by Kate Serine
“Sorry,” Nicky said from where he leaned nonchalantly against the frame of the kitchen doorway. “Didn’t mean to scare your cat off again.”
“I didn’t even hear you come in,” I said, still breathless. “How long have you been standing there?”
He shrugged and pushed off the door frame. “I came in when I heard pans clattering around in here.”
My brows came together. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
He shrugged again as he came forward, looking a little unsteady on his feet. It was then I noticed he held the neck of a bottle of Legavulin in his hand. A mostly empty bottle of Legavulin. “Didn’t want to interrupt.” He plunked the bottle down on the counter of the kitchen island. “It’s been a long time since anyone has used this kitchen—kinda nice to see someone here.”
“It doesn’t look like it’s gone unused.” I shook my head a little, frowning in confusion. “The pantry’s fully stocked.”
He lifted a shoulder and let it drop. “Habit. Juliet loved to cook, so I always made sure she had everything she needed. First thing I did when I got back to town.”
“Was she a good cook?” I asked, noting the shadow of sadness that had passed over his face when he mentioned his dead wife.
He laughed that deep rumble that brought goose bumps to my skin. “No—everything she made tasted like shit.” He lifted the bottle and took a long pull of the amber liquid. “But it was her outlet, especially when she was pissed at me. So I felt I owed it to her to eat it.”
“Well,” I said, “I don’t know that I’m much of a cook either, but I’d be willing to share my hot chocolate with you, if you’d like some.”
His mouth lifted at one corner. “Thanks, doll.”
When I set his mug in front of him, he jerked his chin at it. “So, what’s doin’ with you? You’re practically dead on your feet. Why are you awake already?”
“Nightmare,” I said with a tight smile. “How about you? Why are you awake?”
His answering chuckle was filled with bitterness. “Haven’t been to sleep yet. I have a few nightmares of my own.”
I blew over the edge of my mug and took a tentative sip, then said, “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”
This managed to produce a true laugh, dissipating the shadow of sadness in his eyes. “Fair enough.” He jerked his head toward the kitchen door. “Come on.”
He led me into a sunken living room where a fire blazed in the massive hearth, filling the room with soothing warmth and casting it in shadow. I curled up in one corner of the leather sofa, adjusting the edges of Juliet’s robe to cover my knees.
Nicky set his hot chocolate on the coffee table, then dropped down in the opposite corner, the bottle of Scotch propped on his knee. His face wore a dark scowl made darker by the shadows cast by the fire. We sat in silence for several long moments, Nicky lost in his own brooding thoughts as I watched him out of the corner of my eye, wondering if he really had wanted to talk or just needed someone else in the room with him.
I’d polished off the last of the hot chocolate and was just rising to my feet, intent on excusing myself to leave Nicky to his thoughts, when he suddenly said, “So, what’s with all the nightmares? They because of what you saw in that spider’s head?”
I sat back down, curling into myself even more at the mention of those horrifying dreams. “Partly,” I admitted, my mouth going dry. “What I saw there . . . it traumatized me. I mean, I was just a little girl—and a very sheltered, pampered one at that. I didn’t realize any creature could even have such murderous thoughts.”
Nicky grunted, obviously not having any such delusions.
“Well, back then Tales didn’t do such a great job dealing with people suffering from trauma.” I sighed, thinking of the cases I’d worked over the years. “I don’t know that we do a whole lot better now. Anyway, my father thought the best treatment was to make me face my fears. We had a deserted little root cellar on our property—no one had used it in decades. My sister swore it was haunted, and to look at it, you’d certainly believe her. All the village children were terrified of the cellar, of what might be lurking inside, waiting to gobble us up.”
Nicky turned his head, his full attention on me now as I told my story.
“One morning, my father carried me out to the root cellar, kissed me on the cheek and gave me a big hug, then locked me inside.” I shuddered, remembering the terror that had consumed me when I realized what was happening. “It was so dark . . . so close. And crawling with thousands of spiders. I pounded on the door until my little fists bled as the spiders crawled all over me, screamed until my voice was little more than a whisper.”
