by Allison Pang
“Did you get enough to . . . ah . . . eat?” I slid down beside him, enjoying the way we fit together. “Because we can do it again, if you need.”
His lips twitched, a soft flare of gold starting to circle his dark pupils. “A bit of dessert wouldn’t go over too badly,” he murmured, his hand curving around the back of my head. “But I’ll leave it entirely up to you. In theory, we haven’t actually slept together, so if you’d rather not complicate things further, I’ll understand.”
“Easy is for pussies,” I muttered, nuzzling his palm with my cheek. “And I’m not easy.”
“Never that,” he agreed softly, his arms wrapping around my waist to pull me closer. I rolled, flexing my hips until I was straddling his waist, bending over to kiss him again. “Never that, love.”
I arched a brow. “Love, is it? I must have been better than I thought.”
“Figure of speech.” His arms slid over my back to gently pull me forward so I was comfortably splayed across him. He kissed me again, but it was more of a question this time, a soft probing. “You’re tired.” He tucked the loose strands of hair behind my ear. His fingers brushed the scar and I pulled away slightly, still shy. “I forget sometimes, just how fragile mortals are. And yet, you bear our burden willingly, so there must be iron beneath the silk.”
“The only metal in me is stainless steel.” I tapped the scar ruefully. “And I hardly think that counts.”
“Whatever you say,” he said, a trace of his old arrogance seeping out, “but you sell yourself short by far.” He toppled me over to my side, curling his naked body around me. “It’s nearly three A.M. Sleep now.”
I started to protest, but my eyes were already shutting. Feeling safe for the first time in ages, I drifted off. And this time I didn’t dream at all.
I was wrapped in his scent, curled beneath a blanket of sunlight and cinnamon. Wriggling in the sheets, I sighed and opened an eye to watch him sleep.
Or I would have—if he’d been there.
A familiar smell worked its way into the room, and I frowned. Was that bacon? I pondered this anomaly for a moment and then decided that maybe I really should get up and see what was what.
“Chaste?” A soft, flutelike voice sounded gently in my ears.
What the . . .?
I barely managed to turn my head before a sharp pain pierced through the softer part of my backside. I shrieked, rolling away hard enough to tumble to the floor with a thud.
Brystion bolted in from the kitchen, frying pan in hand. He was still gloriously naked.
Clutching the sheet over my chest protectively, I waved my fingers at the bed, caught between panic and momentary glee that he was actually still here. “Something bit me!”
The incubus relaxed. “Ah, yes. Nice pet you have there.”
I tore my eyes away from his sculpted abs, confused. “What?”
“The unicorn,” he said dryly, gesturing at the bed with the frying pan. “Seems he has a thing for . . . uh . . . asses.” He held in a laugh before turning around to show me the porcelain perfection of his own. “As you can see. His name is Phineas, by the way.”
I looked at the reddish-purple bruise on Brystion’s left cheek. “I didn’t know he could talk.” I glared at the unicorn, ignoring the way he leered at me from the edge of the bed. “You little shit. You’ve seen me naked!”
Scrambling to my feet, I craned my neck to look at my own reddening welt. “That better not scar,” I warned him. He just sniffed and then leaped to the floor.
I rubbed at the spot with a grimace before turning my attention back to Brystion. So damn easy to just let my eyes linger over his body. Our eyes met for a moment and whatever else I’d been going to say flew out the window.
His gaze flared into something bold and appraising, and I realized I was still mostly naked. “See something you like?” The crooked smile that turned up the corner of one cheek made it perfectly clear that at least he’d found something worth staring at. Well, that and the erection that was standing at about half-mast. I sighed, almost in disbelief.
I had a naked incubus in my bedroom. With a frying pan of half-cooked bacon and a hard-on. And a unicorn bite on his ass. Christ, this was turning out to be a weird morning.
“You look ridiculous,” I mumbled, feeling a strange relief flood through me. Suddenly shy, I drew the sheet up around my shoulders. “I thought maybe you’d left.”
“I thought about it,” he admitted, “but your dreams indicated breakfast was a better choice. Besides, my alternatives are rather limited at the moment.”
