He joins me at the bottom of the stairs. His brow raise indicates he noticed my movement from his designated position. Whatever. He motions me back into the shadows where he forms a portal. The growl of an engine snaps my head around right when Smythe grabs my hand to step into the portal. Headlights flash near where we stand. Or maybe those lights belong to the kaleidoscope of colors lining the passage of the in-between.
The cold steals my breath, leaves chills on my skin as we land in my living room. Nothing but the tick of the kitchen wall clock greets my ears. No T. No Eloise.
“Why did you let him kiss you?”
Nothing, that is, except for a growling, jealous mage.
Chapter Twenty
Standing a few feet behind me, Smythe appears to vibrate, little green sparks popping around his head. His stance wide, his arms crossed, he looks like an avenging god. Instead of falling into my scared-of-the-big-bad-mage default mode, a wave of irritation crashes through me.
Seriously? He’s accusing me of wanting Donny’s kiss? Un-fucking-believable.
My fingers crank into fists as I balance on the balls of my feet. “I told you, he snuck one on me. You were right there. You saw it. What did you want me to do?”
“Well, shit. I don’t know. Push him away? Slap him? Anything but stand there.”
“Really, Smythe? He’s a playah. Playahs kiss women instead of hugging them good-bye. He didn’t mean anything by it.”
“Are you shitting me?” His eyes flare as red tinges his cheeks. “You seriously think he didn’t mean anything by it?”
Okay. So maybe he did. I shrug. “He doesn’t matter to me. Just because I think he’s innocent of Jenny’s death doesn’t mean I want to jump his bones. He’s not the one I come home to at night.”
“You mean T?”
“Geez, Smythe. You’ve got to be the densest man on the planet.” I throw my arms into the air before turning on my heel and storming out of the kitchen.
I shove open the bedroom door, kick off my shoes, and am grabbed around the waist by a set of strong arms. A squeak escapes my lips.
“You really think I’m dense?” Smythe whispers in my ear, eliciting a set of chills that have nothing to do with the room temperature.
He shifts. The door clicks closed, sealing us in my bedroom.
“If the shoe fits.”
“I’m wounded.”
“Doesn’t feel that way to me.”
He kisses my neck, my ear. My knees threaten to loosen, remaining locked only because I’m not yet finished being mad at him.
“You really meant nothing by it?”
“Smythe. Donny’s hot, but he’s not you. I don’t want him. I want you.” So much for the Gin’s eleventh commandment. When it came to Smythe, it was a stupid rule.
He twirls me around, hands at my waist, his gaze searching mine. “Do you?”
My stomach flutters as tingles spread through my limbs. I take a deep breath. Now or never.
“You mean something to me, something special. Donny’s just a man with a football. You? You save my ass. Cook me dinner. Listen to me. It’s you I want at the end of the day. Not him. You.” I poke a finger at his chest. “You, Smythe.”
He pulls me closer, crushing me to him as his lips devour mine. Lost in his kiss, his hands reverent upon my body, I barely notice when my dress falls to the floor. Or when the back of my knees hit the bed. He opens himself to me, his mind and soul weaving through mine until I no longer know where I end and he begins. His thoughts focus on me, on pleasuring me, us, his spirit a calming balm to my rocky soul.
My spirit relaxes, soothed into a tenuous peace. But unlike every other peaceful experience in my life, I’m going to make this last.
****
Bright noon light forces my eyes open. Smythe’s arm lays heavy across my waist, pulling me against his warm, naked body. His breathing sounds deep and even, the gentle breath of the sleeping. Red numbers on the clock proclaim it to be 12:07 p.m.
After noon. It’s been since my college days that I’ve slept this late. Of course, it’s been since my college days I’ve stayed up most of the night making love.
I slip out from under Smythe’s arm. He grunts, rolls over, and continues to sleep.
I’ve slept long enough. Time to get moving. A shower and clean clothes later, and I wander into the kitchen. The coffeemaker has long since turned itself off, the coffee cold in the pot.
