Reeve of Veils (Inheritance Book 4)

by Amelia Faulkner

  Frederick locked the door and emptied his pockets, placing each and every item neatly in a row. “Go upstairs,” he said as he idly straightened up his wallet so that the edges aligned perfectly alongside his phone. “Have a shower and then wait for me in my room.”

  He felt Michael’s emotions slide around, slotting themselves quickly into a new configuration. Doubt and fear became subsumed by excitement and relief, and Michael trotted quickly up the stairs without a word.

  Finally, for the first time in what felt like an age but truly had only been a single day, he had a moment to himself.

  Frederick regarded the accoutrements laid out beside his hand. He didn’t carry extraneous items around, so all that rested before him was his wallet, phone, and hotel key cards. He preferred not to store key cards inside his wallet, as it meant getting the whole thing out just to enter a room, so they lived in an inside jacket pocket while the wallet’s place was in his slacks.

  He had arranged them in order of weight. Whether through habit or subconscious decision he didn’t care to unravel.

  The sound of the shower rained faintly from his room.

  Frederick chided himself. He felt incredibly foolish. He hadn’t ever shown an ounce of telekinetic ability in his entire life, and for all his theory there was absolutely no scientific evidence whatsoever that he could find which intimated he might have one. All that he could go on was that if Father were telekinetic and so was Icky, then it likely came about via a dominant trait rather than a recessive one. And if Frederick had gleaned telepathy from his mother — which he was, at least, more sure of — then it seemed quite reasonable to suggest that that too could be dominant.

  So for Icky to possess both implied that it was not beyond the realm of reason for Frederick to attempt this.

  Which didn’t make it feel any less silly.

  He spared a glance up toward the bedroom. This would be considerably more daft if there were witnesses, but no. Michael was definitely in the shower, so Frederick focused his attention on one of the key cards.

  How had Icky done it? Frederick had watched him pop a cork with his ability, which must have taken incredibly deft control, and Icky had been quiet and calm throughout. Compared with the temper tantrum which had almost wrecked the penthouse, it was a subtle virtuoso’s performance which took a delicate hand.

  Frederick slowed his breath and altered the position of his feet to stabilize himself better. He relaxed further with each exhalation, and then reached out toward the card as though it were a mind he could touch.

  There was, of course, nothing there. It was an inanimate object.

  His fingers curled slightly against the sideboard’s top, and he took a moment to regain his calm. He gathered up all of the concern that this was absurd and tucked it away into a corner where it couldn’t poison his attention with its whispers.

  And then he reached again, extruding himself into his environment to give the card a nudge.

  It twitched.

  Frederick blinked and withdrew his hand, half doubting that he hadn’t simply poked it with his thumb, then repeated every other step. The expansion of his senses, the invisible reach toward a mindless object, and then the issue of a command.

  The key card twitched again. No longer neatly aligned alongside his wallet, it sat askew, corner almost touching the other key card to its left.

  “Well,” he breathed. “Bugger me.”

  Curiosity satisfied, he straightened the card with his fingers, then removed his shoes. This would warrant further experimentation in the future. But not right this moment.

  He had other things to take care of first.

  BY THE TIME Frederick reached his bedroom, Michael was already out of the shower and in his bed.

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “This is where you wanted me, isn’t it?” His insouciance was feigned. Beneath the surface, Michael’s thoughts swirled and coalesced in excitement.

  And that was… Nice wasn’t the word Frederick wanted, even though it certainly was nice to have such an effect on someone, for them to want him despite of who and what he was. Michael didn’t really care anymore that Frederick was able to see into every nook and cranny of his mind, and he didn’t care that Frederick’s definition of morality was a rather fast and loose thing which shifted with the tides. No, it went far beyond nice.

  It was downright captivating.

  How had it come to this? The absurd sense that Michael was some missing jigsaw piece, flawlessly formed to fit against Frederick to make everything clearer, prettier. More bearable.

