by Mia Watts
“Ever since Joe, I’ve had a little more flexibility about when I see things. Flora said the same thing about her transportation gift after she and Tate got together. Right now, Mason is having some major anxiety, though I don’t get why being stabbed in a parking lot has anything to do with open fields and dry grass.”
“Free association,” Dill supposed.
Sage checked his watch. “I gotta go. Mom’s gonna be here any minute and you know how she is. She’s on this kick for me to hire some faery kid. I’m really not interested.”
Dill snorted. “You think you’ll win that fight?”
“Between Mason in your bed and Fauna not being married yet, I’d say I like my chances a lot better.”
“Good point.”
Mason moaned incoherently. Dill turned his attention back to the unconscious man, barely grunting when his brother threw a see ya, and left. Mason’s head jerked to the side, his brow furrowed and tight.
“You’re okay,” Dill said, softly.
“Oh. Oh, dear,” his mom said from beside him.
Dill startled, not having heard her approach. “Hey, Mom. Can you help him?” Looking up into his mother’s pixie face, he noted the concern in her blue-eyed gaze as she moued her lips and tipped her head in consideration.
“My quiche is going to get cold,” she said randomly. “You boys play so rough sometimes.”
“I didn’t do this.”
“No one is assigning blame, Dill-weed,” she assured with her affectionate term.
He hated that nickname, and frowned to express it.
“The universe doesn’t work randomly. For you to have been there for this moment does mean you have something to do with this poor boy’s state.” Her look leveled on him.
She always seemed to approach problems from the back end. Most of the time, he didn’t bother picking through the tangled mess of meaning because, most of the time, there wasn’t one.
“Mom, if there were any way to have stopped this, I’d have done it.”
“I know, Dilly.”
Oh, God, not another one. If she was whipping out the Dilly already, the next one would be Dilly-boy.
“That’s why you were there.”
“Whuh? I thought you said it wasn’t my fault, right before you said it was. Now you’re saying that my being there caused it while it also didn’t?”
“Uh huh,” she agreed, brightly. She patted Dill’s cheek. “You’re so smart.”
Dill closed his eyes, and took a deep, calming breath. “Mom, can you fix him?”
“Sure, I can.”
“Mom, please fix him,” he said, hoping she’d get the hint.
She put her tiny, pale hands on Mason’s thickly muscled chest. Catching her bottom lip under her teeth she stared off into space as the skin beneath her palms glowed, spreading outward until Mason looked like a human light bulb. Just as suddenly, she got up and caressingly patted Dill’s cheek.
“I fixed your eye, too. Now. I have to get my quiche back in the oven, Dill-doh. Why don’t you come over and say hello to the ladies?”
“Mom! Do not add that nickname to your repertoire.”
She blinked, a vaguely hurt look crossing her face. “Why not, Dilly-boy? I like dildos.”
He felt the blush climb his neck. “Because I don’t want to think of my mother’s fuck toys. Ever.”
“Oh. Why didn’t you say so?”
He sighed with increasing exasperation. He loved his mom, really he did, but she could be kind of oblivious sometimes. If she whipped out that new nickname at Thanksgiving or something, he’d never live it down.
He looked from his mother to Mason. “Is he done?”
“Resting. Being well takes a lot out of a human. Come meet the ladies.”
“I’ll pass, Mom, but thanks, vagina caves aren’t my thing. I want to be here when he wakes up.”
She tapped her foot on the floor, reminding him all over again how tiny she was, how faery-like. “Dilly, you just watch your step. This boy’s injuries aren’t your fault even though you caused them.”
He wondered if he looked as confused as he felt.
She kissed his forehead. “I’ll save you some quiche.”
God, no. Wedge shaped warmed cheese and mushy egg casserole with a bunch of vaginally curious women was definitely something he could take a pass on. Especially if she called him Dildo in their presence. But he smiled and nodded since it facilitated her exit.
Now alone with Mason, he carefully peeled back the gauze to see that the cut had healed perfectly. Only trace redness remained. Mason breathed easier, and his brow had smoothed.
