by Holley Trent
“Of course I didn’t, you big oaf. I’ve never heard of an elf refusing the person she’s tethered to.”
He let out a breath—a silent sigh.
“Oh, fine.” She kept reading.
I don’t believe the sex mattered so much, only that you let me touch you.
She narrowed her eyes and reread that sentence. “But …”
The theory may have held some water, though so much of that period of her life was a blur. One happy memory ran into the next, and she could hardly differentiate between nights and days, only that he’d filled them. His face, his deep voice.
The safety she’d felt with him.
But the theory couldn’t have been true. He wouldn’t have needed others.
She was about to make that very objection when he pulled the pad back. He wrote:
Let me touch you, Noelle.
Her mouth opened, shaped to speak the words, “Oh gods, yes,” but what came out was, “No,” and she shook her head hard.
“No, you can’t. Tarik said that—”
Tamatsu snatched back the pad. He scribbled more, but she had to explain. She needed to get the words out before he tried to change her mind.
“I’ve already hurt you too much.” The words rushed out of her mouth like a child’s hurried tattling on a sibling who followed close at their heels. “I made you suffer in so many ways and for so long, and I refuse to do that to you again. For the rest of my life, I’ll have to carry in my conscience that I did such a cruel thing. You hadn’t been able to control your urges, but I could have. I could have walked away instead of having my revenge, and I gave you a trial to complete and no satisfaction for completing it.”
She shook her head hard yet again, resolved.
“No. I won’t hurt you again, my stōr, matter how badly I want what you’re offering.”
Briefly, he stopped writing, but she took a page out his book and thumped the bed beside him.
“Tamatsu.”
He looked up, brow furrowed with what seemed to be frustration, but frustration was better than pain.
“I’m sorry, but no.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The thin, lightweight phone Tamatsu acquired the following day seemed excessively fragile in his large hand. He was afraid to tap the glass screen, fearing it would shatter, but knew that was unreasonable. Tarik hadn’t yet broken his phone.
Writing with pen and paper would have almost certainly been more expedient, but those things weren’t always convenient. He’d avoided the siren call of smartphone technology for more than a decade. The convenience of them was too compelling for him to disparage any longer.
And he had a lot he wanted to say.
Now she wants to be reasonable? Explain this.
he texted to Tarik, who crouched on the roof of Maria Middle School, resembling a gargoyle come to life.
He wasn’t there for decoration, however. He was watching Lola, AKA She of Many Jobs. In one of her numerous false faces, she was sometimes a school social worker. At the moment, Lola was seated primly on the school’s boundary wall, chatting with a smallish sixth-grader.
Tarik worked his phone out of his pocket, read the screen, grunted, and then resumed his stalking work.
You have no answer?
Tarik read and grunted again, but also added, “I am thinking. A moment, please.”
Tamatsu huffed, and paced.
He dug his fingers into his hair against his scalp and walked a small section of the roof. They were above the cafeteria/auditorium, and it was lunchtime. The noise level would be loud enough that the students within wouldn’t have heard the sounds of their footsteps.
After a few minutes, Tarik straightened up.
Lola and her young charge were gone.
He retreated to the rear of the roof and stepped down, flapping his wings once to buffer his landing.
Tamatsu did the same, and they walked.
He was hungry. He’d have to separate from Tarik soon if his plans put him in a place far from easily acquirable food, but he really did require his friend’s counsel.
Tarik moved silently toward the town square and, fortunately, nearer the taco truck. Lately, it always seemed to be parked in front of the mobile burrito cart. The proprietors were having a turf war, but Tiny already knew Tamatsu’s signals. He didn’t make him have to work so hard to place an order, so tacos always won.
Daryl Gutierrez scoffed as Tamatsu got in line. “Come on, man. Don’t you get sick of eating that shit all the time? I ain’t even sure he’s using real meat. Looks a little stringy to me, but what do I know?” He shrugged.
Tamatsu blinked at him and turned to Tiny. Tiny happened to be one of Tito’s good friends and a lieutenant in the Were-cougar glaring.
Tamatsu held up three fingers, and then five.
“Good choice. Give me five minutes.” Tiny disappeared from the order window.
Had Tamatsu been anyone else, Tiny might have tried to talk him out of the order. He’d seen Tiny do that before, counseling customers on what they could or couldn’t finish with size or heat intensity in mind.
Tiny knew what Tamatsu was. Daryl didn’t. Daryl was human and clueless about the paranormal happenings around him.
“Free sample?” Daryl offered, holding out a chunk of chicken speared on a little two-pronged wooden fork.
Tamatsu shook his head.
“How ’bout you?” Daryl asked Tarik.
“I am not in need of sustenance at the current time.”
“Man, you guys are buzzkills. Move. You’re also scaring away my customers.”
Both angels looked around. There was no one on the street but them. Only schoolchildren in Maria ate lunch at eleven-fifteen.
Tamatsu and Tarik settled onto a bench out of earshot of Daryl, but not so far Tamatsu wouldn’t be able to see Tiny gesturing at him.
Tamatsu texted, “AM I WRONG?”
