Tested in Fire

by E. J. Russell

  Stroke. Brain trauma. Right. Had Signor DiBartolo’s memories of Stefan been altered somehow? Or maybe he objected to Stefan touching Antoinette, since he couldn’t do it anymore himself.

  Rudy captured Signor DiBartolo’s still-flailing arm. “Ms. A, before you go, could you come hold his hand, so I can check his vitals. He may need the good stuff tonight, since he’s not cooperating like he usually does.”

  Stefan paused in the doorway. “I’ll put the kettle on, Antoinette.”

  “No, Stefan. You go back to your studio. I think I will sit with Jacques for a while yet.” Antoinette picked her way through the broken glass and took Signor DiBartolo’s hand although she didn’t sit next to him on the bed as she normally did. Maybe she was afraid of getting clocked in the head too.

  Stefan squinted in the low light. The muscles in her forearm—defined from her work with heavy clay—strained, her knuckles whitening. Was Signor DiBartolo fighting her that fiercely?

  “If that’s what you want. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Stefan backed out the door, his gaze caught by Signor DiBartolo’s. Was he pleading? Accusing? Threatening? Rudy wrapped a blood pressure cuff around Signor DiBartolo’s arm. Stefan turned away, closing the door behind him as Signor DiBartolo let out another wail.

  Stefan leaned his head against the door, the wood cool against his forehead. Christ, how awful for Antoinette to see Signor DiBartolo like this. To know she couldn’t do anything to make him better. That he’d never stand by her side again.

  Antoinette’s situation put Stefan’s argument with Luke in perspective. Yeah, he and Luke had their disagreements, but at least they could hash them out. Compromise. Build a future.

  Stefan strode out of the apartment, across the balcony, and snatched up the bag of supplies. The next time he saw Luke—and it had better be soon—they’d damn well start hashing. Because nobody could be sure how much time they had left.

  The door closed behind Stefan, and Luke couldn’t do a damn thing about it, not with Antoinette gripping his hand like a vise and Rudy—who looked impossibly big from this viewpoint—looming behind her. He tossed his head from side to side, not wanting to see the bitch’s face. He wanted to scream, to cry, to rip the place apart.

  Anger. Red, hot, and roaring. He needed to hold onto that or he’d give in to despair, and he refused to let these two whatever-the-hell they were—sorcerers? Ghouls? Vampires? It hardly mattered. They’re not winning. Not on my watch.

  But if he couldn’t get to Stefan—if Stefan couldn’t get to him—how the hell could he convince anyone what had happened? He couldn’t speak. If he somehow managed to get hold of a pad and paper, he doubted he could write anything intelligible. For one thing, his right hand was fucking weak. He couldn’t even muster enough strength to crush Antoinette’s fragile fingers the way he wanted.

  For another, he was left-handed. Nobody could read what he wrote with his right hand when he wasn’t trapped in another guy’s useless body.

  And for another—who else but Stefan, who’d seen evidence of freaky shit before, would believe him?

  Rudy grabbed a broom from behind the door. “My gracious, Ms. A, I haven’t seen him this fussed since the first week we brought him home from the hospital.” He swept up the glass with quick efficient movements, tossing the shards into the metal wastebasket with a sharp rattle and clash. “Did something happen today to set him off?”

  “I . . . I don’t think so.”

  Liar!

  Rudy waved one giant hand. “I’ll add the good stuff to his IV drip tonight, but we don’t want to fall back on it too much. The doctor wants to wean him off it before we get him into speech and physical therapy.”

  She stared down at Luke, eyes big and dark in her narrow face. “Do you think he will . . .? Is it likely he will be able to do any physical therapy? Will he be able to regain his speech?”

  That’s right, sister. Imagining what I’ll say when I can finally talk?

  “Miracles can happen, sugar. We’ve got the best folks on our team. They’ll do everything they can for him.” Rudy patted her shoulder. “I’ll just take this down to the trash. You want to get out a pair of fresh PJs for him? I’ll get him washed up and ready for the night after his dinner.”

