“I am indeed. Come home with me?”
“You’re relentless,” Ben said, huffing out a laugh.
“I’m really tired, actually,” Nicholas admitted with a candor that was almost intimate. “Fucking exhausted, to be honest. I just want to go home, get in bed, and know you’re next to me.”
Little fireworks of delight exploded inside Ben’s chest, and he nodded assent. “Let’s go, then, Sheriff.”
Nicholas’ grin returned, and he straightened behind the steering wheel. There was a mechanical whirring noise as he pressed a button and rolled down the windows. Cool night air wafted into the cruiser, and the glass cleared.
“Fucking teenagers,” he said, snickering.
“Pretty much.”
Nicholas put the car into reverse and drove back to the main road. The river faded from sight in his side mirror, and Ben noticed his own reflection. Dark though it was, he could see himself smiling.
Back on Dunmore, Ben got out of the cruiser and rounded the front. Nicholas had his hand outstretched. Ben took it and grinned as Nicholas laced their fingers together and brought their joined hands up to his lips. He kissed Ben’s knuckles and led them inside.
In the bedroom, Ben tugged Nicholas close and kissed him without reservation. Nicholas’ palms glided underneath Ben’s shirt and pulled at the hem. Ben obliged and allowed Nicholas to drag the garment up and over his head. He reciprocated before they each worked to unfasten one another’s jeans.
Still clad in boxers and socks, they crawled into the neatly made bed, slid under covers that smelled of fresh cotton, and fumbled until their bodies were flush in the darkness. Heat radiated from Nicholas’ bare skin as he pressed a tender kiss to Ben’s forehead.
Ben draped his right arm over Nicholas’ side and tilted his chin in invitation. Their mouths met once more and moved together in a languid dance.
There was no expectation for sex in that moment. Aside from the first night he had spent with Nicholas, Ben had never just slept with someone else. There was always a motive, a means to an end. This felt new.
Contentment illuminated Nicholas’ face like the moonlight on the windowpanes. He withdrew several inches and rested on his side. Ben was spellbound and undeterred by the way the other man stared back with a steady intensity that should have made him squirm in discomfort.
“Hey,” Nicholas whispered. “I wanted to ask you something.”
“What?”
“Your pen name,” Nicholas started. A beat passed. “Preston’s after your mom. What about James?”
Ben said nothing, and Nicholas’ features softened.
“Names are important,” Nicholas whispered, echoing Marietta’s observation from the night before.
They did not speak again.
Sleep took Nicholas first. Ben watched the sheriff’s chest rise and fall in the dim light. After a while, Ben’s eyes fluttered, and Nicholas became a hazy image.
A clatter of what sounded like pots and pans rose from downstairs, and Ben roused from sleep. He slid his arm across the mattress and grumbled to feel the other side was vacant but still warm. Stretching as he stood, he grabbed his t-shirt from the floor and pulled it on as he headed to the stairs.
Nicholas was in the kitchen and whistling to himself while he hovered near the stove. Ben leaned against the doorway, unnoticed, and grinned. He listened and recognized the tune as The Allman Brothers’ ‘Blue Bird.’
“You’re so sappy, Nolan,” he said. “It’s kinda sweet.”
Nicholas startled and faced Ben. “Damn it, Wisehart.”
“Sorry,” Ben said, holding up his hands as if Nicholas had drawn his Glock. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“I was going to surprise you.” A faint shade of red crept across Nicholas’ cheeks, and he ran a hand through his hair.
“Consider me surprised,” Ben replied, closing the gap between them to peer over Nicholas’ shoulder at the stovetop. Holy hell, he’s actually making you pancakes, Benji.
Nicholas took hold of the pan handle, shimmied a pancake back and forth, and flipped it so that it landed in the center of a plate on the counter next to the stove.
“And impressed,” Ben said, giving an appreciative whistle.
“Oh, you haven’t seen anything until you’ve seen my prowess with pancakes.”