“Hey, sleepyhead.”
At T’s voice, I start and release a high-pitched squeak, my hand clutched against my chest. As if that will help my heart stop pounding an off-beat drum-line. My twin leans against the frame between the living room and kitchen, a curious expression plastered on his grinning face.
“God, T, you gave me a heart attack.” He reaches for me, and I step into his quick embrace, giving him a whack on the shoulder for good measure. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at work?”
“I called in. Better things to do.”
“Like what?” I glance behind him, half expecting to see Eloise in the living room. She’s not.
“Making sure you’re okay.”
“Right as rain.” I pour coffee into a mug and place the thing into the microwave. No sense wasting good coffee. I tilt an empty mug to T, while raising a brow. He shakes his head. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“He’s in your bed.” He tilts his head toward my bedroom. As if there’s any doubt to whom the “he” refers.
I manage not to roll my eyes at his overprotective brother stance. Go me. I counter by pointing out the obvious.
“You had Eloise over last night.”
“She wasn’t in my bed when I woke.”
“Ah-ha! So you admit something went on.”
Red splashes his face. But only for a moment. “This isn’t about me. It’s about you. And him. He’ll hurt you worse than Blake.”
The microwave chooses that moment to ding, giving me the chance to master my surprise under the guise of pulling out my mug. Hurt me worse than Blake?
“What do you mean by that? Blake’s dead.” A fact I still grieve. Much less than I used to, though. More than my lover, Blake was my friend. I’m not sure you ever recover from losing a friend.
Especially when that friend was killed by a vengeful demon.
“When he leaves—”
“You’re assuming he will.”
“You actually think he plans to stay around? He’s using you.”
“You say that about every man who shares my bed.” Not that there have been a lot lately. My little touch-and-see ability makes sex with most men an odd experience.
“Not everyone.” He gives me a pointed look.
I roll my eyes. “Okay, I get what your problem was with Blake. I was usually the other woman in that relationship. I get it. But Smythe? There is no other woman. It’s just me. And I like the way he makes me feel.”
“So he’s good in bed. So are others.”
“That’s not what I mean.” I pat my chest. “In here. He accepts me for who I am. My empathic abilities don’t both him. It’s freeing.”
“Reading bodice rippers again?”
I give him a get-real look. “If you aren’t going to listen, I’m not going to talk.”
He throws his hands up in a placate-the-woman gesture. “Okay, okay. I’ve said my piece.”
“He’s different, I’m telling you.”
Now it’s his turn for the get-real look. Whatever.
“You gonna tell me why Eloise was over here last night?”
Red splashes his cheeks as he yanks open the nearest cabinet and pulls out a glass. Cha-ching. This is going to be good.
“She wanted to practice teaching me a spell to detect poison.” He fills the glass with water, holds it toward me as if exhibiting an example. “Like what happened to you.”
“Why bother with you? Shouldn’t she teach that to me?”
He shrugs, takes a swallow. “Maybe she wanted to see me.”
A
t least he’s moving on. Even if the idea of him and Eloise belongs in the category of things that make me go huh.
“Maybe she did. Does that mean you’re not feeling guilty about Eloise since Jackie is gone?”
Another sprinkling of red dots his cheeks. I circle my hand, encouraging his explanation.
“I was mad Jackie left. Hurt. You know. We’ve been together a year. It hurt that she wanted to leave.”
“I’m sorry. That was a shitty thing for her to do.”
“Yeah. So I thought, I’ll get her back. I’ll follow her around. She’ll see that I’m better. But then I realized, while driving last night, I don’t want her back. It wasn’t the anger talking either. I realized what I liked most about her was how she made me feel in bed. That’s not a good reason to stay in a relationship.”
I blink once, then again for good measure. Yep. Still my twin. Stranger things really do happen.
“Gee, T. I never thought I’d hear you say that. Getting philosophical on me, eh?”