Dill put his hand over Mason’s heart, telling himself all he meant to do was check the steadiness of his pulse. It didn’t stop him from running his fingers through the sparse nest of hair on his pecs, or from tracing the line of dark, crisp curls that traveled to Mason’s waistband.
A man as hard and unapproachable as Mason should have had rough skin. It wasn’t though. Its firm texture heated the pads of Dill’s fingers with smooth resilience. Dill wanted nothing more than to nibble the strange combination of delineated muscle and pliable abdomen.
He knew from stripping the man’s shirt off, that the skeletal claw design morphed into a tattoo of a spinal column that tracked Mason’s vertebrae, making him even more intimidating.
Mason’s large frame, thick wrists, and well-muscled physique had always been dressed in negligent fashion. Sometimes with worn jeans and black cotton shirt, he nevertheless always sported a chain attached to his black leather belt. His biceps were circled with tribal tattoos and, on the inside of one of his wrists, inked scar tissue spoke of a homemade design given to him sometime in the past.
He looked like a mean sonofabitch and, for the life of him, Dill couldn’t figure out what drew him to Mason like a moth to a flame. All he knew was that Mason filled his eyes, lurked in the spare moments of his thoughts, permeated his pores with danger and life, and captivated his curiosity with heart-pounding certainty.
“Mason. Wake up.”
Mason stirred.
Dill’s heart felt like it was in his throat. What would Mason say when he woke? Mason didn’t know he existed. Dill’s job was to lurk in the background, watch, and snag some DNA for a client.
While Dill knew a helluva lot about him, technically, they’d never met. Just that one moment when Dill had first seen Mason and time stood still. His faery gift in action, he supposed. It had been enough for Mason to take the risk, walk around the frozen man and his posse, to look in his charcoal eyes, and shiver when he felt as though Mason had seen him.
That wasn’t possible, though. That wasn’t how the gift worked. When time stood still, everything in that moment ceased to move, caught between one second and the next while Dill existed out of time as a misplaced observer.
“Mason,” Dill murmured, eager to see those pitch eyes trained on him.
Mason inhaled sharply. His eyes opened, narrowed.
“You,” he growled, acidly.
His arm cocked, and Mason’s fist connected with Dill’s cheek, knocking him senselessly to the side. Mason fell off the bed, rolling unsteadily to his hands and knees.
Stunned, Dill shook his head trying to clear it of the throbbing pain in his cheekbone and the high whistle ringing through his hearing.
“Get the fuck away from me, you freak,” Mason snarled.
Dill watched him, trying to make sense of what was happening. Mason leaped to his feet. Instantly, his face turned ashen and he clutched his side where the stab wound had been. With a grunt, he collapsed to his knees.
“What the fuck? What the fuck?” Mason rambled, urgently.
Chapter Two
Mason Haliday’s side burned like deep searing fingers of fire had pierced him. Pressing a hand over it as he winced against the pain, he kept his eyes on the tall man in front of him.
He tentatively tried his feet again, still clutching his side. Physical pain, he could handle. People w
ere different. People destroyed. The man across from him made the rule. He reordered Mason’s perceptions, things he’d always taken for granted, and tossed them into the wind.
“You know me?” the man asked, surprised.
Warily, Mason nodded, rose to his full height as his fingers spasmed on the stitching pain in his side. “Stay away,” Mason rasped. “Stay the fuck away from me.”
Confusion knit the man’s brow and his gaze narrowed. Instinctively, Mason winced, preparing for an unknown blow. How did he manifest his ungodly power? Would narrowing his eyes make everything cease to move, or was it an incantation, or a wave of his large hands? Whatever it was, Mason knew he could do it. He’d seen it happen. Hell, he’d been there when it had happened and it still made him sweat.
The man held up his hands and took a step back. He continued to watch Mason as the silence stretched. Gaze darting around the room, Mason saw his shirt within reach and swatted his hand out for it. Flames of pain burned his entire left side and he grunted half in anger, half in frustration, for appearing weak when he most needed to appear strong and imposing.
