City of the Lost: Part Six

by Kelley Armstrong

  I pause, because I'm thinking that I had both, a few minutes ago, and I'd been very much enjoying them. However, given the fact I'm supposed to be recuperating ... Yes, I suspect there's a limit to how much longer we could have gone before we hit stitch-ripping territory.

  I look over at Dalton. He sighs, ever so softly.

  "Go make coffee," he says to Anders. "And grab the rest of the pie."

  We play cards for a couple of hours, up on my bed. We talk about the case, too--about my interviews that day.

  I can't mention Jacob with Anders there. I'm glad of that, because even thinking about him reminds me of what Dalton's told me about his past, and I'm trying not to dwell on that. He says he doesn't talk about it because he doesn't want to be treated like more of a freak than he already is. But I think there's more to it. He doesn't want anyone looking that deep.

  I suppose hiding his past is easy enough. No one in Rockton was around when Dalton was brought in from the forest. People have cycled through many times since then. The Daltons must have made sure the story didn't circulate beyond those who'd been present. Dalton got to keep his secret and put forward the face he wants seen: born and bred in Rockton. The truth is so much more complicated. To even think of it--a boy ripped from his family, ripped from his life...

  It was kidnapping, pure and simple. Yet not pure and simple, because the Daltons honestly thought they were doing the right thing, saving a wild boy from his savage family and giving him a better life. And it was, in some ways, a better life, and that's part of the complication. What was it like for Dalton? To realize now, as an adult, that he'd been kidnapped ... and that he'd come to love his kidnappers and consider them his parents.

  So, yes, complicated. For now, I'll stick with mindless card games. Of course, that has to come to an end--along with the pie and a pot of coffee. Anders leaves, and when he's gone, Dalton heads out of the bedroom, saying, "I'll lock the front door."

  "After you leave, right?"

  He turns slowly, looking at me as if he's really hoping I'm joking. When I say, "I think you should go," he stands there, not moving, then he runs one hand through his hair as he says, "Fuck, I thought we were ..."

  He tries to straighten, to pull his usual don't-give-a-shit attitude back into place, but he doesn't quite manage it and finally shakes his head and says, "Took a few rounds of cards to sink in, huh? Okay. That's ..." He exhales sharply, his eyes finding their steel. "Goddamn it, Casey, don't fuck with me. I don't know those games, and I sure as hell don't care to learn them. If you don't want me--"

  "Oh, but I do, which is the problem." I stretch out on the bed. "Three problems, actually." I point to my injuries. "I'm ordering you out because I don't want to explain to Beth how I ripped my wounds open without getting out of bed."

  It takes a moment to sink in. Then he grins. "Okay, then. I'll behave myself."

  "It's not you I'm worried about."

  He turns then, and his grin is something new, a little bit wicked and a whole lot pleased.

  "I suppose my stitches can be re-sewn," I say.

  "And add a few more days onto your recuperation? No. I'll stay in my chair. You stay in your bed."

  "All right, then."

  I start to peel off my shirt. I get it halfway over my head and he's there, tugging it back down.

  "None of that," he says.

  "You don't think I sleep in my clothes, do you?"

  "Tonight you will. I'll keep mine on, too."

  "Mmm, you don't have to do that." I reach over and slide my hands under his shirt. I have it off before he realizes he should probably stop me. Then I chuck it across the room, tug him onto the bed, and straddle him, my hands on his face, tilting it up.

  "No ..." he says.

  "What? I'm just getting a look at you." I run my fingers over his beard shadow. "You've stopped shaving."

  "Yeah, got a little busy. I'll do it in the morning."

  "That wasn't a complaint. I was really hoping clean-shaven wasn't a new look for you."

  His brows crease and then he grunts and says, "Right."

  "I'm guessing you did it for our trip."

  There's this long, awkward pause, his gaze shifting from mine. "Yeah, I just ... I wanted to look more ..."

  "--presentable for going to town."

  He exhales, and nods quickly. "Right." And I realize that wasn't the reason at all, and I think of that trip, of the drive up to the lookout, with the bonfire, and I realize he sure as hell wouldn't have taken Anders up there.