Ben brushed his lips to Nicholas left shoulder blade and relished the warmth of his bare skin. “You say the sexiest things.”
Nicholas snorted and twisted to kiss Ben in a soft, tender glide of lips and tongues.
“Sleep well?” he asked, returning his focus to the stovetop.
“Really well, actually.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I didn’t think I’d be sleeping well for a while after the other night. Ritual-induced coma not withstanding.”
“Must be me,” Nicholas said.
“Cocky already,” Ben chided, shaking his head with mock reproof.
“Have some coffee,” Nicholas said and gestured to the machine.
Ben obliged and poured Nicholas a cup as well. “You leaving soon?”
“Afraid so,” Nicholas said, ushering Ben to the kitchen table where he pulled out one of the chairs. “But then I’m all yours.”
“Sounds like you have a plan,” Ben said, taking a seat. He smiled to himself when Nicholas’ fingertips brushed against the nape of his neck with a kind of casual intimacy that made his skin prickle with awareness.
“I might,” Nicholas replied, and he pushed a bottle of maple syrup across the table to Ben and dropped into the other seat. “I thought I’d take you out to dinner. Unless your dance card’s all full?”
“It is, actually,” Ben said. “I think you know him.”
“You don’t say?” Nicholas asked, playing along. “Well, if you change your mind, my offer still stands.”
“Are you actually asking me on a date, Sheriff?”
“I am indeed,” Nicholas said with a grin that made technicolor seem black-and-white. “I thought it’d be nice to start over on better footing.”
“I’d like that,” Ben said. “A lot.”
“What about the other guy?”
“Fuck him,” Ben said, and Nicholas laughed.
“What are you doing today?” he asked. “Considering it’ll be your first official day back in town without the threat of monsters.”
“The monsters never really go away, you know,” Ben said, cupping his mug in both palms to warm his hands.
“Save that kind of talk for your next book, Mr. James,” Nicholas said, his tone as gentle as the brush of his bare foot against Ben’s under the table.
“That was the last one, actually.”
“It’s on my Kindle, I swear,” Nicholas said with an apologetic grimace. “I haven’t had time for reading lately.”
“You should take a vacation after this last week. Daniel and Astrid too. I’d say you all deserve it.”
“Oh, sure,” Nicholas scoffed. “We can watch the whole county fall apart from a beach somewhere.”
“You don’t have to be the one to always hold everything together, you know.”
“You sound like my mom,” Nicholas said, rolling his eyes.
“Wow, way to kill the moment, Nolan,” Ben chided, taking a bite of his breakfast. “Anyway, I need to rent a car. Maybe see Tucker and check on the Camaro. And call Kate to find out what needs to be done for Friday.”
“I’ll drop you off at the Hertz if you want,” Nicholas offered. “And Tucker seemed confident he can rebuild the Camaro. He said he’d start ordering the parts.”
“He doesn’t have to do that,” Ben said. “I can work on it.”
“I think he really wants to, Ben.” Nicholas paused before he took a sip of coffee. “He changed a lot after Shirley—well. You know. It’s nice to see him showing an interest in something outside of his farm again.”
Ben frowned, and his thoughts wandered to the ritual. Perhaps it was no mistake that Raziel had called
on ‘the healing hand of God,’ whoever that might be, when he settled his blade over Tucker.
“Your pancake prowess is admirable,” Ben said after a beat of silence.
“I’m glad you think so,” Nicholas said. “I intend to make them for you often.”
“I’d like that,” Ben replied, feeling as light as the pancakes in question.
The sheriff’s cruiser rolled to a stop in front of the Wisehart house just before eight o’clock. Ben had opted to have a car dropped off later to spare Nicholas the drive out to the Hertz.
“Thanks for the ride, Sheriff,” Ben said, sweeping his eyes over the man at his side. Nicholas had donned a pair of aviators when they first left Dunmore. With his freshly pressed uniform, he appeared as the very portrait of authority while he adjusted the dial on his scanner.