“Jesus,” Nicky breathed. “How could a father do something like that to his own kid?”
“He thought he was helping me,” I told him. “It was a different time; we had no knowledge of psychology back then. He thought it was the only way to bring me back from the edge of madness, to cure me of the effects of what I’d seen.”
“How long were you in there?”
I shook my head. “I have no idea. My father stayed with me most of the time, trying to talk me through the fear, reminding me that I could control it. When he finally opened the door, it was dark. I think he mistook my silence for triumph over my fears, but I was really just too exhausted to fight it anymore.”
“God, I’m sorry,” he said softly. “What happened after that?”
I took a deep, shaky breath and let it out slowly. “I vowed I’d never go back to that dark place, not ever. No matter what, I’d control my fear. I’d never let it rule me again.”
He gazed at me for a long moment, an emotion I couldn’t quite place in his eyes. Then he nodded. “I figured you were one hell of a woman, Trish,” he said. “But I don’t think I knew the half of it.”
Feeling my cheeks go warm at his unexpected praise, I looked away, studying the room to hide my pleasure at his words. “You have a gorgeous house,” I told him, desperate to change the subject and feeling totally lame the moment I said it.
Apparently, though, he didn’t mind. A slight smile curved his lips. “This is my favorite room.”
I nodded. “I can see that. It has your personality.”
He gave me a curious look. “Yeah? And what do you think you know about my personality?”
I wrapped my arms around my legs and rested my chin on my knees. “You sometimes come off as a bit hard around the edges, but you’re actually a softy and have a way of making people feel comfortable and safe without even trying. You intentionally present the impression of ease and charm with a vibe of underlying danger,
but when I look closer, I can see there’s much more than what’s on the surface. You have a sturdiness and steadfastness of spirit that’s rare these days.”
He took another swig of his Scotch, then grunted. “And you got all that from my furniture?”
I shook my head. “No. I got that from how you’ve looked after your friends all these years, the respect and loyalty you command from the people who know you, the fear you inspire in the people who don’t. I got that from how you fought those vampires and how you didn’t even think twice about helping me when I was in danger from that ghost. How you could’ve dumped me at FMA headquarters or on any one of my colleagues, but you brought me to your home.”
He grunted again. “Well, I’m sure there are some people who’d disagree with your assessment.”
“People like Juliet?” I said, hazarding a guess. Based on the way his jaw tightened, I knew I’d hit the mark.
“She hated this house,” he said, gesturing with the bottle. “Didn’t think it was grand enough for a Capulet. She wanted something more befitting her rank among the Willies. She was a Lit after all. I was just the kid who’d fallen asleep on the job once and had turned into a petty thief when no one else would hire me. I had to fight to get where I am in the Here and Now, to make my fortune. You’d think that would’ve been enough. But she never let me forget that I was
just a Rhyme and that she’d married beneath her.”
I shook my head. “But I thought . . . I mean, you loved her.”
He nodded. “Yeah. I thought she was what I needed—classy, smart, sexy as hell. She was a good dame. And I think she loved me, too. For a while anyway. Things had gone pretty cold between us there before—well, before that night.”
“Because of how you felt about Red?” I asked gently.
He shrugged. “Red and I had one helluva time once upon a time, but we were a lot better off as friends, and eventually we both realized it.”
“But Juliet worried there were still feelings between you?”
He pulled his hand down his face, scrubbing at the stubble growing in at his jaw. “She was convinced I was still sleeping with Red—which was total bullshit. That’s not my style. Anyway, things were getting better with me and Jules there at the end.”
My heart broke a little as I sat there listening to him proclaim his tentative optimism about his relationship with his wife. I’d never in my life wished more vehemently that I could unknow what I’d seen in a dying person’s thoughts than I did at that moment.
“I’m sure they were,” I managed to force out.