  "Well," I say, "if I have any say in the matter, I like you this way."

  I bend and kiss him, and he kisses me back, a kiss that gets deeper by the second, until I accidentally wince as my chest wound stretches.

  "Goddamn it," he says, backing up.

  I start to slide out of my shirt again. He hesitates and then yanks it down, growling under his breath.

  "Am I being difficult?" I say.

  "Yes. Very." A mock scowl as he moves me off his lap.

  "Huh. It's been a long time since I've been difficult. You're good for me, you know that?"

  He shakes his head and retrieves his shirt. When he comes back, I whisk it out of his hands and sit on it.

  "I like you better that way, too," I say.

  He gives a growl of frustration.

  I widen my eyes. "What? You're always telling me I should want more. Now I want something. Badly."

  He picks me up. Carries me to the balcony and deposits me on the mattress.

  "Mmm, even better," I say. "Fresh air and--"

  "Your neighbours are out."

  "Ask me if I care."

  He tries to give me a stern look and then bursts into a snorting laugh, sits down beside me, and pulls me over to him.

  "The answer, Casey Butler, is no. You know it is, and you're having some fun with me, which is ..." He lowers his face until it's right in front of mine. "Fucking wonderful to see. Also, very hot. But the answer is still no. Now, do you want me to finish my story about the fox?"

  "Um, no, I want you to--"

  "After."

  I lift my brows. "After as in 'after the story'? Or as in 'at some distant point in the future'?"

  "After the story. Not sex, either, because once we start that, as gentle as I might plan to be, there are going to be stitches ripped. Guaranteed."

  I grin. "Oh, I like the sound of--"

  "No. But if you're still interested after the story, I'm sure I can find something less strenuous to help you sleep."

  My grin grows.

  "I take it that's a yes," he says. "Good. Now lie down and get comfortable. And not one word--or anything else--until the story is done."

  Seven

  I wake on my balcony with the birds singing, sunlight streaming down, a brisk breeze bringing the tang of evergreens and another smell, an unfamiliar one, the sharp smell of soap, from the arms wrapped around me and the bare chest against my cheek, and I stretch smiling, only to realize my sweatpants are still on, which means...

  "Fuck," I whisper.

  "Mmm?" Dalton says.

  "I fell asleep."

  A chuckle ripples through his chest. "Yep."

  I lift my head to look up at him. "You knew I would."

  He arches his brows.

  "That damn story went on forever, and you knew I'd fall asleep."

  "You needed your rest."

  "Yeah? You know what I needed even more?"

  I arch my brows, and he laughs.

  "Oh, that's funny, is it?" I push up. "You know what I call it? A tease. Offer a girl--"

  "Still stands."

  "What?"

  He pulls me down again. "Offer still stands."

  He tries to bring me into a kiss, but I resist, my eyes narrowing. "Let me guess. If I listen to another of your interminable stories--"

  "I thought you liked my stories."

  "Not as much as I like what you offered after it."

  He chuckles. "I don't think I specified the nat
ure of that offer."

  "Anything will do."

  He laughs then and pulls me up onto him as he rolls onto his back. "I like the sound of that. So you still want to take me up on the offer? No story required."

  "Hell, yeah."

  "Then tell me what you want, and it's yours."

  I grin. "I like the sound of that."

  "Casey?" a voice calls. It's Beth, coming through my bedroom door. I scramble off Dalton so fast I nearly double over in pain.

  "Goddamn it," he says, catching me and aiming a glare through the balcony glass.

  "You forgot to lock the front door," I say.

  "Doesn't do any fucking good."

  The morning sun must be casting a glare on the glass, because Beth opens the balcony doors, squinting with a tentative, "Casey?" Then she sees Dalton and recoils fast.

  "Does anyone in this goddamn town know how to knock?" he says, brushing past her as he stalks inside to grab his shirt.

  "I did," she says. "No one answered--"

  "Then take the hint." He yanks on the shirt and heads for the door. "Check Casey out. I'll start the coffee."

  He's gone, and she's staring after him. Then she turns to me, and I feel like I'm sixteen, caught with a boy in my room.

  "Sorry," I say. "He was, uh, staying to make sure I was okay. We went outside to see the, uh, fox."

