“If stupidity were a crime,” Stefan muttered, “nobody would be left on the streets.”
“Too right, but you, buddy, are a special case. Remember I told you I could tell you’d been touched? The touch opens a pathway inside you. At first, it’s just potential. The possibility. Like a sign on the road for a scenic overlook. If you drive by the exit, no harm. You’ll never see that vista, but so what? If you take the exit, though—”
Stefan drummed his fingers on the counter. “How far are we going with this analogy?”
“Keep your pants on. Once you take the exit, once you see that vista, you can never unsee it. It changes you—and you have something in common with everyone else who’s ever seen that same vista.”
“Like comparing vacation photos?”
“Exactly. People who’re touched by the same entity get pointed to the same exit. You can ignore it. Resist, although it’s not easy. But if you follow, you’ll all have the same photo because you’ve taken the pathway. It’s like math.”
“Christ.” He dropped his head back and ran his hands through his hair. “Another analogy?”
“You want to save your friend?”
“Of course I do. But can we pick a different analogy? Because I always sucked at math.”
“Then think of it as logic.”
“That’s not any better—”
“Shut up and listen for a change. Fuck, you’re worse than that guy in Oregon who wanted me to exorcise a whole crowd of pioneer ghosts.” She picked three smooth amber stones from a basket and placed them on the counter top. “Here we have A, B, and C.” She pointed to each stone in turn. “If A equals B—”
“No.”
“What?”
Stefan frowned. “Isn’t that the question? Does A equal B? Because it doesn’t. The colors are off by several shades and A is bigger.”
“Jesus Christ on a pogo stick, will you stop being such a literal artist and work with me here?”
“Hey, you’re the one who invoked math and logic.”
She glared at him. “Fine. These are representations. That work for you?” He nodded. “Thank fuck for that. Now, if A equals B and A equals C, then it follows that B must equal C.”
“Wha—”
“Representations, remember? If the ghost—” She picked up the first stone. “—A, could get to you—” She picked up the second one. “—B, and the ghost could get to him—”
Stefan picked up the last stone. “He’s C?”
“That’s right. Then . . .”
Through Stefan’s haze of sleeplessness and caffeine jitters, the light began to dawn—finally. He took the second stone from her hand and nestled it next to the other one in his palm. “Then I must be able to get to him?”
She leaned back in her chair and chugged her beer. “Got it. Jesus, took you long enough.”
“I’m a painter, not a mathematician,” he grumbled.
Peg squinted at him, an incongruous expression under the floofy blonde wig. “That’s pretty fucking obvious.”
“But I’m not a ghost either. Are you saying I can possess Luke too? Or the ghost?” He scrubbed his hands over his face, his brain shorting out.
“Not possess him, idiot. Communicate with him.” Her gaze shifted to a point behind Stefan’s shoulder. “What are you doing down here?”
Stefan pivoted, but the shop was empty. The anti-breeze that lifted the air on his arms in a wave clued him in, though. “Hootie?”
“Yeah. He hardly ever comes down here because he hates the wind chimes more than I do. Guess he must like you.” She cocked her head, lips gradually compressing into a crimson gash across her face. “He says he’s seen something like this before.” She scowled at the air. “Fuck you.”
Stefan sighed. “Look, I know you’re not—”
“Not you. Hootie. He says I’m in denial. And projecting.” Peg stalked out from behind the counter, muttering a curse under her breath—for a change. “I should never have let him sit in on that Psych 101 course.” She flipped the sign on the door to Closed and glared at Stefan over her shoulder. “What are you waiting for? Let’s go.”
For an instant, Stefan stared at her, mouth agape. Then his brain clashed into gear and he hurried after her, catching up with her as she stood next to his car.
“If you think I’m riding in this, you’re more delusional than all of my other customers combined. I’ll meet you there.”
“Right.” Stefan gave her the address. “There’s a lot in the back where you can park. Meet me on the sidewalk in front of the gallery, though, and I’ll walk you in. I’m not sure if we’ll be able to get in to see Luke. His nurse doesn’t start his shift until noon—”
“He has a nurse?”
“I told you. He’s partially paralyzed. He—or rather the body he’s in—had a stroke a couple of months ago.”
“Jesus,” she muttered. “Whatever. Worse comes to worst, we’ll send Hootie in to reconnoiter. Not like anybody’ll notice him.”
All the way back to the gallery, elation snaked through Stefan’s veins, banishing his tiredness. He tried to tamp it down, throttle his expectations back, but Christ, to have an ally. Someone who believed him. Someone who had a freaking clue about this crap, who wasn’t flailing around in the dark like he was.
