by Harper, Lou
He held it up triumphantly. "You like tuna, Murry?"
"Meow."
Denton opened the can and emptied its contents into a bowl, which he placed on the floor, next to the fridge. Murry fell on it as if he'd been starving—highly unlikely, judging by his girth. Denton filled another bowl with water and put it on the floor too.
While the cat ate, Denton ambled into the living room. One of the windows was open a few inches. He thought he'd closed them all before going out, but he could've been mistaken. He pushed the window up farther and stuck his head out. The distance between his fire escape and his neighbor's balcony had to be a good ten feet at least. It was hard to imagine Murry, as stout he was, soaring over the space, but obviously he had. He must have been after the pigeons that liked to hang out there. He'd been lucky not to miss the ledge—they were three stories up, and even for a cat landing on his feet, it would've been quite a fall. He could've been hurt.
A cold, wet sensation on his leg made Denton yank his head back inside, only to see Murry sniffing him. Denton slammed the window shut before his guest could get the idea to leave the way he came. "You shouldn't be making such big jumps. It's dangerous."
Unaffected by the lecture, Murry hopped onto an armchair and curled into a ball.
Denton pulled on his jeans and walked next door, but his knocks went unanswered. B. Maurell must have been out. Made sense—he sure would've noticed his giant fur ball missing otherwise.
After a shower and a breakfast of sugar-frosted cereal, Denton plopped down in front of the computer in the corner of the living room and checked his email. He found a message from Joy, with instructions for their latest project. That was the other thing about being a freelancer—no weekends. On the other hand, he made his own hours. He downloaded the files from the server and set to work. Setting up the site structure first, he began work on the CSS templates. He prided himself in coding clean and lean. Murry stayed in his chair, curled up in the shape of a furry donut, but his eyes remained open to a slit, as if he was keeping Denton under observation.
Murry didn't as much as twitch a muscle for the next hour and a half, but when he did, he went from sleep to fully alert in half a second. Looking up to see what had stirred the cat, Denton became aware of the faint rattling of keys and a door closing. His neighbor must have returned. Time to meet the surly and mysterious Mr. B. Maurell.
He stood and scooped up the cat. "C'mon, Murry, time to go home. Ugh, you're heavy."
Murry's meow sounded indignant, but he didn't object to being held. Denton made sure he supported Murry's butt with his arm—cats hated dangling, and Murry had plenty to support.
Chapter Two
The man opening the door radiated a presence more intense than a triple-chocolate fudge cake. Seeing him up close, Denton decided B. Maurell couldn't be called traditionally handsome—all his features were too strongly drawn for it—yet it was hard not to be engrossed by his face. Sharp cheekbones and a prominent nose contrasted with sensuously full lips. The heavy brows and shoulder-length black hair lent him a somber air, but his eyes made the biggest impression on Denton. They were as dark as the deepest trenches of the ocean where the sun doesn't penetrate and strange creatures dwell. They also seemed to accuse Denton of unspeakable crimes. Catnapping, to begin with.
Eager to prove his innocence, Denton held Murry in front of him. "I have your cat. He must have jumped from your balcony to my fire escape. I found him sitting on my feet when I woke up."
Murry, a furry peace offering, hung between them for a beat before his owner reached out and took him. Those eyes focused on the cat for a moment, then back on Denton. "You fed him."
For absolutely no reason, a shiver ran through Denton, but he heroically ignored it. "It seemed a polite thing to do, and it's well before midnight. I didn't let him get wet."
B. Maurell either hadn't seen Gremlins or had no sense of humor. "He's on a diet." The warm baritone of his voice undermined the gruffness of the words.
"What kind? If it's Atkins, all's fine—I only gave him tuna, no carbs." Denton meant it as a joke and grinned like an idiot to bring the point home, but all he received in return was stony silence. Tough crowd. It was the point to turn around and leave, but he couldn't—the other man's eyes pulled him in with the force of magnets. He had to draw out the encounter any way he could. "I'm Denton. Denton Mills. Just moved in a few days ago. Renting the place from Miranda—she had to leave town in a hurry. Nothing to do with the mob, I've been assured. She said nice things about you, but not your name."