He cocked his head to one side. “Did you see her thoughts that night?” he asked. “Did you—what do you call it in your reports?—read her that night?”
I felt my skin prickle with panic at being put on the spot. “Of course,” I told him. “I read the dead at every crime scene.”
“What was she thinking?” he asked. “You never put anything about her thoughts in your report from that night.”
God, this was my worst-case scenario. Part of me wanted to tell him what I’d seen, what I’d discovered, but part of me didn’t feel that dropping that bombshell was really my place. “She knew you loved her,” I said, forcing a sympathetic smile. It was about all I could manage.
He nodded, then leaned his head against the back of the couch and closed his eyes. He sat there for so long I thought he’d fallen asleep. My own eyelids were finally beginning to grow heavy again when he suddenly said, “Thanks, Trish. For everything you did to help Juliet. To help me.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t do more,” I told him sincerely. “Juliet died when her head hit the floor. You know that, right? She didn’t suffer at all.”
He nodded. “Yeah, I know. But . . .” He heaved a heavy sigh and his voice was strained with emotion when he continued. “I should’ve done more. I wasn’t quick enough. I wasn’t strong enough. I couldn’t protect Jules. I couldn’t protect Red. Hell, I couldn’t even protect myself. It was just sheer dumb luck that Sebille didn’t kill me, too.”
I shook my head. “No, Nicky—”
“That’s what keeps me up at night,” he interrupted. “Hating myself for my helplessness. Sometimes the dreams are just replaying what happened, reminding me how I totally fucked up. Other times they’re worse—Sebille tearing out my guts and eating them over me while I scream, or tearing Jules apart before my eyes and devouring her heart. Sometimes it’s Red that bitch is ripping open. And lately—” Here he paused and turned his head back to me, his eyes tortured. There was something there on the tip of his booze-loosened tongue, something more he wanted to say, but even in his inebriation he couldn’t bring himself to put it into words. He opened his mouth to speak again, but then his jaw snapped shut and he turned away, adding only, “Anyway, no matter who’s in the dream, I can’t do shit.”
There wasn’t anything I could say to help him. I knew that from experience. There were times when no words could negate the feelings of helplessness, complete lack of control over one’s own fate—or the fate of others. I felt it every single time I looked into the eyes of the dead and dying, witnessing their fear and pain and knowing there wasn’t a damn thing I could do. But I knew what had helped Nicky the night he’d been slipping away with his guts held in only by his dead wife’s cashmere shawl.
Without a word, I slid across the space between us. He didn’t even seem to notice I was beside him until I pried the bottle of Scotch from his fingers and leaned forward to set it down on the coffee table. His eyes followed my movements, and as I came back toward him, he took my hand and pulled me onto his lap, wrapping his arms loosely around my waist.
I swallowed hard, trying to keep my heart from racing. It meant nothing, I knew. He merely needed a warm body to hold, another person to share in his sorrow. And I was there. That was all it was. I knew that. And yet sitting there on his lap with his arms around me, looking into his eyes, I felt that little tug in the center of my chest and thought—just for a split second—that Nicky felt it, too.
“You know,” he said, his tone a little dazed as if surprised to find me on his lap, “I wasn’t lying when I said it was a long time since I’d had a woman in my arms. Jules and I—”
“Nicky,” I interrupted, squeezing my eyes shut, not giving a damn about him and Juliet, or anything else for that matter. “It’s okay. I need this, too.”
“I think I’m shit-faced.”
I laughed a little. “I know you’re shit-faced.”
He chuckled in response. “Well, as long as we’re both clear on that, come here.” He pulled me close then, tucking me under his chin, his hands smoothing along the fluffy pink chenille of the bathrobe. Then his arms tightened around me, pressing me closer. And when I slipped my arms around his neck, he buried his face in my shoulder, clinging to me in what I guessed was a rare moment of vulnerability.
I held him close, smoothing his hair. “It’s all right,” I whispered, the words of reassurance as much for me as they were for him. “Everything will be okay now. I’ve got you. . . .”
