Not Your Average Hot Guy

by Gwenda Bond

  I lean in, placing my hands carefully on either side of her face. And then I slowly duck my head and press my lips to hers. There’s a change in her breathing, a pause, and her lips move against mine.

  Softly at first, but soon enough with greater heat. I forget why we’re doing this. Or, rather, why we’re doing this no longer matters.

  I am home, and I don’t hate it. I am home.

  Callie makes one of those little moans like she did earlier and it undoes me. I scoop her forward onto my lap, and her legs part effortlessly, straddling me. My turn to moan as she rocks her hips against me and I go instantly hard. Her hair falls around us as I kiss the tender skin of her throat and coax another, deeper sound from her.

  I could play the game of trading wordless pleasure with her forever. But it doesn’t feel like a game.

  I remember why I started this.

  It’s going to take more than this to put her to rights. With great difficulty, I stop for a second.

  A second in which she apparently remembers what’s happening and pulls back, her hands on my chest. “Luke—what? Oh no,” she says, sweeping her gaze to the books around us. “It was real.”

  She slides from my lap. Her kiss-swollen lips aren’t enough to take away my guilt at seeing her red-from-crying eyes. I left her here. That’s why this happened.

  But I also know why I left her here. Maybe that can fix this.

  “Hold on,” I say, sending a command to my body to cool down. It obeys. A perk of demonhood. “Just hold on. It’s going to be okay. I promise. I’ll prove it. Gather your things and come with me.”

  I wish I could help her, but I’m afraid to touch her bag with the portion of the Holy Lance inside it. She moves slowly but does as I say, slinging the bag over a shoulder once the grimoire is back inside.

  When I extend my hand, Callie blinks, then takes it. The fact that she sniffles and follows me into the hallway without protest is telling. “I have something to show you, and you need some rest,” I tell her. “You’ve been up all night.”

  “But—do we have time?”

  I’m the one who’s short on time. “We’ll make it. There’s nothing much Elerion can do while you have the spearhead here.”

  Thankfully, Porsoth and Rofocale are nowhere in sight. There’s a hidden door that opens into a spiral staircase of gray stone not much farther up the hallway and I keep her hand in mine as we climb up two floors. To my apartments.

  The smooth wall parts to admit us. I’m unaccountably nervous about what she’ll think of the place.

  It’s a sprawling assortment of rooms, a branch of the Gray Keep’s tree. We walk into a large open great room filled with sumptuous, pillowy seating. A chandelier with black candles and a thousand dark crystals sparkles to life as we enter, imbuing the place with extra glamour. Off the entry area, there are several rooms through arched entrances and along corridors: a small kitchen, a study area I’ve turned into another lounging spot, a set of baths, and, obviously, my bed chamber.

  “I know it’s not fancy,” I say.

  “It is extremely fancy.” She frowns a touch. “You are an aristocrat, aren’t you? This is where you live? Alone?”

  I left Father’s enormous wing of apartments five years ago at seventeen, which, as Father put it, is “almost a man.”

  I nod.

  “This way.” I lead her up a short hall and through the arched entrance to my bedroom. I’ve never noticed exactly how large my bed is before, the chamber’s dominant feature. Covered by the silkiest gray sheets and blanket and too many pillows.

  She shifts from foot to foot. “I know that, um, back there, I climbed all over you like a tree.”

  “Anytime,” I say.

  “But, um…” She stares at the bed.

  “Oh no! That’s not why I brought you here.” Is there a tinge of disappointment on her face? I keep going. This isn’t about me. It’s for her. “You need to rest. But first, like I said, I’ve got proof that you’re fine now.”

  Her face nearly crumples as she remembers her panic, but she manages to recover. “What if I’m not though?”

  I stride to the side of the bed where a stack of unread books assigned by Porsoth are arrayed in a messy tower. I pluck off the top one and sit down.

  “I’ll show you,” I say. “Come, sit. I won’t bite … unless you ask nicely.”