  I shouldn't need to make excuses. But Beth's staring at me, and all I can think about is her warning me away from Dalton. I consider her a friend, and it feels wrong to get caught like this when I haven't breathed a word of it to her. Except there hasn't been a word to breathe. Whatever I felt, I've never been the sort to confide in friends that way. Let's be honest--I've never needed to, because I've never felt like this.

  "The stitches seem fine," I say, as if that's an excuse. See, we didn't actually have sex.

  I go inside and let her examine me. She doesn't say a word. When Dalton comes with coffee, I'm sitting on the bed in my bra and panties. He kicks open the door, his hands full, and Beth jumps to say, "Casey's--" but he notices my state of undress and walks in anyway, and I guess that answers any lingering question.

  This is the first time he's seen quite so much of me, and while it shouldn't be the circumstances I want, it actually is, because nothing can put a damper on a hot-and-heavy moment faster than pulling off a girl's clothing to see scar tissue.

  He just walks over and hands me my coffee. Then he sits in his chair until Beth goes to wet a cloth for the dried blood. He waits until he hears her footsteps on the stairs, then he's there, leaning over to kiss me, his hands running up my sides, and normally, when guys do that, they make some effort to avoid the scars. Dalton runs his hands over me, everywhere, as we kiss. Then Beth's footsteps sound on the stairs again and he's back in his chair before she comes in.

  When she finishes her checkup, Dalton asks before I do, "How long until I get my detective back on her feet?" and Beth hesitates, as if she suspects this isn't really what he's asking.

  "I should be up and around today," I say. "Everything's healing. I'd like some non-opiate painkillers, but otherwise I'm good to go."

  "I'd rather you wait another day, Casey," Beth says.

  "I feel fine." Which is a lie, but I have a high pain threshold and low sitting-on-my-ass threshold.

  "Stay in bed this morning," Dalton says. "Get up after lunch. See how it goes."

  "Nothing too strenuous, though," Beth says.

  "Sure," I say. Dalton sneaks me a quirk of a smile behind Beth's back. I cross my fingers, and he chuckles. She turns at the sound, but he's stone-faced again, sipping his coffee.

  "Casey has something she wants to talk to you about," he says. "I'm going to let her do that while I make a few stops. I'll bring back breakfast for the patient."

  He walks over and brushes his lips across my forehead, and I guess that means we definitely aren't hiding. Dalton isn't the sneaking-in-shadows type, and I understand that better now--he has so much he conceals that the rest is on the table, take it or leave it, no excuses.

  He leaves. I get dressed, and I'm sliding into bed when Beth says, "I don't mean to pry, Casey ..."

  Then don't is what I want to say. But I know she means well.

  "Yes, you warned me," I say. "And I had no intention of anything happening with Eric. It just ... did."

  "It shouldn't have." Her voice is sharper than I expect, and when I look over, her face is drawn with worry. "I'm sorry, Casey. I hate to interfere, but this is a bad idea."

  I prop up on my pillows. "You're concerned for him. I get that. But I would never do anything to hurt Eric."

  "It's not Eric I'm worried about."

  That surprises me, and I look over to see those worry lines etched deeper.

  "Eric is a friend," she says. "And as a friend, I only want the best for him. But I consider you a friend, too, Casey, and there are things about Eric ... It's not as simple as it seems. He's not as simple as he seems."

  "I know."

  Her look sharpens to impatience then. "You can say that, but you really don't. I have his medical file. There are aspects to his past ..." She straightens. "There are things in his past that he does not talk about. Absolutely does not. I attempted to broach it once, and he shut me down so fast I nearly got whiplash."

  His medical files. Of course. He may have had health issues when he arrived in Rockton. If there is one record of Dalton's past, that's where it would be.

  "If you mean how he got to Rockton ..." I say carefully.

  "That he's lived here all his life?" She shakes her head. "He hasn't, Casey, and I can't tell you any more than that, except that what happened to him before that means he's a deeply damaged man and--"

  "I know."

  "You don't. I'm sorry. I don't mean to be harsh, but--"

  "His files show that he wasn't born in Rockton," I say. "They tell where he was born. How he lived as a child. How he ended up here."