At some point, we fell asleep together there on his sofa, arms around one another, finding in that embrace the solace we both needed. And at least for the rest of that night the nightmares were kept at bay.
“Just humor me.”
Nicky was dressed now in black jeans and a black T-shirt that showed off a little too clearly the bulge of his biceps as he sat on the edge of Juliet’s bed, forearms resting on his thighs, hands clasped, while he watched me rummage through Juliet’s things looking for something to wear besides workout clothes.
“There’s nothing to tell,” I called over my shoulder, digging through the dresser drawers and finding lots of shorty-shorts that were so not going to cut it. I wasn’t about to go traipsing around Chicago in the middle of February with my ass hanging out. Check that. I wasn’t going to go traipsing around Chicago at any time of year with my ass hanging out.
“I wake up and find you curled up in my arms,” Nicky drawled, “and you mean to tell me nothing happened? I didn’t even kiss you or anything?”
“Nope,” I said, somehow managing it without adding a disappointed sigh. I could feel his pointed stare at my back and turned around to face him, leaning against the dresser and crossing my arms. “All we did was talk. I swear.”
“I remember the talking part, doll. I just want to make sure I didn’t drink so much that I missed anything else. It’s bad enough I missed out on the hours when I was sleeping.”
Flushing, and wishing like hell that I had more to report, I turned back to my search, jerking open another drawer and quickly rifling through it.
“I can’t believe I didn’t even try to kiss you,” he mused.
I clamped down on my back teeth to keep from screaming. “Try.”
Obviously not picking up on my irritation, he continued to mull it over aloud. “I mean, you were sitting there in that little pink bathrobe looking so adorable—”
Adorable? Perfect.
“—what with the cute little curls . . .”
Cute? Cute?!? Fucking curls.
“I really didn’t even try to put the moves on you?”
“Okay,” I said, so beyond tired of talking about how he hadn’t kissed me, “this isn’t going to work. I’m going to need to go back to my apartment and find something to wear before we do anything else.”
>
He frowned. “You sure that’s a good idea? What about dragging Nate or a priest along?”
“Going to have to risk it,” I insisted. “I’m just not going to find what I need here.” And at this point I’d rather face off against a hundred angry phantoms than continue this particular line of conversation. . . .
“There’s gotta be something you can wear.”
“Let’s face it, Nicky,” I said, “I’m five foot four and have cleavage. I’m not exactly the supermodel material your wife was.”
His even gaze met mine. “You are to me.”
My breath caught in my chest as I blinked at him, wondering if he was joking, but there was no sign of humor lurking in his eyes. “Thanks,” I finally managed softly.
He gave me a tight nod, then stood and put his hands on his hips. He dropped his eyes to the carpet for a moment, then finally looked back up at me from under those long dark lashes of his, devastating me all over again. “Listen, I really am sorry about last night,” he said, running his hand through his hair. “I don’t usually drink like that. Seriously, if I made a total ass of myself—”
“You didn’t,” I interrupted with a laugh. “You were a perfect gentleman.” Damn it all. . . .
For a split second he looked as disappointed as I felt, but then he gave a nod. “All right, then. So, whaddaya say we get outta here? I’ll buy you something to eat on the way to your apartment.”
I narrowed my eyes. “And coffee? My coffee habit’s almost as bad as Red’s, you know.”
He inclined his head in agreement. “Coffee it is.”
I gave him a terse, satisfied nod and started for the door, but he grabbed my arm as I passed. “Trish . . .” he began, his expression oddly tortured. Then his face cleared and he winked at me, giving one of my curls a playful tug, but the smile that came next was a little sad. “You know, it’ll be strange not having to sneak into your apartment anymore now that the jig is up.”
I laughed, appreciating his attempt to lighten the mood a little. “Yeah, well, Spider, I’m sure you can find some other unsuspecting gal’s apartment to break into. I hear Sleeping Beauty just moved into a new high-rise—might be a challenge.”