The man shouldn’t see this side of him. He was a predator, lurking in the shadows, watching, waiting. Like he was now. Like he had been for the past several days.
“You were stabbed,” the man said, calmly. His low tones resonated across the short distance with buttery warmth.
It was enough to pause Mason, then send him into overdrive as he tugged on his torn shirt. He felt the slice in the side of the knit, glanced to see that the cut fabric opened over the place from which his pain radiated. The fabric smelled freshly laundered, and blood could have been washed from it, but that didn’t explain the one glaring piece of proof that made this man a liar.
“There’s no wound. What did you do, drug me?” Mason snarled, suddenly feeling violated.
Dill shook his head. He appeared steady, his feet slightly apart, and his arms folded across his chest. He made an imposing figure standing well over six feet tall and every line of his body focused on Mason. His chin had lowered until he had leveled a look on him as though Mason were an errant child bent on misbehavior.
Mason didn’t like it. He’d seen that look too many times in his youth. This time, Mason was a fully-grown man living his own life, having kicked his years of foster care to the back recesses of his mind. Usually. Sometimes. Occasionally. Almost never.
It was a truth he fought. Those years would never go away. Fuck every one of them to hell.
“No wound, asshole. No stabbing. I’m just gonna walk out of here and you’re going to let me.” He’d work it out later. He’d figure out what happened, how he’d gotten there, and what the fuck interest this guy had in singling him out for his sick inhuman time freezing shit.
Later. When he was safely away.
“Someone healed you,” he murmured, as though it were no more unusual than the sun going up in the morning, or descending in the evening.
Mason knew better than that. No one did anyone favors without a reason. He’d learned years ago that even a skinned knee didn’t get a kid a band-aid. That kind of shit happened on TV, not in the real world. Suck it up. Take your licks when you get ’em and go back for more. Pain was fleeting. People lingered, eating you up from the inside until you were a shell of a person for trying to please them. Until you’d lost yourself, your integrity, your strength and then they disposed of you like so much rubbish.
That’s how he knew the guy was lying. Yeah, he could do some fucked up stuff that broke the laws of physics—Mason had seen him do it once—but no one did a good turn without expecting a favor. So whether or not he’d been miraculously healed, he wanted Mason to think so, which meant one thing—the fucker wanted something and Mason sure as hell wasn’t going to owe him shit.
“Without a mark?” Mason asked, buying time as well as an explanation. He scanned the room for an impromptu weapon.
“She’s good.”
“Who?”
“You don’t know her,” the man said, shrugging off the answer. He took a step forward. “You’ll be sore for a couple of days.”
“Stay where you are, fucker.”
The man cocked a brow at the insult, but didn’t move. “You’re welcome.”
Standing upright hurt. Badly. Mason wrapped his arms around his torso and bent to ease the uncomfortable stretching of muscles and flesh over the affected spot. Wooziness made the floor tip. If he could just keep the insane guy talking, he’d buy himself some time to grit his teeth against the pain and make a run for it.
“You’ll be sore for a few days. The wound is healed, but your body sustained a lot of trauma,” the man murmured.
It was times like this Mason wished people walked around with those blue and white name badges. Hello, my name is…would be so helpful in clearing up his pseudo-stalker’s identity. Not that he had much faith in the legal system, but at least there would be a record of a restraining order.
Mason didn’t feel drugged, yet he wouldn’t put it past the other guy. He remembered the fight. He remembered the sickening sound of his gut puncturing which joined with remembered sensation. It had been like a dull knife piercing a milk-filled balloon. The same resistance. The same thickness of seeping fluid. He remembered watching Diego fall, his mouth working like a beached fish and his eyes looking back at him, sightlessly. Then it had been over. Because that’s when Mason had fallen. The pain from the stabbing hadn’t begun at that point. Sure, he’d felt it. He could even logically process what had happened, but other than the poker of ice—he supposed that’s how his body had interpreted the fine cutting edge of the knife—filling his side, there’d been nothing. Until now.