“Call you later?” Nicholas asked, and he gave Ben a smile as warm as the rays of sunlight that reflected off the lenses of his sunglasses.
“Cool,” Ben said and stepped out of the car. He watched as Nicholas drove to the end of the block and disappeared around the corner.
Ben’s dirty coat was still on the floor in the entry hall. He grabbed it, headed to the utility room in the back of the house, and fished the Zippo and his phone out of one of the coat’s pockets.
The phone was off, and its screen remained black when Ben tried the power button. He wondered if the battery was dead or if the phone had been fried like his watch.
Ben shoved the phone and the lighter into a back pocket of his jeans and opened the washer. He dropped the coat into the drum along with a generous dollop of detergent and set the machine to wash.
Mr. Coffee was still half full from the night before. Ben poured the stale liquid down the sink and washed the carafe before he put a fresh pot on to brew and darted upstairs to grab his bags. The majority of the clothing he had packed was in dire need of a wash, so he dropped the suitcase off by the utility room for later and took his messenger bag into the kitchen. He pulled out his laptop and set it—and his phone—to charge before he poured a cup of coffee.
He stared at the machine as he returned the carafe into its cradle. Much like his previous owner, Mr. Coffee was old and should probably have retired years ago. Andrew Wisehart never made frivolous purchases, though. If it still worked, he used it.
Ben wished he had sent his father an espresso machine like the one that sat on his own kitchen counter back in Boston, but he caught himself and clamped down on the thought. Andrew would never have wanted something so impractical. He had preferred his old, worn Mr. Coffee and the dark, bitter drink it produced. Ben did too.
Light flashed behind his eyelids, and he pinched the bridge of his nose.
He moved to the table and sat down in front of his laptop to sip his coffee. Bitter as hell and twice as hot. Ben hoped that Raziel’s idea of vanquishing did not merely include sending his brother back to Hell but rather that it entailed wiping Azazel from existence.
A dark mood overtook him, and Ben turned to his laptop for a distraction. As it booted up and the half-eaten apple appeared on his screen, Ben had another sip of coffee.
The Wi-Fi privileges were still in place. Ben had not checked his email since he left Boston, and he pursed his lips and whistled when he caught sight of the little red number on the Mail icon.
Of the 172 new messages, most were junk. There were several emails from friends asking if he was alive, some reminders from a faculty member in the literature department at Boston University regarding a speaking engagement Ben had scheduled for late-November—much to his chagrin—and a few updates from his agent.
Elliot’s first email brimmed with his usual pandering bullshit about sales figures. His most recent addition to the conversation was as smug as it was concise.
“Hey Dr. Frankenstein, The Exquisite Corpse is ALIVE. You made it to number one on The Times’ Best Seller list. Where are you and is it too early to drink?”
Ben covered his eyes with one hand and had to put his mug of coffee down on the table while he laughed at the complete absurdity of the sentence. He peered through his fingers at the screen and re-read the email. When he finally found his composure, he clicked the arrow for replies.
“Like the time of day ever stopped you before. Bought your yacht, yet? BW,” he typed and sent.
Ben scrolled through the other emails and straightened when he noticed one from Kate. It had been sent the previous evening.
“Benji, your phone isn’t working for whatever reason. Get that fixed. I arrive Wednesday, 8pm, Flight 4517. See you at the airport. K”
Ben tapped out a reply, telling Kate he would call her in the evening when she was home from the office. The laptop chimed to herald the arrival of a new message before he had even finished the email to his sister. It was from Elliot, of course, because the man was never without his Blackberry.
“Soon, Golden Goose. Soon. How’s the new book? Started??”
“Not yet. Went home to WV. My father died last week. Might take some time before I start the next one. Will let you know. BW.”
The next one, Ben thought and snickered. He had no idea what the next one would be about, and Elliot knew that. He was an agent, though. It was his job to badger. Elliot’s next email popped up within a minute of Ben’s reply.
“Sorry to hear that. My sincerest condolences. Take a week. I’ll write you then.”