  Antoinette nodded, her fingers tightening on Luke’s hand. As soon as Rudy bustled out, however, she dropped it like a hot rock. She paced across the floor, wringing her hands again like some character in a Gothic novel. “I am sorry. I only wanted to speak with him. To ask him what to do. What arrangements he wanted to make for the end.”

  Luke growled, pleased that the sound reflected his disgust at her naïveté. You really thought he’d go for that when he had another choice? You are seriously deluded.

  “He keeps so many secrets from me. More now than before. If he sent for his mask, then he must have already had plans . . .”

  She stopped her aimless patrolling in front of the armoire and opened its massive doors wide. From what Luke could see of the contents stacked neatly on the shelves and hanging on hooks—silk and lace and pastel—he guessed this wasn’t DiBartolo’s usual crib. Antoinette must have installed him here after his stroke to make it easier for her to care for him while she still managed her business.

  From the top shelf, she pulled a bundled of striped cotton that matched the pajamas Luke was currently wearing. As she turned, her shoulder brushed a silk brocade shawl that was hanging from a hook inside the armoire door. The fabric slithered to the floor.

  Luke’s heart gave a painful thump, and he whimpered. Because there, hanging on the inside of the wardrobe . . .

  His face. His own face.

  That’s what she was doing with the mud. She was taking a mold of my face. The mask wasn’t fired ceramic or painted. Just plain white plaster. But above it hung a very different mask.

  If Luke was any judge—and he was, damn it, no matter what skin he was wearing—this one was definitely Antoinette’s work. However, it was fired and painted with her usual exquisite care.

  DiBartolo.

  Although a DiBartolo with smoother skin and darker eyebrows than the current model. A DiBartolo at least twenty years younger.

  Luke pounded the blankets with his pitifully weak fist, uttering another of those inhuman howls.

  She clutched the pajamas to her thin chest, her gaze darting from Luke to the two masks. “I am sorry. Truly. If I had known—”

  “Ms. A?” Rudy’s voice boomed from down the hall. “Everything okay in there?”

  “Yes, thank you, Rudy.” She placed the pajamas on the bed, on top of Luke’s right foot. “We are fine.”

  Like hell we are. He kicked out, knocking the pajamas to the floor. For such a trivial gesture, his chest swelled with disproportionate satisfaction. If all I can do is be a nuisance, I intend to be as big a nuisance as possible. Because why the fuck should I cooperate with goddamned body snatchers?

  She retrieved the shawl and covered the masks again, then shut the armoire. She picked up the pajamas, smoothing them against her belly. “I know you are angry.” Gee, you think? “But Jacques . . . I will try to make him see reason.”

  From her tone of voice, she didn’t seem to think it was very likely—and Luke agreed. The DiBartolo he’d met clearly wasn’t interested in anybody’s interests but his own, no matter what illusions Antoinette might hold about his affections.

  Luke’s blood turned to ice. Affections. Shit. That SOB was walking around in Luke’s body. Who knew what he’d do, what kind of mayhem he’d cause? And with whom?

  If he touches Stefan . . .

  But what would stop him? Stefan would have no reason not to trust Luke—or rather someone wearing Luke’s body. DiBartolo could get close to Stef—even into his bed—and Stef wouldn’t suspect.

  Luke thrashed in the bed, kicking with his one mobile foot, pounding with his only functional hand. No no no. Why had he fought with Stefan yesterday? Their last words had been acrimonious. Would they be the last words they’d ever s
ay to one another?

  No no no again!

  He tried to force himself to calm down, despite the alarm spiking in his veins. Maybe the angry words were a good thing. If DiBartolo pursued his own agenda and avoided Stefan, maybe Stef would chalk it up to Luke reverting to his old asshole behavior.

  Better he hates me than be victimized by this pair of psychopaths.

  Rudy returned with some kind of vile chartreuse concoction in a tall glass. “Look what I have here, Mr. D. A scrumptious avocado-kale shake. Yum yum, am I right?” Luke eyed the thing with revulsion, which must have shown on his alien features, because Rudy clucked his tongue. “Don’t be like that.” He set the glass on the bedside table. “Doctor wants to see some good progress by your next appointment.”

  Antoinette sidled up to the big man. “I don’t know how long I can manage him, Rudy.”