  She sticks her tongue out at me. It is, in fact, one of the most welcome things I’ve ever seen. A glimpse of her back to normal.

  Callie settles next to me, and I shift toward her. “What was your favorite story growing up?”

  “Alice. Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. What if I’ve lost it forever?” She squeezes her eyes shut. “What if I’ll never read it again? I’ll never…”

  “No,” I say, stroking a hand along the cover to turn this book into another, “look at this. This is better. This is the Wonderland tale that Carroll never finished, but dreamed of and began later. It was his toll to cross over. I’ve conjured it here, now, just for you.”

  Her eyes blink open. She releases a breath. “Luke, I touched a book. In the library. You told me not to touch anything and I…”

  I reach out and brush a strand of hair off her cheek. She kissed me again.

  “Try now,” I say.

  There’s an illustration in this book that as far as I know only exists here. It’s Alice among demons, Porsoth-like cousins. The text explains that Alice went down the wrong rabbit hole and visited the underworld. She makes it out alive after a daylong journey.

  I hope it’ll comfort Callie. Not just being able to read it, but the story itself.

  You’re going to make it out too.

  “I…” Callie drops her hesitation and snatches the new book from me. She skims the page. “I can read this,” she says and her green eyes only tear away from it back to me after a long moment.

  “I know.” I sigh. “I’m sorry I left you alone there.”

  “I’m okay,” she says and looks from the book back to me. “This is a new Wonderland story. Is this real? Lewis Carroll really wrote this?”

  “Yes,” I say and stand. I move over to a stiff-backed chair in the corner. No rest for the wicked. “Read it. Get some sleep. I’ll wake you in a bit.”

  She hesitates, but then she slides back and props a pillow behind her and holds the book up to see better. I watch her and remember that Mag said I’d better get used to watching her read.

  I could and that frightens me. As she turns the pages, her blinks come slower and the book finally falls to the side of her lap. She’s fast asleep.

  I walk over as stealthily as possible and fold the cover from the other side of the bed over her. Then I ease down next to her, if two feet away, and pick up Lewis Carroll, intending to reread one of my own childhood favorites … I watch her instead, the gentle rise and fall of her chest, passing expressions and mumbles in her sleep.

  She’s more fascinating than any story.

  I like this human far too much for my own good.

  * * *

  On those nights I bother with sleep—I don’t need it, strictly speaking, but it’s one of life’s great pleasures, after all—I wake in a slow, grumbly process. But for Callie, wakefulness comes between one breath and the next, sooner than I’d hoped. Her eyes pop open after a short nap and she bolts upright.

  I’m reclined on my side, still watching her. I stay where I am, and wait for her to turn and see me.

  Which she does. She glances down at the book at my side. She reaches out and strokes her fingers across it with a faint smile. “Thank you for this.”

  I prepare for her next remark to be something about how we have to get going, or maybe about how I’ve been pulling an Edward watching her sleep (she knew I was in the room, so I was not).

  She looks up, her eyes meeting mine, and the heat in them is familiar. “What was it you said about biting?”

  I only thought I was awake. Turns out my body was asleep until right now. “That you have
to ask nicely.”

  She climbs free of the bedcover I folded over her and keeps coming. I shift to my back so she can straddle me again.

  Leaning forward, she nips at my lips, gently, catching one between her teeth. “That nice enough?” she asks, barely pulling back.

  I answer by sliding my hands down her body, which makes her pant and I’m nearly undone. I relish the feel of how she arches into my hands, the perfect more-than-handfuls of her breasts, and then her hips against mine as we rock together. She leans down and our lips meet again, open and hungry. We’re both breathing hard.

  I groan and flip her over beneath me and then I ever-so-gently bite her neck. In a second, the noise she makes changes this from Hell to something like how I imagine Above.

  We try to get as much of each other as possible. A nip thrown in now and then for good measure. She strips off my shirt with the missing sleeve and her hands on my skin is a gift I never knew to ask for.

  Callie’s hitting a fever pitch when she says, “I can’t believe I’m doing this—I can’t believe … I don’t usually.”

