
The sharp sound of a car door slamming startles me and sends the pages drifting back to the floor. Jesus. He’s back. I race to collect each sheet, then reach under the bed and stuff them back into the folder as quickly as possible. I’m already at the bottom of the stairwell when the front door opens. Thank god he doesn’t even look at me, just barges inside and heads straight for the kitchen. To his beloved whiskey stash, no doubt.
Dropping the loaned key onto the coffee table as I scurry by, I exit the house without a word.
I hardly notice the cold, evening air that washes over me as I walk. The handwritten words are stapled to the forefront of my mind, forcing me to see them with each second that passes.
I AM NOT DEAD.
I CAN’T HOLD ON.
SAVE ME.
A shiver races down my spine.
Why would Mr. Blackwood be hiding notes like that? Why would anyone, for that matter?
I wonder for a second if he could have written them himself, but the missing logic in that assumption tells me it’s more likely I’m just hoping that’s the case—at least it would nix the chances of another party being involved, and I’d be able to figure out if I could help Mr. Blackwood. After a moment, it crosses my mind that the notes might not even be recent. In fact, with the worn edges, they might be fairly old. Something to do with his past? His secretive lifestyle, perhaps?
I really, really don’t want to believe that Mr. Blackwood could be capable of endangering someone’s life, but after seeing messages like that, and hidden away, no less . . . I’d have to be an idiot not to consider it.
A mixture of worry and plain curiosity grates at me with each step. I don’t want to get involved. It’s none of my business, and I’m not exactly the most stable person myself. But I can’t quit the nagging in the back of my mind that begs the question, What if someone’s in trouble?
Chapter 22
By the time I reach the inn, my bones scream for relief and my stomach demands food. After running a load of laundry through the wash, a good burger and a hot bath helped me settle somewhat. I’m still physically drained, but at least the dizzy spells have backed off. With my hair damp, dressed in a pair of leggings and a T-shirt, the second I exit the bathroom is the same moment a crash sounds from across the room. I look just in time to see him colliding full-on with my poor nightstand, sending the alarm clock flying to the ground. I say poor in reference to the piece of furniture and not the man who crashed into it, because it’s obvious who took the beating here.
“Way to make an entrance,” I murmur as I make my way to the closet. I haven’t forgotten who he is, or the awkward situation I put him in while I was sick the other night, but sarcasm is a great go-to when you want to avoid real confrontation.
“Still working on it.” The purr of his low voice is already gliding under my skin. I turn my head over my shoulder, taking him in.
Something’s different about him tonight. He doesn’t quite sound like the steely, foreboding Death I’ve come to expect. In fact, he even looks a little different. It’s not his clothes, which are the same fitted T-shirt and worn jeans as always. It’s not his hair, which still falls messily over his forehead. It’s not in any one thing I can place, actually, but rather it’s in a series of the tiniest things. His jaw isn’t quite as hard as usual, and his lips are almost relaxed, rather than pulled into a tight line. But it’s his eyes that are the center of my attention. Rich green swirls behind the black-grey; such a vivid and enchanting contrast, and I’m just as mesmerized by it as ever.
“The entrance,” he elaborates, taking my silence for confusion. “I don’t get much of a warning when it happens.”
“That makes two of us.” I tear my eyes away from the green to turn back to the closet. Glad for an excuse to stay occupied, I robotically go through the motions of placing shirts on hangers and setting them on the rail.
“Right,” he mutters after a moment. My ears follow the sound of movement behind me until he comes into my peripheral as he settles in by the window, leaning half of his body against the wall. I watch him out of the corner of my eye. He takes a long, deep breath, gazing outward in silence. It’s like we’re both trying to pretend we accept this strange situation, being so out of control with our own lives.
He may not be up for chitchat, but I don’t want to drown in silence this time. Grams always said that you learn the most about a person by looking in between the lines. Maybe if I can just get him talking . . .
“So what do you think so far?” I glance up at him, keeping my hands busy with the laundry.
“Of what?”
I clear my throat, ignoring the way his hypnotic voice pulls at me. “My world.”
“It’s . . .” His head shifts toward me, tilting. “Bright.”
“Bright?” Turning away from him to sort my folded clothes into drawers, I smile slightly at that answer. “Wow, we’ve certainly made an impression.”
He’s quiet for a moment, and I have to resist the urge to turn my head and look at him. “I’ve . . . not taken the time to really look around.”
I snort, finding more amusement in this conversation than I probably should. Maybe it’s because all the weirdness in my life is finally taking its toll on me, and it turns out humor is a fantastic coping mechanism. Or maybe it’s that starting the evening on a lighter, sarcastic note makes it hard to take anything afterward too seriously. Whatever the reason, my mood is shifting with each moment of our conversation, and I’m rolling with it.
“Well, since you’re here,” I place the last pair of jeans in my bottom drawer and turn to face him, “I may as well give you some more insight.” His eyes narrow, like he’s suspicious—as he should be. “I’m weeks behind on the rituals, so I guess that’s a good place to start.”
Whirling around, I head to the nightstand. I’m totally just winging this, which is not easy when someone like him is watching your every movement, every look. His gaze burns into my back as I pull the drawer open and withdraw a small box of playing cards supplied by the inn. I stroll to the loveseat and plop down, positioning myself into the nook on the right side and crisscrossing my legs. Glancing up at him, I raise an expectant eyebrow. “I’m going to need a hand for this. Rituals cannot be done alone.”
His brows lift, and I feel a small pang of satisfaction at finally being the one to surprise him for a change. “I won’t know what to do.”
Ha, you and me both. “It’s okay.” I pat the empty space beside me. “I can show you.”
He waits a beat, and though his face betrays nothing, I’m sure he’s deliberating whether or not to agree to this.
“Who knows how long you’ll be stuck here this time, and it is my room, so . . . please?” I don’t know if it’s the please that does it or what, but he seems to concede when he gives a small nod and walks toward me.
When he lowers himself beside me, it’s an instant reminder of how drastically his large build dwarfs mine. His broad shoulders take up more than half of the petite lovese
at, and though the width of his frame tapers off where his hips narrow, the way his legs are positioned, slightly spread out, counteracts that. He takes a breath and leans back, running a hand through his dark hair, then turns his head and looks straight into my eyes.
Holy hell, suddenly we are way too close to each other. I swear I’m burning up, his fiery heat brushing over every inch of my skin.
“Where do we begin?” he asks, and I take a deep breath. The low sound is even more hypnotic when it’s coming from directly beside me.
“Okay.” I pull my shoulders back, attempting to regain some of the composure he apparently melted right off me. “These,” I hold up the playing cards, “are the key to any modern-day human ritual.”
Once I see that the cards have his attention, I open the red and white box, then carefully pour them into one hand, as though I wouldn’t fathom mistreating something so valuable. I split the deck in half, adopting a formal tone as I fake-explain my actions, shuffling the way Grams taught me years ago.
“I’ll do this part myself, since it really depends on a balanced chi to be effective. This is what we call a bridge shuffle, and it’s one of the more complex things our ancestors teach.” I don’t dare look up at him, knowing I’m about one step away from losing it. I really don’t know how far I can take this. Once my subpar shuffle is complete, I fan out the cards in my fingers and extend them toward him. “Here is where you come in. Pick a card. Any card.”
I don’t know what I expect. For him to somehow realize I’m full of it? To lose his patience and stalk off?
Instead, he stares long and hard at the cards, eyebrows furrowed and lips pressed together, as though my fate is entirely dependent on his next move. “Any card?” he repeats quietly, not breaking his focus.