  Rudy cocked his head, a frown marring his wide forehead. “You were so fierce about it, though, sugar. When doctor recommended the care center, you insisted on the home option.”

  “I know. But . . .” She gazed down at Luke, and he tried his best to bare his teeth at her. “He’s changed.”

  Damn straight. And whose fault is that, you two-faced bitch?

  Rudy patted her shoulder. “Let’s not rush into anything. Doctor gave you all the options. Everything’s on the table, same as before. But if Mr. D’s having a rough patch . . . well, we all have our days, don’t we?”

  “Perhaps.” Her gaze flicked to the armoire.

  “You leave him to me. Take a break. I don’t mind staying a little longer.” He placed a finger in front of his lips. “And I won’t say a thing.”

  “Thank you, Rudy, but—”

  “Ah ah ah. I insist.” He placed a hand on her back and guided her, unresisting, out of the room. “Even if it’s just an hour or two. Mr. D and I will manage fine.”

  She spared Luke one last glance before Rudy closed the door behind her. Rudy turned, propping his fists on his hips.

  “Now, then, Mr. D. You can fuss at me as much as you like. I can take it. But Ms. A is trying her best. And what did you mean by lashing out at our sweet Steffie? That’s not like you.” He advanced on the bed, taking Luke’s wrist with surprisingly gentle fingers. “See that? Your pulse is all over the place. Do you need the good stuff now?”

  So Really Big Nurse isn’t in on the conspiracy? Luke shook his head slowly. See? I’m calm.

  Rudy patted his hand. “That’s more like it. Let’s get some dinner into you, then get you settled for the night. I’ve got an awesome new audiobook for us to listen to during your bath.”

  Bath. Luke didn’t want to think about what this body looked like naked, especially with Rudy manhandling it as if it were a rag doll.

  Still. He could be an ally. Rudy might be solicitous of Antoinette, but DiBartolo—that is, Luke—was his patient.

  Somehow, Luke needed to figure out how to make that work to his advantage.

  For once, Stefan locked the studio door after he entered, then leaned against it, staring at the lengthening shadows on the distant ceiling. Christ. Signor DiBartolo’s eyes. He had a feeling they’d haunt his dreams tonight.

  A muffled thump from the loft made him jerk away from the door, heart stuttering.

  “Who—” His voice shook, so he cleared his throat and tried again. “Who’s there?”

  With a muttered curse and another muffled thump, Luke appeared at the railing. “Caught me.”

  “Shit.” Stefan pressed a hand against his chest, where his heart still galloped. Usually when Luke waited for him in the loft, he was naked, wearing nothing but a glint in his eye. But this time, he was fully clothed, his khaki jacket slung around his shoulders. “You scared me.”

  Luke spread his hands, palms up. “Sorry.”

  “No. My fault. I’m on edge. I didn’t expect to see you again tonight after . . .” Stefan gestured toward the door.

  “Perhaps we both overreacted, no?” Luke strolled down the spiral staircase, running his hand along the railing like a caress.

  “Yeah. Maybe.” Stefan headed across the room. “Hold on. I’ll come up. We need to talk.”

  “Words to chill the soul. Best stay where you are. Perhaps we should be on ground level for this chat.”

  Stefan slowed next to his easel. “That’s a first.”

  “Meaning?”

  “You not wanting to be in proximity of the bed when make-up sex is on the table.”

  Even though Luke was still halfway up the stairs, Stefan could see the distaste cross his face, as if he’d smelled something repulsive. “Is it? On the table?”

  Stefan toyed with a paintbrush, threading the handle through his fingers. “Could be. I just got a wake-up call. There are some things I want to get clear between us, though.”

  “Hmmm.” Luke descended the rest of the stairs but instead of crossing to Stefan, he took a detour to the worktable, his limp more pronounced than usual.

  The limp caused a lump to rise in Stefan’s throat, but the avoidance made his heart stumble in his chest. Luke had been close to dying before. He could be again. That was the nature of accidents—they were unplanned. They surprised you. Marius hadn’t planned to crash his plane. Stefan could accept that now.

  Luke flicked Stefan’s sketch pad. “Is this the table in question?”

  “What?”

  “The table sex is on.”