“I guess.” One side of his mouth kicks up. “Took me awhile to realize it. Seeing Eloise helped. She’s smart. I can talk to her about a lot. She says if I use my ghost-talker abilities they won’t bother me as much.”
I roll my fingers against my held mug, pausing to rehearse my reply. Forget it. I haven’t had enough caffeine to rehearse much of anything.
“While I agree you shouldn’t hide from your fears and face your abilities, she does know you used to talk to them all the time, right? And they still bugged you?”
His eyes narrow. Before he can say anything, the rush of water flowing through old pipes squeals a dull background noise, an indication Smythe is in the shower.
I take a swallow of coffee, chasing it down with another.
T stops looking at my bedroom door as if it’s going to explode, returning his gaze to mine. “She knows some of it. Not all.”
No, not all. No one knows all. Only the two of us. Better that way. Safer. The fewer people who know how we disposed of our father, the smaller chance we have of getting caught.
“What are you going to do?”
He shrugs. “Not sure yet. Why did you contact me last night?”
So much for the Eloise thread. I’ve game-changed a conversation enough times to know when one’s been thrown my way.
“We’re tracking Jenny’s killer. And the man who tried to kidnap me. We think they’re related.”
“I don’t like it.”
“I know. You’ve said that enough times. I’m fine.”
“You weren’t the other night. You could’ve been killed.”
“I wasn’t.” I swallow another sip, trying to forget that night, forget losing control, forget how the drug cast my mind in darkness. My hands shake. I clutch my mug tighter. “Anyway, we went to Club Monster. Jackie was there.”
T’s face turns an interesting shade of mottled red complete with ticking jaw muscle. He knows she was with Donny despite me not telling him. So much for him being over Jackie. He sets his glass of water on the counter. When he speaks, his voice slides low and steady. If he wasn’t my brother, I’d run the opposite way.
“She. Was. With. Donny?”
A rattling shakes the refrigerator, spreads across the floor, a spill of anger. I grab his clenched hand, pour calming energy under his skin.
“Maybe I should tell this story some other time. Not sure the fridge can handle it.”
T draws in a deep breath. Holds and releases. The fridge returns to its normal operating background hum.
“I’m fine.” He grabs my hand. “Go on.”
All right then. “We lost track of her, despite finding the cameras. We saw her with the same guy who tried to kidnap me. We searched the club but didn’t see either of them. Then Donny came up. Said Jackie looked drunk, so he hired her a cab. Gave us her address. We went to her apartment. No one was there. The cab drove up. Jackie was too drunk or drugged, so the cabbie carried her up the stairs. We made sure the door was locked, then we came back home. I contacted you because I wanted to know if you’d seen her. I thought you might have been at the club or lurking outside.”
“She’s safe?”
“She was when we left.”
“What happened with her and Donny?”
Yeah. Not going there. Buying a new fridge is not in my budget. Lucky for me the doorbell uses that moment to ring. I glance out the kitchen window, which overlooks the street. A black and white police cruiser as well as an unmarked brown sedan are parked at the curb.
Not good. I’d rather be faced with the broken fridge.
T’s eyes flare as the doorbell rings again. Keeping a hold on my coffee mug, I walk into the living room and open the door. Three cops stand on my porch, two obviously detectives, and one a blue-suited patrolman.
“Gin Crawford?” The black-haired detective asks.
“That’s me.”
“I’m Detective Jackson, and this is Detective Tinkle.”
Tinkle? I press my tongue against the roof of my mouth to keep from grinning. I bet the poor detective was teased mercilessly as a kid with a name like Tinkle. Good thing neither detective seems to excel in mind reading. I nod to each detective.
“We’re looking for your brother, Tonic Crawford. Is he here?”
T steps to my side, into their view, answering for me. “That’s me. How can I help you?”
“May we come in?”
I step back, opening the door wide. What did T do to cause cops to show up at the house? Last I heard, they couldn’t get you for thinking about stalking your ex, only if you carried it through. Which he didn’t.
So why are they here?