A week, Ben mused, lingering on the words as if they were directions on a prescription for a course of antibiotics. Perhaps the passage of seven days eased the feeling of loss even after it had settled into your bloodstream like bacteria. He frowned, realizing it had been almost a week since Nicholas strode across the library parking lot with that look on his face.
Maybe you should just get back to work, Benji. You’ve almost used up your wallowing allowance anyway.
Ben knew there were no magical or medicinal qualities in any particular number of days even if the number in question was apparently a divine one. He had not felt better the week after Caroline’s death, and he doubted he would experience anything more than the same Novocain-before-a-root-canal sensation after the funeral on Friday.
A sour taste settled in the back of his throat, and he closed Mail. He opened his browser, searched ‘Hertz + Point Pleasant,’ and proceeded to fill in the monotonous details necessary to rent a car.
An obnoxious alarm beeped from the utility room to signal the washing machine had finished its cycle. Ben’s coat was surprisingly clean, and he picked at the ghost of a muddy mark when he pulled the garment free. He tossed another load of clothes into the drum, set a new cycle, and took his wet coat to the kitchen.
The scent of burning leaves greeted him when he opened the door that led onto the backyard. He tossed his coat over the clothesline and adjusted its arms to balance the weight. The sun shone overhead, and Ben thought of his mother.
Caroline’s favorite apple tree stood in the westernmost corner of the yard. Ben squinted up at its boughs. Caroline once told him that she had persuaded Andrew to buy the house because of the tree; she had always wanted one.
Both of my parents are dead.
Reality hit Ben like a stalled car crushed by an oncoming train. Or a SUV on a bridge during morning rush hour.
A squirrel skittered across one of the limbs and wrested Ben from his thoughts. The creature disappeared into a thicket of golden leaves, and Ben craned his neck to gaze up at the tallest point of branches.
Ben wondered how deep its roots went. How deep are mine?
Unfathomable, he realized.
The house, as empty as it was now, was home. Ben had been brought to it in the backseat of a ‘68 Chevy Camaro when he was three days old. He had spent nearly every day of his life for twenty years within its walls. He had helped paint its exterior yellow, and he had assisted with the lawn work to ensure the front yard was always as perfectly maintained as his father preferred. He had climbed the apple tree and fallen from a high branch, though he emerged with little
more than bruises and scrapes because his father taught him early on how to tuck and roll. He had slid down the bannister of the front staircase hundreds of times despite his mother’s warnings. He had fallen asleep on the living room carpet under an artificial tree with prickly plastic branches decorated with sparkling lights during countless Christmas Eve vigils only to be carried upstairs in his father’s strong arms. He had observed as his mother rolled pastry on the kitchen countertops for her cherry pies every spring. He had wrestled with his big sister in the front yard and told ghost stories to his best friend by flashlight during numerous summer nights spent in a tent in the backyard.
This was home.
Even as the house stood devoid of the family that had filled its walls with laughter, tears, and long-forgotten arguments, it was home.
Ben ran a hand through his hair and glanced up at his bedroom window. Tears stung his eyes. He paced around in a circle and took a deep breath to calm the swell of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him.
He left his coat hanging in the sun to dry and went inside. Warm, golden light seeped into the kitchen. For the first time since he found his mother dead on the floor, Ben felt different about the house. He felt a sense of possession.
Ben grabbed his mug and faced the window while he poured his lukewarm coffee into the sink, wondering if this was how Raziel felt, if this is what he had longed for and what he had been kept from for hundreds of years, though time passed differently for him.
Unsettling realization consumed Ben like the torrid light that had exploded from the shield on the dark factory floor. It had taken him leaving and not returning for Nicholas to notice him, to notice his absence, to notice his importance. It had taken Ben leaving, abandoning his home and all that it held, for him to notice its importance.
He stared out the window as if seeing the apple tree for the first time. Ben had no idea how long he stood there, but the beeping of the washing machine told him it had been far longer than he realized.
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