  Of course, Frederick would have to work on him to make sure Michael didn’t dither every time a yacht sank, but it very much seemed as though that were in part due to the nightmare he had endured prior to his waking. Now that Michael was coming to realize that he had dished out as much abuse as he had taken, guilt pushed him to punish himself for it all, even that which was done to him. He needed grounding, and Frederick hadn’t been there. With ongoing counseling, Michael should eventually be better able to handle such events. It might never be perfect, but that didn’t matter.

  Because he was perfect for Frederick, and that was what counted.

  Frederick closed the door and shrugged off his clothes piece by piece, each item folded over the back of a chair to prevent unnecessary creasing. “I don’t know why you’re laying about,” he said dryly. “I expect you to do the work today.”

  Michael sniffed. “I don’t see why I have to shower and you don’t if you aren’t gonna do shit.”

  “You think I’m going to touch you when you’re sweaty?” Frederick stepped toward the bed, and flexed his kegels to make his dick jiggle slightly.

  Michael’s eye was drawn to it, and his faux serenity gave way to the laughter which rippled below the surface. “You’re such an asshole,” he giggled.

  “Too bloody right I am. Move over.” He lifted the sheets and slipped in, then crinkled his nose as he settled onto damp cotton. “Oh, you little sod.”

  Michael’s laughter was freshly renewed, and contagious, so Frederick gave in to it and dragged Michael closer.

  “I guess you just hate getting those precious hands dirty, huh?” Michael leaned in, but hovered an inch away from a kiss.

  Waiting for permission.

  Frederick reached up and gripped his moistened curls to pull him in and close the distance until their lips touched. He felt it all: the tug on Michael’s scalp, both under his fingers and from inside Michael’s mind; the arousal it wrought within Michael’s gut and the hardness it created against his thigh; the feedback loop it created between them as Michael’s need fed his own, which turned Michael’s on even more.

  There was some irony to be found here, to know that he could deliver the exact stimulation any sexual partner desired without them ever having to find the words, only to also know that most people had such an absurd fear of the very idea of telepathy that they wouldn’t want it.

  And yet here was Michael, open to him, eager to be read and used and pleasured in any and every way that Frederick saw fit. This man who thought he was worthless was the most precious creature on Earth.

  “You know,” he murmured against Michael’s lips, “this is nice and all, but I can’t help feel that you’re wasting time when you could be riding my cock.”

  Michael groaned into his mouth, but he writhed between the sheets and Frederick’s body until his hardening prick was trapped under him and his ass cheeks cupped Frederick’s cock like a hot dog bun.

  I totally didn’t need that image; thanks, brain. Haha, I bet it totally looks like a hot dog bun though. Like when you hold your balls around your cock. Not that buns are hairy. Or ginger. Oh God, Frederick, you’re getting all this loud and clear, aren’t you?

  Frederick said nothing. He only gave an enigmatic smirk and gestured toward the bedside table. “Lube’s in there,” he murmured. “You know what to do.”

  Michael scrunched up his face and poked him in the chest, then leaned
across to grapple with the drawer without leaving Frederick’s body. He fumbled around inside it, then squeaked in triumph.

  Frederick just grinned and laced his fingers together behind his head, then watched Michael go to work.

  Perfect indeed.

  44

  MIKEY

  The third time they went to the house, Mikey prayed the mail had arrived. The past two days were a bust, but today should be his lucky day. He could feel it. The rusted old mailbox sat crooked as ever on its worm-eaten pole, and gave away no secrets from afar.

  Mikey pointed to it, but the car had already pulled over a little way down the street. “Wait here,” he said as he grabbed for the handle.

  “No, sir.” They had two bodyguards in the back with them, and one of them clamped their hand around Mikey’s wrist before he had a chance to go any further. “You never go out first, remember?”

  He sent a pleading look to Frederick, who simply shrugged.

  “There is little purpose in having them if one does not listen to what they have to say,” Frederick drawled. “Let the man do his job.”