“You sure know how to make a girl feel good.” I clutched the sheet a little tighter.
“It’s a gift.”
“Modest too, I see.” I sat up straighter, glancing at the floor to find my clothing, but it was bare. I’d forgotten we’d fallen into my bed, sans undies. I waved my hand at him imperiously. “Go on and cook me my bacon, incubus.”
“Oh, I’ll cook your bacon,” he muttered, ducking back out to the kitchen.
“We’re going to have to find you some clothes for the Hearing,” I called after him. “As much as it pains me to say it.”
A noncommittal grunt was the only reply, so I kicked the covers back and set about getting dressed. Practicality warred with curiosity for a moment. What did one wear to a Hearing? It was early in the morning, true, but who was to say Robert wouldn’t just show up and drag us away? Then again, I snorted softly, my only competition would be a naked incubus. Even a sheet would be better than that. In the end I went with a long, loose peasant skirt and a muted silk tank top. It was still late August in Portsmyth, after all, and that meant humid. Never let them see you sweat and all that shit.
I was finishing up with the last buckle of my sandals when the phone rang. I jumped, my hands trembling as I answered. “Hello?”
“Abby, it’s Mel. You doing okay?”
My eyes darted toward the kitchen. Brystion’s head popped around the doorjamb, but I waved him off. “Um, yeah. I think so. Can you do me a favor and bring some extra clothes over?”
Silence.
“Clothes? For you?”
“No.” I felt my face burning, and I scowled into the phone. “Brystion’s still here and he’s . . . ah . . . kind of naked.”
“I see.” Her voice wavered in vague amusement. “You’ve got some brass ones, that’s all I can say.”
“It’s not like that,” I snapped. “After you guys left, we ended up here, and now he has no clothes, so if you wouldn’t mind, be a dear and bring some stuff that you think might fit.”
“No need to get snippy,” she huffed. “I’ll be over as soon as I can.”
“Thanks.” I rubbed my face as we hung up, hoping to ward off the mounting tension in my head. Something soft brushed my leg and I looked down at the unicorn. “I suppose you’re hungry?”
“Yes.” His voice was a soft bleat this time, but there was something rather unrepentant about the tone.
“Why didn’t you tell me you could talk?”
“Didn’t seem like the right time.” He waggled his chin at me. “Besides, this way I could look at your ta-tas without you caring. Hubba hubba.” His lips smacked. I aimed a kick at his rear flanks, but he gracefully darted away into the kitchen.
“Nice.” I followed him with a sigh, captured for a moment by Brystion’s wondrous naked ass standing in front of the stove. He should have looked silly, and in a small way he did, but there was something horribly sexy about it too. “I didn’t think you could cook, what with the whole dream thing.”
“The mind boggles.” He rummaged through one of the kitchen drawers and found a couple of forks and some plates before ducking into the fridge. “Wow. This thing really has nothing but crap in it. No wonder you’re so damn thin.” Without waiting for a reply, he pulled out the milk, some shredded cheese, butter and . . . eggs? “You’re going to eat one of my omelets,” he continued.
“I am?”
“Unlike some people, I do
n’t let my TouchStones starve.”
Ouch. “Well, I’m sure Moira has her reasons,” I said lamely. “At least, I hope she does.” He grunted, cracking the eggs into a bowl and whipping them madly.
“That’s no excuse,” he muttered, flipping on another burner. It flared to life and he threw a second frying pan on top of it, adding some milk to the eggs as he waited for it to heat up.
“I can’t cook at all,” I said, a touch of awe creeping into my voice. “Or at least, not very much.”
“Then you’re going to learn.” The eggs burbled into the pan with a hiss. “Spatula?”
“Ah—over there, next to the microwave.” He retrieved the utensil and set about expertly rolling the eggs. Envy ate my heart. “Whoever knew an incubus could do all this?”
“One of my previous TouchStones was a chef. Her dreams were very . . . educational.”
My mouth twitched. “I’ll bet, but I don’t really think I want to know.”
“Probably not,” he agreed, setting down the finished product on a plate. I couldn’t help but want to bask in his pampering. After all, no one had cooked me breakfast, even a late breakfast, since . . .