  “Enough of that,” I say.

  “What?”

  “Talking.”

  But I sense where this is headed. She’ll start overthinking or she’s already beginning to leave this moment and panic about how long we’ve paused here. I know we can’t spend the time I want, but I won’t let her be unsatisfied.

  My fingers move to the button of her jeans. “Is this all right?” I ask.

  She moans and nods, lets me help her shuck them. Her ears are bright red and her cheeks are flushed and before she can decide not to take this moment of pleasure I cup her over her panties and watch as her head tilts back. I slide them aside.

  Callie takes her pleasure the same way she reads, it turns out. Completely absorbed, utterly transported. Her gasping scream might be my greatest accomplishment.

  * * *

  After Callie’s used my bath chamber and shyly smiled at me, and I’m adorned with a fresh T-shirt, we head back to the stairwell to access one of the many back entrances to Father’s throne room. At the age of five, I made it my business to begin finding as many as possible. Currently, I know fifty-one ways to reach Father’s sanctum.

  Although I wouldn’t be surprised to discover there are still a hundred more hidden windows or doors or tunnels I’m unaware of. Given what I know about Callie and her phobia of being trapped under things, I choose the most direct route from my apartments to there.

  We go up another level and approach a statue made of red marble in a wall sconce. The figure is a female demon in a shadowed cloak with a torch thrust high.

  I flourish at the statue. “You’ll like this. Pull the torch.”

  Callie hesitates. “What about not touching anything?”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Little late for that, isn’t it?”

  She blushes.

  I raise my voice: “Leave her be.” I nod for Callie to go ahead.

  My heart does that weird existing thing in my chest as she tentatively does so. She tugs on the torch and, when it starts to give, puts some elbow into it. The shelves beside the figure slide away to reveal a secret passage.

  I’m rewarded with a grin. “A torch that’s a lever,” Callie says. “We should do one of those.”

  A cloud passes over her face and I guess it’s due to images of her fraught home and family situation. She must wonder if she’ll ever experience normal again.

  “Something just occurred to you,” I say. “What is it?”

  “My mom left me in charge. More or less. I wonder what she’s going to think if she finds out that I left, what happened.”

  “I think she’ll understand.” The woman in the pictures at Callie’s house did not look like someone who’d be overly harsh. “And you should, do a torch secret passage. But now onward.”

  We step into the narrow passage and the shelves automatically seal up behind us. All we have to do is locate the Order of Elerion using the spy-globe and be on our way.

  “Where are w—” she starts.

  I put a finger to my lips. “Quietly now.”

  Father should be out and about at this time, but he’s not exactly what you’d call predictable. He doesn’t like people poking around in his things or his space. Servants only invade the throne room or his quarters when he summons them.

  The passage grows ever narrower, and behind me Callie takes a handful of my jacket in her fist to stay close. Ahead is the veil of darkness that marks an actual entrance to dear old Dad’s sanctuary and ruling chamber.

  “Don’t be afraid,” I say.

  When I step into the dark, she holds on tight. It’s quiet and black for a moment, and then we’re through into the thin light of the deserted room.

  I try to imagine the opulence in front of us from her point of view. My rooms are pitiable by comparison. An enormous obsidian throne dominates. The floors and long mosaic windows are a symphony of images in gray and white and black, demons and angels engaged in bitter combat and some lustier pursuits. There’s a sprawling table representing Father’s theater of war with tiny figures representing souls and demons and guardians and angels.

  There’s a hard beauty to it all, as there is to everything Father touches.

  Even me? But, no, he’d never say that.

  “Wow.” Callie breathes and steps around me.

  “Yeah. It’s a definite look. No one will ever say he’s not on brand.” The World Watcher, Father’s best spy toy, is behind the throne, where no one but he accesses it.

  No one would trespass here in his unsacred space, the fear would be too great.

  Or so he assumes.

  I can’t keep a grin off my lips at the knowledge I’m doing exactly that. “This way,” I say and stride forward.