Tarik read his phone’s screen, and then grimaced. “I do not know if there is a right or wrong, only easy choices and hard ones. While I certainly would not advise you to ignite that particular hunger again, you doing so would be your prerogative. You know best what you are able to cope with. Do I think the experiment is worth the risk?” His grimace, however fleeting, proved his concern. “I understand why you would do it, though. I might do the same if I were in your predicament.”
Tamatsu slouched a bit lower in the seat and settled his wings over the top of the bench.
Now what?
“You seek advice from the wrong creature. If you want guidance, you should speak to Gulielmus.”
He still doesn’t remember.
Tarik grimaced again. “Best to not query him on the matter, then. Who knows which of his suppressed memories will surface first? I suppose, also, that Clarissa would not appreciate him regaling you with tales of his past exploits.”
The proof of his past exploits are all over her farm, and one instance isn’t even school-aged yet.
“That is true. The man has more offspring than certain patriarchs in the book of Genesis. Extraordinarily fecund, that one.”
She never asked about that.
Tarik furrowed his brow. “About what?”
Fecundity. Noelle never asked if I could sire children.
And truth be told, Tamatsu was suddenly more than a little annoyed that she hadn’t. Children were a natural consequence of certain kinds of relationships, for people who wanted them, and he didn’t even know if she did. They’d never been settled enough for her to ask, or perhaps he hadn’t cared about such things then.
“She likely didn’t broach the topic because elves find the subject of family planning tiresome.” Idly, Tarik twisted a button on his sleeve before angling his narrowed gaze toward Tamatsu. “Can you, though?”
I don’t know. Can you?
Tarik shrugged. “I’ve always taken precautions, the best I could. There are modern ways of learning yay or nay, but I’m not willing to submit to any test conducted by hum
ans.”
Doesn’t Miles Foye work at the reproductive health clinic? She’s married to a Cougar. Trustworthy, yes?
Making a huh of curiosity, Tarik rubbed his chin.
Now that the thought had been planted in his mind, his curiosity was going to needle constantly at him. He would always wonder what his children would look like. Black-haired, of course. Pale. But would their eyes slant like his? Would they be as blue as their mother’s? Would they be tiny, bossy Napoleons, or tall and strong? Would they have magic? Or wings? None of Gulielmus’s children did. Tamatsu preferred that any of his wouldn’t. They were of little use in the world of men.
He’d want them to fit in and be normal.
To feel things the way normal people did.
Tarik gave him a nudge. “Tiny is waving at you. What distracts you?”
What-ifs, friend.
Tamatsu fetched his food, paid Tiny his due, and ignored Daryl’s heckling as he passed.
Back at the bench, Tarik said, “After she woke this morning, Noelle asked if I would teleport her to Clarissa’s tonight. Should I?”
Tamatsu texted
I believe she won’t find it suspicious if you forget to fetch her once.
“So you have plans, then?”
Dinner and nudity.
Tamatsu shoved half a stewed pork taco into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. Then he typed:
Need to go kill something first.
“Something or someone?”
Tamatsu made a waffling gesture. There was really no need to be precise.
“For business or for pleasure?”
Tamatsu wiped his fingertips on a paper napkin and typed:
Both. As always, feeding one hunger can take the edge off the others to a small degree. I’ve been fairly even keel recently without too much effort, but I’d like to bank some restraint if I can.
“You’re not targeting any weather gods, I hope. Risky with them clustering as they are.”
The thought had crossed my mind, but no.
“Good luck, friend.”
Tamatsu nodded. If Tarik was referring to Noelle, Tamatsu was sure he’d need it.
• • •
Noelle stepped into her house, set her computer bag against the doorway between the garage and the kitchen, and watched the man at the stove work.
The angel at the stove, rather.
He was barefooted, as seemed to be his custom whenever he was indoors. He wore low-slung dark jeans that had to have been custom-made, and a black shirt nearly the same color as his wings, which actually weren’t out at the moment.
“Why bother with glamour with me?”
He turned, holding a rice paddle, and pulled an earbud from his ear. He shrugged.
“I saw them last night. When you were …” She dragged her tongue over her dry lips and let her gaze fall to his feet. “Well, you know what you were doing. Is Tarik here? He was supposed to take me to Clarissa’s.”
He shook his head.
“Do you know where he is? Jenny and I were going to make some inquiries about what happens when elf magic clashes with angel energy.”
He gestured her forward with the crook of his finger.
“No.”
He did it again.
“Why? Also, you should care about the research. I’m trying to find your voice. Don’t you want it?”
And if she got near him, she’d touch him, and her entire world would go to hell.
Giving his head a skeptical shake, he turned back to the stove.
“Tamatsu, I will find it. I promised.”
That earned her a solemn nod.
But a moment later, he spun on his heel, fork in hand, walked across the kitchen, and thrust the contents of said fork between her lips.
Fish.
He raised a brow in query.
She pushed the morsel around her tongue. Salmon. A bit salty, a bit sweet. Perfectly balanced, and oh so flaky. She swallowed and sighed.