Since Mother died.
It was a sobering thought, and I thrust it away. “You know your way around the kitchen, incubus, I’ll grant you that.”
“Brystion,” he said shortly. “It’s Brystion. Or Ion, if you prefer. But I’m a person, not a thing.”
“Sorry.” I flushed, looking down at the plate, the omelet gleaming golden. “You gonna eat anything?”
He shook his head. “Your dreams were enough.”
“My dreams?”
“I drank them, remember?”
I flushed. “Is that what you meant? I thought that was just a . . . a euphemism.” I frowned, the beginnings of some decidedly unpleasant thoughts niggling their way to the front of my brain.
“Not entirely.” He shifted the frying pan uncomfortably in his hand. “But it’s what I am, Abby,” he chided. I turned away from him, unable to bear the quiet patience of his voice or the infinite sadness he tried to mask. He set the pan down on the stove, fishing the bacon out of the grease and slapping it onto a plate before moving toward me. “No regrets, remember?”
“I know,” I said numbly. “You’re just so casual about it, I guess. It’s a little unnerving.”
His fingers traced the line of my jaw. “You were magnificent,” he whispered. “Even were you not my TouchStone, I would seek you out again.”
“Well, it’s not like you have much of a choice now, is it?” My chuckle was brittle and hollow. “Besides, things are never that simple.”
“They could be, if you let them, or we could be so much more.” His fingers stroked upward gently. “There is something we should discuss. I should have mentioned it before, but I didn’t realize how things would go between us.”
“Do tell,” I drawled. “But Ion, I’m not sure I can handle much more right now. Shit is flying at me left and right. Can you at least wait until I’m done eating?” I pulled away from his touch, ignoring the aching quiver in my skin, and turned on the kettle. “I need some normalcy right now.”
“All right.” He turned away without another word. There was a slamming sound, metal scraping over the burner, and I winced. I found a mug, tossed a couple of tea bags into it, and ignored the voice in the back of my head that said I was an ass. After all, there was a naked man in my kitchen! With bacon!
A naked man who was only cooking me breakfast because he saw that I liked it in my dreams, I reminded the voice. Which he only saw because he slept with me—
The voice shut up. Almost.
You let him, stupid. He never claimed he was there for anything else.
This time, I was the one who went silent. There was a rap at the front door, and I found myself glad for it, glad for anything to distract me from the broodiness that now filled my kitchen.
I peered through the keyhole, sighing with relief to see Melanie out front, a canvas duffel bag slung over one shoulder. “Thanks for coming.” I undid the latch.
She raised a brow at me, pressing the bag into my hands. “Are you sure I’m the one you should be thanking? Sounds like you had quite the evening.”
I scowled at her. “I’ve already got enough innuendo in the apartment as it is, so do me a favor and shut up.”
Melanie smirked, craning her head past me. “I didn’t know what would fit, so I brought a bunch of stuff. You decent in there, Ion?”
“That depends on who’s asking.” The incubus lingered at the opening of the kitchen, leaning on one arm against the doorframe, the other hand casually holding a dishrag over his important bits. Our gazes met but his eyes remained dark, as if daring me to have a reaction. My upper lip curled. I threw the bag of clothes at him, not bothering to watch to see if he dropped the towel to catch it. The hitch of Melanie’s breath was more than enough to tell me anyway. A jolt of possessiveness flared tightly in my chest, but I schooled my face as best I could. Damn the man, anyway. The floor by the kitchen creaked, and I shot a glance over my shoulder to see Brystion’s retreating backside as he ducked into my bedroom.
Melanie’s lips pursed. “I think my assumptions may have been a bit off.”
“Tell me about it.” I sank into the battered cushions of my faded green sofa. “The last few days have just been a nightmare. Literally, in some cases,” I snorted, sobering for a moment. “I need to get out of here, Mel.”
“Well, you’re welcome to come crash at my place for a few days if you think it would help. There’s always a few OtherFolk coming and going, though, so I don’t know how comfortable it would be for you.”