  Mikey huffed, but sat back against his seat as the guard slipped from the car. It was a matter of seconds before the bodyguard gestured that the coast was clear, and Mikey hurried out.

  He trotted up the sidewalk in the baking heat and hoped that it hadn’t already been delivered and stolen. The threat of jail time or fines wouldn’t stop any of them. They were all criminals just by being his customers, and at least in jail they might get their hands on some methadone. If they suspected there was anything valuable in his mail they wouldn’t hesitate to take it all and throw away anything they couldn’t sell.

  He puffed as he reached the mailbox and yanked the door open.

  There was one envelope inside. Stiff, like cardboard, with a slight bulge to it.

  He grabbed it out and tried to straighten the mailbox out of habit. Did it matter? He never really wanted to come back here, and maybe he never would, but it seemed wrong to just abandon it all. He clutched the envelope to his chest and stared up at the house.

  It was a mess.

  When had he let it get like this? Mom never let it get so bad, did she? Or did he just never notice it slipping away?

  Frederick’s footsteps halted by his side, and the man sighed softly. “I didn’t realize,” he said.

  “Huh?” He tore his eyes from the house and looked up at the man by his side. “Realize what?”

  “That this was your mother’s house.” Frederick seemed thoughtful as he looked to the dive hidden among the weeds and dead plants. “I lost my mother when I was nineteen.”

  “Yeah. I read about it.” Mikey nodded, then shook his head. “I mean, I’m sorry, man.”

  “No, I know what you mean.” Frederick lifted a hand and rested it between Mikey’s shoulder blades. “Do you wish to say goodbye?”

  “To a house?” He creased his nose. “I dunno. Seems dumb.”

  “Mmm.” Frederick dropped his hand slowly down Mikey’s spine until it settled in the small of his back. “It’s entirely up to you. It may offer you some sense of closure, it may not. I couldn’t say.”

  “Did it work for you?” He leaned against Frederick’s side.

  “No.”

  Mikey glanced up again, but Frederick’s features were cut from stone. “Do you think it’ll work for me?”

  “Ah.” Those frozen features thawed until Frederick met his gaze. “I don’t know. We could just toss a match into it all if you prefer, although it does seem foolish.”

  It seemed like a pretty damn appealing idea, really. “Why?”

  “Because it’s still property that you own outright. It was fully paid for long before it passed to your mother, was it not?”

  Mikey nodded. “My background check, or my memories?”

  “Both.” Frederick shrugged. “Property always has value, even if only for the land it sits on, and it’s yours. You should at the very least rescue the deeds, and any other valuable documentation.”

  “I guess.” He sighed, but didn’t move.

  “Would you rather I fetched them?”

  “Would that be okay?” He pressed his cheek to Frederick’s shoulder. “I’ll wait here.”

  “Of course.” Frederick left his side and strode down the path, then shoved the high wire gate out of his way. It squealed on dry, rusted hinges, then slammed shut behind him.

  Mikey watched as Frederick kicked the front door in and disappeared into the dingy interior, then once he was out of sight, Mikey looked down to the envelope.

  Nothing about it suggested it held his ticket out of here. Like a bar of chocolate that hid a golden ticket, it was so ordinary but it promised so much. It could take him places he’d never imagined he’d go to. What was the food like in London, anyway? British food was supposed to be awful, but Frederick wasn’t the kind of guy to tolerate bad anything. He sure didn’t believe in bad sex.

  That lifted Mikey’s spirits, and he smiled toward the house as last night intruded into his thoughts. Frederick did this thing where he acted like Mikey just wasn’t working hard enough, and Mikey had to—

  A shadow flit at his back, and he turned in time to see one of the bodyguards move behind him.

  “What?”

  “Let me handle it.”

  He tipped his head back and saw a police cruiser pull up behind their own car, and he felt like he’d swallowed a boulder. He hadn’t done anything wrong, had he? Or was this about some earlier misdemeanor? Or…

  No. It was Brown.

  The officer stepped from his cruiser and shut the door, then swaggered toward Mikey. “Where’ve you been, Brennan?”