“I’m going to leave,” Mason said cautiously.
His mind struggled to process that moment against this. Cold, dark asphalt verses warm, plush carpet. Staring at Diego as he died and faded from his sight verses the virile, sharp-eyed gaze of this man.
One had to do with the other. He was certain of it. No, they didn’t match up. Didn’t appear to be from the same world, yet Mason knew this guy had information.
All Mason had to do was decide if he wanted to get it now, or later. His twinging side said later. The tight hitch in his breath said both. Lord, but his crazy stalker psychopath was sexy. He had confidence and stability and gazed at him solidly with a look that spoke of concern and determination.
“You can leave, if you can stay on your feet. I’d tell you to call one of your pals, but they ran,” the man said.
Mason didn’t need anyone. He never needed anyone. That’s why he hung out with the fly-by-nights. They were little more than moving mannequins. Except Diego. With blinding certainty, Mason knew he couldn’t go without knowing what had happened to him.
“Did you leave Diego?” Mason asked, swallowing his pride.
Diego, the only brother he had. One of many faces from one of many foster homes. One runny-nosed kid that wouldn’t go away no matter how hard Mason had pushed him.
“Who’s Diego?”
Mason sneered. “Guess you don’t know me so well.”
The man’s eyes grew wary. “Boyfriend? Lover?”
Mason didn’t answer. Why give this guy more information than he had?
“Groupie?” the man added.
“Did you bring him?” Mason asked, instead of answering.
The man’s gaze faltered. “I only brought you. You were the only one still alive who didn’t run.”
A knot formed in Mason’s chest. A blast of cold overshadowed the paltry pain in his side. This one centered in his sternum, then crept outward with icy fingers. It became nausea. So this is what it felt like to lose family. Mason swallowed through the tightness in his throat.
He’d always been alone. Now he had the body count to prove it. He didn’t know how his mother had done it, but he supposed she’d been a cold-hearted bitch.
“Ah. Your brother, then.”
Mason’s gaze jerked to his. How had he known?
&nbs
p; “I have a brother. He’s an ass most of the time, but I’d miss him if he weren’t around.”
“Did I ask?” Mason snapped.
“I’d have brought him, if I’d known,” he said gently.
Mason rubbed his side. Nothing made him pissier than pity. Pissy was great for finding his strength. He felt for his back pocket.
“Your knife is in the other room.”
“Fuck,” Mason swore.
“I’d enjoy that. Buy me coffee and we’ll talk about it.”
Mason bit back a surprised laugh. So this guy swung his way. Good to know. He could almost forget that he could freeze time. The reminder set Mason back on edge.
“Where’s my cell?” he asked, feeling trapped again.
“With your knife. Didn’t know if you had an Uzi app for that thing.”
“Says the guy who can freeze time.”
The other man stilled. His gaze sharpened. “Excuse me?”
“Don’t try any funny stuff. Just give me a phone and I’ll get out of your hair.” Mason wobbled, stretching his hand out to the black console beside the bed.
“You’d call one of the guys who left you to die?” the man asked.
Mason stumbled. The man lurched forward. Mason’s fall ceased, freezing him at a forty-five degree angle, his head inches from the corner of the small table. His body cemented, refusing the commands he sent them to move. Fingers in half-reach for the phone, body neither held up nor falling, sinew and bone stilled. His voice quieted. The need to breathe, his heart to beat, ceased.
There’d been one other time when that had happened. This guy had been there, too, inches from him. His eyes had traveled over Mason’s body with a look that joined curiosity and lust. It was a look Mason had never seen on another human being and one which made him shudder at the core of his being.
However the man did it, he had stopped…everything. He had forced Mason to hold still and let himself be examined. He had stolen Mason’s freewill, something he’d sworn never to lose again after his eighteenth birthday. But with a look, this man had controlled him.
And Mason had hated it. Like before, he simply lived in that moment between the last and the next.