Another tick of measured silence hovered between them; then the sensuous lips parted. "Bran. Bran Maurell."
Such an unexpectedly normal name. Bran Maurell was a man of puzzling contradictions, and Denton loved puzzles. He wanted to know more. Murry, on the other hand, had clearly become bored with the whole affair. He twisted, and a second later, he was on the floor, trotting into the apartment, tail held high.
"Bye, Murry!" Denton shouted after him.
For the first time since the door had opened, the hint of an actual emotion, possibly surprise, registered on Bran's face. "What did you call him?"
"Murry. Not like Bill Murray. Without the 'A.' I asked him his name, and he made kind of a murr sound, so I figured I'd call him Murry. Cat is too impersonal, don't you think?"
The inner corners of Bran's eyebrows twitched up. "His name is Murmur, but if he didn't object to being called Murry, it's fine."
"Object?"
"He would've let you know." The words were as solemn as the man uttering them.
"Umm. Okay."
Bran stepped forward. "Thank you, Denton, for bringing Murmur home." He held out a hand, and Denton automatically met it with his own.
Bran Maurell had a confident grip. In Denton's experience, hands were usually just hands, but not in this case. The fleshy pads of Bran's palms awakened in Denton a sudden desire to feel them on other parts of his body. Sadly, Bran gave one last squeeze and let go. As he pulled back, a tendril of strange scent brushed against Denton's face—smoke and something fragrant but not flowery. The door closed with a click.
***
The encounter left Denton running hot and cold, and thoughts of Bran kept invading his mind. And not only because Denton was horny and lonely. He thought he'd glimpsed something else under Bran's reserved surface, and it wouldn't leave him alone. Bran Maurell was an enigma smothered in gravy.
When Joy called to discuss details of their newest project, Denton mentioned the meeting but said nothing about his conflicted feelings. If anything, he focused on Murry.
Joy wasn't fooled. Like a barn owl on a mouse, she swooped in on his secret. "You like the guy, don't you?"
"I…umm…he's interesting."
"Riiight. Listen here, Denny boy, you better find out who you're dealing with before you lose your heart and possibly other organs. He reminds me of an ex of mine. Mickey was the same, nose up in the air. I had all these romantic notions of him being Mr. Darcy, but he turned out to be just another arrogant prick. I was young then. I'm much wiser now. When somebody acts like a prick, that's because he is one."
"Okay, old lady. Maybe Bran has one of those social anxiety disorders."
"Uh-huh. Look, Den, go for the guy if you want—God knows, you need to get laid—but don't get in over your head till you get to know him better. That's all I'm saying."
"Thanks for your concern about my sex life."
"It's what friends are for. Hey, do you even know if he's gay?"
"Oh, I know. What I don't know is if he knows."
"That could be a problem."
"He's not easy to read."
"Well, he has an interesting face with lots of character—I'll give you that. And it's a good sign he has a cat. Stay away from cat haters—they're all control freaks."
"Thanks for the advice, Mom."
"Shut up, and be smart."
It was easy for her to say. Denton had never been smart about guys, always falling for
the ones who wouldn't give him the time of day, who thought he was too weird. Or if they didn't, they were already seriously involved with someone else. The last guy he'd had the hots for was shacked up with a vampire.
The next morning, Bran returned Denton's cheerful greeting with a lackluster, "Morning," before turning away and ignoring him. Denton knew he should ignore the guy right back, but instead he spent the next ten to fifteen minutes ogling Bran, imagining various scenarios of wardrobe malfunction caused by freak gusts of wind. Before retreating into his apartment, Bran flashed his eyes at Denton, who almost had an attack of guilty conscience. Bran couldn't have known what had played through Denton's mind, right?