  He gripped the envelope so tight his fingers began to hurt.

  “Has my client broken any law, officer?”

  Mikey stared up at the back of his bodyguard’s head. He didn’t know a damn thing about this man, yet here the guy was, getting in the way and keeping him safe.

  Brown snorted. “Plenty. You his lawyer?”

  “Bodyguard. Would you like to see my license?”

  Brown gave a bitter laugh. “Bodyguard? You got yourself some muscle at last, Brennan? Sure, I’ll see your fake ass license. Hand it over.”

  Mikey said nothing. Brown wasn’t to know he’d had muscle in the past. What was the point? It only incriminated him and that muscle had been nothing like this team of professionals.

  Still, he wished Frederick was here.

  Identification changed hands. Mikey did his best to stay calm, but he kept glancing up toward the house while Brown took his sweet time pretending to give a shit about the ID.

  “Is my client under arrest, officer?”

  Movement stirred inside the house. A pale shape beyond the open door.

  “No,” Brown said as he thrust the ID back into the bodyguard’s hands.

  Mikey stepped back as Brown moved around the man between them. For three seconds it felt like a weird game of cat and mouse, but Brown wasn’t looking at Mikey. He was facing the house, and the moment he was past the human obstacles in his path he walked down the path toward the gate.

  “Hey! Do you have a warrant?”

  Mikey put his hand on the bodyguard’s arm. “It’s okay.”

  “You can’t let these guys do whatever they want.”

  Mikey nodded in agreement. “C’mon. We should make sure he doesn’t try anything with Frederick.”

  Not that it was likely to get Brown anywhere, but if the crooked cop was about to get his ass handed to him, Mikey wanted to damn well be there for it.

  He walked down the path and held his head as high as he could manage, but inside he was growing cold with dread. Things were always bad outside with Brown, but watching the cop disappear into his house was a whole new kind of violation Mikey really didn’t know how to handle. It was worse than being robbed. At least then you knew it was nothing personal when strangers invaded your home.

  With Brown? It was beyond personal. The moment Br
own’s boot stepped over the threshold the cold clawed its way up Mikey’s spine and gripped the base of his skull like it wanted to crush his brain. Bad enough that Mikey couldn’t afford to move out of the house he was abused in as a child. Worse that he couldn’t leave it after they found bits of Uncle Phil’s brain in the porch six months after he’d died on it. His only reprieve was that after his mom died he got to move out of his own bedroom and into hers, so he could stop panicking in the night whenever he thought he heard a door handle turn. As an adult the worst he could face in this house was being murdered in the night, but none of his customers were sober enough to want to try it on.

  No. Brown entering his lifelong home was the ultimate betrayal, a desecration so profound that it made him sick with fear.

  The shadows seemed to eat Brown whole, and Mikey swallowed. He could just wait out here. Frederick could handle this.

  Except what if he couldn’t?

  What if, somehow, Brown got the jump on him?

  Mikey shielded his eyes from the glare of the sun and, with one arm still pinning the envelope against his chest, he stepped into the darkness.

  45

  FREDERICK

  Frederick moved into the house, using Michael’s memories of the place as a map until his eyes adjusted to the lack of light. He reached forward to pick up on anyone who might be using the place as a homeless shelter and found one stealing food in the kitchen, so he put that one to sleep right away. It was lazy of him, but he very much doubted one addict would find it unusual to wake up on the floor in this place.

  He hurried on up the stairs, and gradually more of the place came into view, although he would rather that it hadn’t. The carpets were threadbare, the wallpaper peeling, and some of the walls had dents or holes in them, revealing them to be constructed of little more than flimsy drywall. There were mystery stains dotted around which he really hoped were nothing more than mold or damp.

  The place was miserable. No wonder it made those who came here regularly so despondent.

  When he reached the top of the stairs he had an awful flash of recognition. The doors up here yawned open like broken teeth, but one used to be Michael’s mother’s room, and the other had once been Michael’s.