“That is unbelievably good. Where’d you get the fish? I don’t trust fish in the desert.”
He tilted his head in one of those “Really, Noelle?” kind of ways she’d once been used to.
“Of course. Teleporting angel. You can get fish at the snap of your fingers.”
He turned his hands over in concession, and returned to the stove.
The table had already been set with two places, adjacent, not across from each other.
Bold move, my stōr.
Black tablecloth. Pure white dishes. Black lacquered chopsticks angled along the tops of the plates.
She pulled back the chair nearest the door and settled onto the seat, kicking off her high heels beneath the table. That small movement made her bump her left shin against the neighboring chair.
She’d need to move, or she’d touch him, but that could wait. Her body was weary after having climbed an inordinate amount of stairs in three hours. She’d been showing high-rise condo listings to a couple that were either very fitness-minded or who had odd phobias to elevators.
Groaning and curling the toes of her cramping feet, she put her forehead against the table. “I should fire them. I don’t need new clients. Maybe I should go ahead and take the winter off, starting now. I’ve got money in savings that should get me through my poorly period.”
At the soft clink near her ear, she sat up.
There was wine, and in good stemware. She normally poured her booze into whatever mug was the closest in the cupboard. That was partially due to the fact that her stemware was stored on a higher shelf. At over seven feet tall, Tamatsu didn’t have to climb on counters to reach things.
“You shouldn’t spoil me,” she said, grabbing the glass. “I might get used to it, and then you’ll have a standard to maintain.”
He shrugged.
“You’re opening Pandora’s box, my stōr.”
Again, he shrugged, and lifted the mouth of his beer bottle to his lips.
“I really can’t imagine you stalking the aisles of a grocery store.” She stuck her wineglass’s bowl to her nose and inhaled deeply.
Mmm.
All fruit, no acid. She hated tart wine.
“The image in my mind is pretty comical. Big guy like you pushing a shopping cart. Probably looks like a toy.”
He grinned before setting down his beer and turning back to the stove. He grabbed plates from the table and got to work dishing up fish and sides.
“This must have taken you hours.”
He shook his head.
“Okay. Would have taken me hours. I’m that dimwit who needs ninety minutes to make one of those thirty-minute meals you see on foodie television shows. I get too distracted by all the things I’m supposed to be doing and have to keep taking little breaks.”
He set her dinner in front of her and held out the chopsticks.
Groaning, she reached and gingerly took them. When it was just her and Jenny eating takeout in front of the television, their chopstick technique didn’t matter. They didn’t judge each other for their gaucheness or the fact that most of the time, they gave up and ate with forks or fingers. Tamatsu was an expert. He’d want to correct her, and she’d be ashamed.
Fortunately, before she could make the first valiant attempt at the food, he retreated to dish up his own meal, and likely in massive quantities.
Quietly, she scooted her chair rightward, and then a bit more upon remembering how long his legs were.
Although the food smelled wonderful, and she already knew the fish was to die for, her stomach was too unsettled for her to eat. His proximity was so jarring, especially after the request he’d made the night before.
“LET ME TOUCH YOU, NOELLE.”
Gods, how she’d wanted him to. She’d thought about nothing else all day. Only climbing those stairs had distracted her any from the ache of want that had kept crashing back periodically.
She groaned quietly, and brought the wine to her lips.
He sat, picked up his chopsticks, and leaned side
ways, staring at the floor where her chair had been.
She made herself very busy with her chopsticks, trying to fix them in her grip in the same relaxed way as him, and not in the clumsy way of the peasant she was. “I suppose … if we were normal people, I’d ask you what you did today,” she said, trying to distract him. She managed to get some rice into her mouth.
Success!
“But I’m not sure I want to know.” She risked a glance over at him.
He chewed, watching her dispassionately.
“And I think I’m far less interesting than I used to be. Real estate really isn’t all that fun to talk about unless you’re selling the high-ticket stuff, but I guess mine is a respectable enough job. Who would have ever thought that I’d be respectable?” She scoffed.
He was still staring at her in that inscrutable way. Still chewing.
“I suppose I do want to be, and not just because Clarissa told me to be good. I think we all have to grow up at some point. Don’t you agree?”
A nod from him. Better than nothing, but the silence was killer. If she touched him, she could get into his head and hear his thoughts, and that would be better than nothing. He wouldn’t be speaking with his voice—his deep, thunderous bass that always made her squirm in good ways—but at least they’d be able to communicate.
No.
Touching him was dangerous. She’d trigger more painful neediness in him, and she’d want more, and she couldn’t have more.
Setting down her chopsticks, she grimaced. “Earlier, I got caught up in some traffic and needed three light changes to make a left turn. Gave me a chance to do some thinking.”
He made a go on gesture with his chopsticks.
“I think I’m ready to get the hell out of this place. I gave Vegas a good try, but the city’s not quite right for me.”
He pressed food into her mouth using his own utensils, and she laughed around a mouthful of fish and rice.
“Quit it. I’m not going to shrivel up and die because I ate one meal too slowly.”
Another mouthful forced in.