He was still hyped when he met Peg on the sidewalk. She was studying the gallery window display, which included three of Stefan’s paintings.
She pointed to them. “You do those?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re good.”
The telltale warmth of a flush crept up his throat. Why should her approval mean more than any other compliment? “Thanks.” He held the door for her. “After you.”
As Stefan ushered Peg—and presumably Hootie—inside, DiBartolo in his Luke-suit was on the way down the stairs. Oh man. Fuck my luck.
Stefan straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin with a smile. Pretend. Just pretend it’s Luke in there. “Were you looking for me?”
DiBartolo smirked. How could I ever have imagined he was Luke? “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were avoiding me.”
“Not a bit. Only busy. You know how that is.” Stefan stepped forward, putting himself in position for a kiss as he would have for the real Luke, but not making the first move. He’d give DiBartolo the lead. Since the guy wasn’t gay, Stefan figured he’d avoid an overt public display.
He was wrong.
DiBartolo grabbed him around the waist and by the back of the neck, then kissed him, forcing his tongue into Stefan’s mouth with no warning or preamble. Stefan tensed, fighting his instinct to recoil, forcing himself to relax and at least submit. Because that’s what this is—domination ploy, a power play. It had nothing to do with attraction or desire.
His belly roiled as the kiss went on: Luke’s body, Luke’s scent, Luke’s lips. Yet it felt like cheating. Stefan wanted to push away, hell, gargle with bleach. But if he expected to save Luke, the real Luke, he couldn’t let this impostor suspect.
He disengaged as soon as he could, forcing himself not to wipe his mouth. “Hey. Not in the gallery, okay . . . babe?”
“You’ve kissed me here before.”
“But not in front of a client.” Stefan turned to Peg, who was doing her best Marguerite Windflower airhead routine, all wide eyes and vacant smile, her hands fluttering like sparrows in a whirlwind. “Luke, this is Marguerite. She’s here to discuss a commission.”
“Ah.” DiBartolo inclined his head in a very un-Luke-like move. “Then I won’t keep you.”
“Will you—” He cleared his throat, still fighting nausea. “Will you be back later?”
“Perhaps not. I have a . . . meeting. But I will see you tomorrow.” He strolled out the gallery door and onto the sunny sidewalk.
Behind Stefan, Peg let out a long low whistle.
Stefan turned from watching the thing in Luke’s body ogle two passing women in skimpy beach cover-ups. “What do you think?”
“I don’t know what’s going on, but there’s only one personality rattling around in that guy’s brain, hon, and he’s bad news.”
“Tell me about it.”
Peg scowled, making her look like a grumpy daisy. She surveyed the gallery, frown deepening as she pivoted, studying every corner.
“What’s wrong? Is the gallery infested with the ghosts of mediocre artists past?”
“No. It’s not infested with any ghosts.”
Stefan realized her scowl wasn’t angry. It was worried. And maybe a little fearful. “What—”
“Hootie’s gone.”
“Is that a problem?”
She pinned Stefan with a glare, doubly disturbing coupled with the iridescent eye shadow and kewpie doll lipstick. “He hasn’t been more than a couple dozen feet from me in any direction since 1983. I don’t know what that was that just tried to swallow your tonsils, but it scared a 460-year-old dead guy out of his ectoplasmic wits. Come on. I gotta see the rest of this nightmare.”
Peg’s expression smoothed to bland as she morphed into her Marguerite persona. She jerked her head and shifted her eyes upward. Stefan got the message. He glanced over his shoulder to see Antoinette hurrying down the stairs, head down as she dug through her giant tapestry shoulder bag.
“Hey, Antoinette.”
“Oh, Stefan. You are here. I beg your pardon, but I must . . .” Her eyes scanned the street outside the windows. “A client. I must visit a client. Katrina is covering the gallery, but if I don’t return by three, could you take the beginning ceramics class for me?”
“Sure. No problem. Is Rudy already here?”
Her gaze lifted to Stefan’s face, then slid to the side. “Not yet. But he should be here within the hour. Jacques is napping.”
“I can look in on him if you want.”
She pushed her hair behind her ears. “Non. I thank you, but after what happened last time, I think it best if you did not.”
“All right, but call if you need anything, okay?”
“Of course.” She smiled briefly, then scurried out the door.
Peg drifted to Stefan’s side in a billow of tie-died fabric. “If she’s going to visit a client, I’m the lost princess of Mars.”