They ran into each other a week later in front of the Balmoral—their building had had the name since its days as a hotel back in the twenties and thirties. At the time of this encounter, Denton was too distracted to pay proper attention to Bran. In addition to death traces, he also encountered what he called ghosts. He saw them as no more than murky shapes hanging in the air, but considering his special connection to the dead, it stood to reason they too were remnants of the no-longer living. Aside from being there, visible to him alone, they didn't do much. One of them happened to be a regular presence by the main entrance of the Balmoral. Any other time, Denton would've simply walked past it. However, on this occasion the shadow was doing something strange. It shook and vibrated as if agitated. Denton had only seen this sort of spectacle once before.
He became so absorbed by the phenomenon, it took him a while to realize Bran was scrutinizing him with equal attention. Denton did a quick recovery. "Hi, there. Nice day, isn't it?" He circled around the perturbed apparition and headed for the door.
"Yes," was all Bran said, but he kept his eyes on Denton for the whole three floors in the elevator. It wasn't a friendly look, more like one you give to a rare but ugly bug under glass.
Denton glared back at the sexy prick. Before he could think of something smart to say, the elevator jerked to a halt, the doors opened, and Bran was gone without a parting word. All he left behind was that smoky fragrance.
Denton wanted to kick himself and spent a whole afternoon thinking up opening lines in case the opportunity presented itself again. It happened sooner than he expected. Returning home from running errands the very next evening, he found Bran leaning against the wall between their doors. He wore a black button-down shirt and baggy black jeans. Denton realized, aside from the bathrobe, so far every time he'd seen the other man, Bran had been dressed in all black. Was it some affectation, or did he simply know it looked good on him? Because it did—except for the loose fit of the jeans. That was criminal.
"Good evening, neighborino," Denton said with a friendly smile, not leering at all.
Bran's expression turned surprised—no doubts about it this time. He pushed himself off the wall, and for a nanosecond, he seemed to flicker. Denton chalked it up to a trick of the fluorescent lights.
For a change, Bran appeared more flustered than arrogant. "Hey. I, umm, realized I hadn't thank you properly for rescuing Murry. Would you like coffee? Or tea?"
Denton could feel his face splitting into a grin. "Coffee will do."
***
Bran's place was bigger than Denton's, and it also had more windows.
"It's a corner apartment, right?" Denton asked as his host placed a tray of coffee, cream, and variety of sweeteners on the coffee table in front of him. Denton sat on the wide leather couch with his back to the balcony. The greenery spilled inside, continuing the jungle theme. He could smell their complex fragrance from the door, but it got stronger where he sat. It wasn't unpleasant.
"Yes." Bran settled in a chair across the table, eyes glued on Denton, who dumped brown sugar and cream into his cup.
Denton realized if they were to have a conversation, he'd have to work for it. "You have a lot of plants."
"Mostly herbs—in the botanical sense of the word."
Denton, who was clueless about plants in general, had no idea there were multiple definitions of the word and was about to ask, but Bran spoke first. "You work from home?"
"Yes, web development. Joy and I have been at it for a few years now. You might have seen her. Looks like a pixie. Joy's the one who hooked me up with this apartment. She and Miranda are friends."
Bran nodded. "Yes. I remember her. Short, blond, and full of energy."
So Bran didn't completely ignore other people, he only appeared to. Denton thought it was a promising sign. "What do you do?"
Bran sipped his coffee as if he needed time to decide the answer. "I'm a writer."
"Really? What do you write about?"
"Herbs."
"Oh. Well, that makes sense."
They were back to a subject Denton knew nothing about. Conversational quicksand stretched ahead, but Bran stood and walked to the bookshelves taking up most of one wall. He brought back a large hardcover and placed it in front of Denton. He even plopped down on the sofa.
The dustcover was thick matte paper the color of old parchments. A beautiful pencil drawing of a leafy plant and red flowers took up most of the front.
One thing was off, though. "Hey, it says here the author is Fey Blue."
"Pseudonym. My publisher suggested it. Readers trust female witches more."