  She has her mouth open as if she was ready to argue before I got a word out. Now she stares at me, open-mouthed, and says, "He told you," and I see her expression, and I wish to God I'd just kept my damned mouth shut. She's been his friend for years, and he refused to acknowledge what happened, and now he's spilling his guts to someone he met a few weeks ago.

  She straightens. "Yes, of course. That's Eric. If he's going to ... get involved with you, he's going to make sure you know what you're getting into. He's a good man, Casey. But he's also dealing with some serious psychological issues. I think the damage can be fixed. It takes years, though, and as hard as I've been trying, I'm not sure I've made any inroads."

  "Do they need to be made?" I say, as gently as I can. "I know there's damage. Hell, I know all about damage. But Eric's is a different kind. I'm not convinced it's something that needs to be fixed. I think it just needs to be understood."

  "He can't live this way forever, Casey, stuck up in this town, a thousand miles from everything. It's not natural."

  "It is for him. He's happy--"

  "No, he's convinced himself he's happy. He could do so much more. Be so much more."

  I bite my tongue because I can see I'm not going to change her mind. I remember Dalton talking about women from his past trying to "fix" him, and while he's never been romantically involved with Beth, the dynamics are the same, and that saddens me, because I expected better of her.

  No, that's not fair. She's a doctor, and it's her job to fix people. She just doesn't see that this problem doesn't need mending, and I can't tell her so because that would be incredibly egotistical of me--the newcomer who claims to better understand a man Beth has known for years.

  So I say, "Maybe. I don't know. Right now, though, there's something else I'd like to speak to you about."

  I ask her about schizophrenia. I stick to my hypotheticals. Beth might know about Dalton's past, but there'd be no reason to mention Jacob in those files.

  Unfortunately, Beth doesn't know much about the condition. Less than I do, it seems. She's
a medical doctor, not a psychiatrist. I make a note that I'll need to bite the bullet and speak to Isabel instead.

  "Do you know anything about ergot poisoning?" I ask next.

  She frowns. "I believe it's connected to a fungus that can infect rye."

  "Right. It's one of the possible explanations for the hysteria surrounding the Salem witch trials."

  I somehow manage to say this as if I know exactly what I'm talking about. Because, you know, in my old life, I devoted myself to expanding my knowledge of the world, chasing any esoteric tidbit that interested me. Sadly, no ... That would be Dalton, the guy who reads about ancient Mongols in his spare time.

  Dalton had suggested this theory. Not ergot poisoning specifically, because there's no rye growing here. But he'd wondered if some environmental poison could be responsible for Jacob's sudden and violent personality shift.

  Dalton had listed off a half-dozen things in the forest that could cause mental confusion and hallucinations. Beth knows nothing about any of them. I'll add this to the items for Dalton to research when he takes Diana to Dawson City.

  We talk for a little longer. The subject of Dalton doesn't resurface, and I'm relieved. I value Beth as a friend, and by the time she leaves, I feel that's been put aside, at least for now.

  Dalton brings breakfast. He can't stay long. We're sitting on the bed, propped up against the headboard.

  "Fucking council wants me to get my ass to Dawson City."

  "To escort Diana."

  "Yeah." His tone softens as he looks at me. "About that ... how are you doing?"

  "Trying very hard not to think about it."

  He nods, and I know what he's thinking, so I say it for him. "I need to talk to her, don't I? Try for some closure."

  "Yeah."

  "I'll do it before you leave."

  "Before we leave. You're coming with me. I told the council you have more to research. They agreed to postpone the trip until this afternoon, and then we'll stay overnight in Dawson City. At the inn. Where no one can barge in the goddamn door."

  "Ah, so that's your real plan. Not that you value my research skills. You just want sex."

  "Damn straight."

  He tugs me onto his lap. I turn to straddle him, and he smiles and says, "Even better," and pulls me into a kiss. It takes less than thirty seconds to get both of us shirtless, him fumbling with my bra before giving up and pushing it over my head, and then his hands are on my breasts and damn, that feels--

  A distant knock sounds on the front door.

  "Ignore it," Dalton says, still kissing me.