I rubbed my temples with the base of my hands, the tight strains of an oncoming headache starting their telltale throb across the top of my skull. “No, I mean out of this whole damn town, this situation. I’m in way over my head.”
“Don’t you think you’re overreacting a tad? You have a knack for it.” Brystion’s voice drawled softly behind me.
My head snapped toward the incubus, barely registering the way the jeans clung to his hips or the delectable press of the dark T-shirt against his chest. “Not really. I’m scared shitless, if you want to know the truth.” My eyes narrowed. “What, you couldn’t taste that last night? Or maybe you like drinking fear?”
He jerked as if he’d been struck, his gaze hardening as it rested on us. Rested on me. “As you will, Abby.” He strode past us and out the door, bare feet slapping on the wooden steps. I ached to watch him go. I ached to call him back. To apologize for the flash of hurt that had blazed in those haunted ebony eyes. But I was a chickenshit coward, after all. I pressed my hand to my forehead with a groan.
“Abby?”
Melanie. Fuck. I’d forgotten she was even there. I gave her a shaky laugh. “It’s been a hell of a couple of days, Mel.”
Her hand patted my shoulder. “You want me to get you something to drink?”
“My tea.” I stood up. “I left it in the kitchen. I’ll get it.” Her cell phone rang and she waved me off, struggling to dig it out of her purse.
I left her there on the couch, listening as she answered it, her usually chipper voice somewhat dimmed. The unicorn was nose-deep in a bowl still, his tail flicking back and forth contentedly. The kettle was whistling now and I poured it into the mug. I tipped a bit of milk into it and stirred. My movements were numb. I blinked as I went to throw the spoon in the dishwasher.
A tray sat next to the sink, containing another perfectly formed omelet and several pieces of bacon organized in a smiley face. There was toast and juice and what looked like a mimosa in an elegant champagne flute. Where the hell had he found champagne? I glanced at the refrigerator in bemusement.
He’d made me breakfast. And not just any breakfast. This was the kind of breakfast you fed a lover the morning after sex, the kind of breakfast that promised to turn into another sort of meal altogether. I eyed a bowl of grapes, my lips twitching.
&
nbsp; “Nice work,” the unicorn grumbled at me from my knees. “He’s a way better cook than you are, you know.”
“I’ve figured that out, thanks,” I retorted. “And I don’t recall asking your opinion.”
“Never stopped me before.” His blue eyes sobered. “Take me with you.”
Visions of trying to hide a tiny, ass-biting unicorn in the grocery store or RadioShack filled my head. “Take you where?”
“To the Hearing, stupid head. I might actually come in useful.”
“Somehow I doubt that,” I murmured under my breath.
“I heard that. But you’re my TouchStone. I’d rather not see anything happen to you, honestly.”
“I can’t imagine why. After all, it’s not like I’m a virgin or anything.”
“Exactly,” the unicorn said sagely. “It’s refreshing. First time I’ve been able to be myself in ages. None of this ‘pure and chaste’ bullshit.”
I opened my mouth to say something rude, but Melanie’s sudden appearance in the kitchen stopped me cold. Her lower lip trembled and my heart dropped to the floor. “What is it?”
Her eyes darted between me and the unicorn for a moment before focusing on me. “I’m sorry to interrupt, your . . . uh . . . conversation.”
My gut twisted, cold lancing through me like a knife. My fear and anger were so strong I could taste it. “What is it?”
“It’s Charlie. She’s missing. They think she was murdered.”
Abby?”
I looked up from where my hands rested on my knees long enough to see Melanie approaching before I glanced away. I’d been in the tiny room for hours, but what the hell we were waiting for I couldn’t have guessed. As holding cells go it was nice enough, but polished wood and brass fittings aside, I would have given anything not to be there at all.
After the news of Charlie’s disappearance, we’d taken a few moments to catch our bearings and then Robert was at the door, demanding Brystion and I present ourselves at the Judgment Hall immediately. Which, of course, didn’t work out quite as planned. Shortly thereafter I found myself strong-armed through the streets by an extraordinarily pissed off archangel with Melanie trailing behind. My initial inquiries about Charlie were met with silence, but a not-so-subtle pressure upon my wrist made no bones about his grief.