  The shadow behind the throne throws me off for a moment. But then it’s reality that does.

  Because there’s nothing. The spy-globe, which has never moved in the entirety of my childhood, is nowhere to be seen.

  “No no no,” I chant, stumbling across empty tile where the globe should be.

  “What’s wrong?” Callie asks.

  I rake a hand through my hair, trying to quell the panic. This was an insane plan, but it was my only plan. And Rofocale’s not wrong. Time’s running out. Possibly for all of us.

  This is the worst turn of events I can imagine.

  “No, no, no.”

  “Luke, you’re freaking me out,” Callie says. “Talk to me. What’s the problem?”

  I do my best to summon an explanation that won’t make her hate me again. Nothing comes.

  “Why, hello there,” a new voice smooth as gravel says. Father’s. “I see we have company.”

  I was wrong about the globe not being here as worst case. This is the worst case.

  It occurs to me that I made a crucial error before I ever met Callie. I never stopped to question why Father suddenly wanted an update on me, why the deadline for a report on my progress obtaining souls. He’s been monitoring me this entire time. I’d bet on it.

  Which means that I’m in deep, deep trouble.

  “Look at me, son,” he commands.

  I catch a glimpse of Callie’s frozen face as I turn. If I’m in trouble, so is she. Deep, deep trouble. It’s a small comfort that she isn’t experiencing any visible ill effects from being in the presence of Father in his seat of power. The holy relic she’s carrying must offer her protection normal humans usually don’t have.

  “Fancy meeting you here,” I say meekly and stand waiting under his scrutiny.

  His white-tinged-with-gray wings extend out on either side of him, something he does when he wants to take up more space. His deeper-gray suit is slightly wrinkled and yet still the most stylish thing in creation. His face is craggy and almost human when he wants it to be, but the tiny nubs of horns nestled in his blond hair give him away (well, and the wings). Right now, he looks faintly amused—the worst among many bad possibilities.

  F
ather pretending he’s amused is him at his most dangerous. He’s a charming devil, original sin made flesh but with a sentimental, nearly ethical streak that makes him unpredictable. He’s obsessed with all the things so-called “great men” are: reputation, legacy, appearances, and his offspring’s achievements as a reflection of those.

  You might say I’ve been an epic disappointment. He certainly says it.

  So whatever he truly is in this moment, amused isn’t it.

  “Did you think I wouldn’t know when a piece of the Holy Lance entered my kingdom?” He tosses off the question and stalks back around the throne, throwing a hand up in a wave for me to follow.

  Callie catches my arm. “Is that…”

  “The devil. Yes. Be quiet and careful. Let me take the lead.” Though, honestly, I’d be happy to give it up to her. I think she’s going to argue for just that, but she bites her lip and nods.

  “Coming?” Father calls out.

  “Yes, sir,” I say and Callie comes along. “Stay behind me,” I murmur to her at the last moment. She doesn’t protest. We take up a spot in front of the massive black throne, but not too close.

  Father has taken his seat. The throne was constructed with low arms so his wings sprawl out on either side. He leans back, and from his relaxed posture, he looks like he hasn’t a care in the underworld. Deception is his special gift.

  “Now, son.” His words are lazy. “This should be good. Explain to me how you’ve finally given me an apocalypse eve and it’s not even my birthday.” He squints. “Or yours. You haven’t even managed to grow your wings and then this. This is some talent you have for … fucking up.”

  While not untrue, it stings. But then Callie clears her throat.

  No. I look at her and try to communicate silently. Don’t do it. Stay quiet.

  She raises her hand, because it’s Callie. Despite everything, I can’t help a little flutter at how brave and polite she is. She’s raising her hand to speak to the devil in his throne room.

  I’m terrified for her. For me.

  “Yes, human,” Father says.

  She clutches her bag close to her side, no doubt drawing strength from the spearhead’s presence there. “Why do you keep calling Luke son? Is this like when waiters call me sweetie and honey, because I hate that.”