“Mr. Crawford, where were you between the hours of one and three this morning?”
“Asleep. Why?”
“Anyone to confirm that?”
“No one was in my bed, if that’s what you mean.”
Detective Jackson gives T a pointed look. No humor in this guy.
“My friend and I came home around one last night. T was here. I checked to make sure he was home.” Which I didn’t, but in this instance white lies about T never hurt.
“What about your friend? Did they see your brother?”
“I don’t know.”
“What’s this about, Detective?” Smythe strides into the room like he owns the place.
Saved by the mentor. I flash him a thankful grin.
“We’re trying to ascertain Mr. Crawford’s whereabouts last night.”
Smythe looks at T. My twin grimaces, then presses his fingers against his forehead.
“Sorry. Had a sharp pain,” he mutters, his gaze striking Smythe in the eyes. That son of a bitch just hopped into my mind. His growl echoes in my head.
My mentor shrugs. “He was here asleep. As he said. May I ask what this is about?”
All three cops’ eyes glaze as he compels them to speak. Nifty trick. One of these days he needs to teach it to me.
“A woman was murdered last night. Her body was left near someone’s car in a similar manner as a murder last Thursday night. Mr. Crawford was known to date her, so we wanted to speak to him.”
My shocked gaze meets T’s. Color leaches from his face as he sways.
“Jackie’s dead?” T’s voice cracks.
Detective Tinkle nods. “Killed sometime last night. Know anyone who wanted her dead?”
T shakes his head, eyes filling with tears.
“Since he was here during the time of her death, he clearly didn’t commit the crime. Unless you have any other questions, you should leave.” Smythe gestures to the door, compelling the cops to leave. They give him puzzled looks but do as he asks, heading toward their cars.
As soon as they’re out the door, I rush to T, wrap my arms around my twin. Silent sobs wrack his body. But he pulls away, dashing a hand under his eyes.
“You said she was alive. You said she was okay.”
“She was, T. She was—”
“You lied to me! To your brother. Y
our own twin. Just—just leave me alone.” He sniffs as he storms out, the front door slamming closed on his grief.
I stand frozen, my stomach twists, my heart tearing a jagged line in my aching chest. My brother, my twin, my other half wants nothing to do with me.
Tears well in my eyes. The revved roar of an engine snaps my attention. T peels out of the driveway, hauls ass down the street in the opposite direction the cops went. I sniff. He’s gone. He’s mad. He left me. What if he never comes back?
Smythe wraps his arms around me from behind. “He’ll be back once he realizes you had nothing to do with her death. He’s angry. Let him release it.”
“How can she be dead?” I turn in his embrace until I face him. “You locked her door with your magic mojo. What happened?”
The tips of his ears flush red. “It wasn’t magically locked. I used magic to turn her locks. Like a key. If I’d locked it magically, she wouldn’t have been able to open the door until I magically unlocked it. And before you ask, yes, she was alive when we left.”
“I saw headlights as we portaled away. But that shouldn’t have been a cause for concern. It’s an apartment complex.” I sniff. “I can’t believe she’s dead.”
Smythe rubs his hands in little circles on my back, a move no doubt meant to comfort.
“Let’s look at the police report.”
Releasing me, he gives me a quick peck on the lips before settling on the couch, computer on his lap. I make my way toward him with all the excitement of a condemned prisoner on execution day.
How can he think of police reports when T is upset?
“Gin, sit down and look at this.” Smythe reaches a hand to me.
When I pause, he looks up from the screen, his gaze seeming to see into my soul, his blue eyes searching my face as if I’m an open book. Which I’m not.
I hope.
I take his hand. He has the courtesy not to compel me. And yet, a sense of calm washes around me. He’s right. Again. T will return once his anger burns off. My twin’s anger isn’t meant for me even though I’m the target.
Patience is a freaking virtue I’m lacking.
I sit. Sniff. The ache in my chest eases, but remains.
“You’ll be okay. Worry not, padawan. Look at this.”
Demon Cursed Page 17