Denton had been so busy admiring the cover graphic, he totally missed the title: Herbs for the Modern Witch. Okay, it was…unexpected, but it took more than casual sorcery to faze him. "So you're a witch?"
Denton squinted sideways at Bran, who returned it with his usual aplomb. "I moonlight as one on occasion. Mainly, I consider myself an herbalist."
Bran leaned forward, and their bodies nearly touched as he observed Denton flipping through the pages. From such close proximity, Denton could feel the heat of his body, and the awareness of it made concentrating on anything else difficult. However, he wanted to do the book justice. Every chapter started with an article about a given herb, presenting its scientific details, then giving various amusing anecdotes of its uses over the ages. Recipes and instructions for its use in spell-casting and potions followed. Drawings in the same style as the cover broke up the blocks of text.
"Nice illustrations," Denton noted.
"The one on the cover and a few others are from my grandmother's notebook. I did the others in the same style."
"Wow, you can draw. These are beautiful." Denton meant it too. He had no artistic skills, and he admired those who did.
A specter of a smile softened Bran's expression, and for a moment, Denton was sure Bran was going to lean closer and kiss him. The illusion shattered as Bran pushed himself off the sofa and got busy clearing away the coffee paraphernalia.
Denton figured it was the signal for him to shove off, so he slammed the book closed, harder than necessary, and stood. He made the customary I-must-be-going noises, and Bran made no effort to keep him. If anything, he seemed keen to be rid of Denton. But then, just as Denton stepped out the door, Bran laid a hand on his shoulder. The action startled Denton so much, he simply stared at the hand—a few dark hairs on the first knuckles. Only when Bran let him go did Denton look into the man's face.
"I'll be practicing my witchcraft tomorrow morning, crosstown. You could come and observe, if you wish."
"Okay."
"Good, I'll knock on your door at nine thirty."
Once again, Denton found himself staring at the closed door and the brass numbers spelling out 309.
"Holy mixed signals, Batman," he whispered to himself before heading to his own apartment.
Chapter Three
Next morning, Denton dressed with care. He put on a dark T-shirt with a graffiti-style graphic on its front. The cotton hugged him tight, a good fit with his skinny jeans. There was no use hiding his wiry body, so he played it up. Some guys were into it, so he'd been told.
Bran wore all black again, complete with a lightweight long coat, the lining of which flashed deep red as he moved. Impressive dramatic effect, Denton had t
o admit. As Bran's gaze slipped from Denton's face to his chest and to the clearly visible outline of a nipple ring through the thin fabric, Denton smothered a satisfied smirk.
Bran snatched his gaze away and adjusted the canvas messenger bag on his shoulder. "It's nippy out there. You should put on a coat."
Denton scowled at him but grabbed a jacket. They went downstairs to one of the few, and much coveted, covered parking spots in the basement of the building.
Denton didn't know much about cars, but he knew enough to see Bran's was one of the less glamorous classics. He spotted a familiar logo on the hood. "I wouldn't have figured this for a Volkswagen."
Bran patted the hood. "Karmann Ghia—was quite popular in its day."
The funny little car made Denton think of a cartoon French man with a pencil mustache. "Cute."
Bran unlocked the doors, and they got in. "My mother's. She left it behind when she moved to California. I don't drive it often. What do you have?"
"I don't drive. I have episodes." Yeah, like episodes of running into other people's final moments, which could make driving dangerous, but he wasn't going to disclose that detail. People simply assumed he meant epilepsy. It scared some off. Good riddance. The truth would've spooked them more.
Bran didn't look bothered, but then again, he was a closed book. His voice sounded calm too. "Is there anything I should know?"
"Like what?"
"What do I do if you have an episode?"
"Just don't let me fall down, but it rarely gets that bad."
"All right." Bran fired up the car, and they were off.
They pulled up in front of Sparks, one of the hot new restaurants in town. Denton had heard about the place from Joy. A CLOSED sign hung on the door. They parked by the curb, behind a late-model silver Mercedes. A paunchy and nervous middle-aged man popped out of it the moment Bran turned off the engine.