  Stefan frowned, unease creeping up his spine. He set his brush back on the easel. “You know, you pick up European inflections whenever you come back from a trip. It’s kind of freaky.”

  Luke shrugged. “You do the same thing when you’re around Ton—Antoinette.”

  Stefan considered it, trying to hear his own voice in his head. “I don’t.” Luke raised one eyebrow. “Okay. Maybe I do.” Stefan took a deep breath. “Look. I’m sorry about—”

  Luke held up a sketch of himself, one of the treatments Stefan had done before the trip to Italy. “You intend to paint these?”

  “You know I do, but I need you to pose again. If it . . .” Stefan could make this compromise at least. “If it bothers you, though, I don’t have to.”

  Luke tossed the sketch on the table with a flick of his wrist, a smile curling his mouth, eyes half-lidded. “Why should it bother me?” He shrugged his jacket off his shoulders, letting it fall onto the cement floor, then popped the top button on the blue Oxford shirt, his eyes locked on Stefan’s as if daring him to say “stop.”

  Stefan swallowed against the dryness in his mouth and wondered why the feeling in his stomach wasn’t excitement or relief. Why his cock remained limp inside his briefs.

  Luke finished unbuttoning the shirt and dropped it on top of the jacket. He sauntered toward the dais, unbuckling his belt and kicking off his loafers along the way. At the edge of the dais, he turned and held Stefan’s gaze as he shucked his pants and boxers down his legs in one swift motion, skinning his socks off his feet as he discarded the pants.

  He climbed on the dais and hit the pose in the sketch. “Like this?”

  “Uh . . . yeah. That’s the—the idea.”

  He turned his head, a smirk lifting one corner of his lips. “Then shall we begin?”

  Stefan picked up his sketch pad and began to capture Luke’s pose with his usual efficiency—the familiar lines of Luke’s torso, the cut of his hips, the angle of his jaw. But . . . This isn’t right. Something’s off, and it’s not just the fallout from our disagreement. Stefan stepped behind his easel, suddenly needing to put a barrier between himself and Luke. He peered around the big blank canvas, gaze bouncing from Luke to his sketch.

  Luke wasn’t flushed and scowling as he had been during their last session. He didn’t angle himself away from Stefan, trying to hide his scars. Instead, he stood straight, shoulders back, knee cocked, arms relaxed. He wasn’t looking at Stefan anymore, though. Instead, he met his own gaze in the mirror over the worktable.

  And smiled.

  The hair on Stefan�
�s arms sprang to attention as if he was standing in a static electricity vortex, and his charcoal stick snapped in his fingers. “I . . . uh . . . I forgot. I can’t finish this now. I have another. Model. That is, another appointment in a few minutes. And I promised Antoinette I’d monitor the kiln tonight. Maybe we can pick this up tomorrow?”

  Luke stepped off the dais, seemingly still unconcerned by his nudity. “Of course. Sex on the table must wait as well, eh?”

  “Uh . . . right.” Stefan turned to the sink to wash the charcoal off his hands. The water screamed coming out of the faucet from the chronic air in the pipes. The sound must have masked Luke’s movement because when Stefan turned off the water and straightened to dry his hands, he felt the heat of Luke’s still-bare chest behind him.

  Ordinarily, Stefan would have leaned back into Luke’s embrace. But something held him frozen, hands tangled in the threadbare towel, and he heard a long indrawn breath.

  “You smell like the fields.”

  He had to force himself not to shrink away. “I think it’s just the soap.”

  “No. You smell like work. Male. Strong. A challenge.”

  From the corner of his eye, Stefan saw Luke’s hand raise as if to stroke his arm. He stumbled sideways, heart tripping over itself as if it wanted to escape too. “Are you— That is, do you plan to come by tomorrow?”

  Luke stepped closer, still naked, and obviously turned on. But the look on his face wasn’t the familiar expression of desire. It was hard, almost hostile.

  Stefan shuffled backward. “You probably should get dressed. The model could be here any time.”

  Luke followed, stalking Stefan like a big cat. “I thought you promised to observe the kiln. Surely, if you can do both, you have time for . . . other things.”

  “Ah, nope. Really don’t. Besides, we need to talk first. A lot.”