“What?”
“She’s following him. Is she in on this racket?”
“No. She’s probably worried. And if Luke— I mean DiBartolo.” Stefan clutched his hair. “Gah! That guy. If he’s acting odd, maybe she needs to be sure he’s not . . . not—”
“Not what? Don’t be a fucking idiot, Stefan. Why would she be following your boyfriend? She ever do that before?”
“No.” He drew out the word, trying to think, to remember. “They’re not that well acquainted, actually.”
“And so?” Peg spread her hands in an I-rest-my-case gesture.
Suddenly dizzy, Stefan clutched the stair rail. “But she’s my friend. She’d never do anything to hurt me. To hurt Luke.”
Peg pulled on one platinum curl, tilting her wig slightly askew. “Maybe not. But never underestimate what someone will do if their life depends on it. Or if someone they love’s life depends on it.” She nodded at him. “I mean, look at you.”
A fair point. Stefan inhaled a huge breath and blew it out. Remember the objective. Obsess about this later. “Come on. We’ve got a narrow window before Rudy shows up. I want you to see Luke.” He led her upstairs, taking a moment to open his studio door and chuck his portfolio inside. As he locked the door, he hunched his shoulders against creeping gooseflesh. “Christ, I feel like someone’s watching me.”
“Someone is, you idiot. Hootie’s back. He’s hanging right at your heels.”
Now that she’d mentioned it, Stefan identified the pricking between his shoulder blades as Hootie’s usual special FX. “Could you ask him to back off a little? He’s setting off my supernatural proximity detector.”
“Clearly, you know nothing about ghosts if you think I can make him do anything.”
Stefan shushed her with a finger against his lips and turned the doorknob of Antoinette’s apartment.
“Shit. It’s locked. She never locks it.”
“Maybe she’s got something to hide now. Here. Let me.” Peg ducked in front of him and extracted the dragonfly hairpin from her mass of platinum curls. She bent down and in less than ten seconds, popped the lock.
Stefan lifted an eyebrow. “Do all ex-cops know how to pick locks with a hairpin?”
“How the hell should I know? Lead on, Macduff.”
Stefan saluted. “Excelsior.” He marched down the hallway.
Antoinette had been gone for barely five minutes before the apartment door opened again. Luke clutched the blankets. Please don’t let it be DiBartolo.
But instead, when the bedroom door creaked open, Stefan peeked inside. Luke’s heart bounded sideways, and he fought a whimper, although judging by the pinch of Stefan’s eyebrows, he didn’t succeed.
“Hey, hey.” Stefan took three giant strides, the width of the room no match for his long legs. “It’s okay. I’m here. And I’ve brought someone to help.”
Luke had to blink at the vision that followed Stefan into the room, certain his wonky eyesight was playing tricks on him. Was anybody’s hair that blonde, anybody’s lips that red, anybody’s clothing that new-age?
“Luke, this is Marguerite Windflower, although under all the decoration, she’s Peg Clapp.”
She nodded at him. “Wish I could say it was good to meet you, but fuck if anything about this is good.”
Okay. Interesting attitude. But if Stefan believed in her, Luke was onboard, one hundred percent. He reached out to shake her hand but hesitated when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Had Stefan brought someone else too? He turned his head to peer into the shadowy corner, but there was nothing there.
“Huh.” The woman—Marguerite or Peg?—studied him, her head tilted to one side.
“What?” Stefan asked.
“Nothing.” She moved closer, stopping by Stefan’s shoulder. “Hootie says this is your mate. Although, you know, cobbler. He sees everything in relation to shoes.”
Stefan stroked Luke’s face, smiling tenderly. “No, he’s right. Luke is my mate.”
I haven’t been acting like it lately, and not in this wreck of a body. But if I’m ever myself again, I’ll do better.
“Luke, can you tell us anything about who did this? How it happened?”
Luke pointed at the armoire. Come on, Stefan. Look in there.
Stefan glanced over his shoulder. “Something in the wardrobe?” He flinched when Marguerite-Peg smacked him on the biceps.
“What the fuck are you playing charades for? He’s got one functioning hand. Give him your phone and let him text you.”
“Oh.” Stefan blinked. “I never thought of that.”
Luke was tempted to slap his own forehead in a d’oh moment. Thank God that hadn’t occurred to DiBartolo.
Stefan wrestled his phone out of his pocket. And that’s why we didn’t think of it. Stefan’s phone—
“What the fuck is that?” Apparently, Marguerite-Peg wasn’t impressed either. “A keypad? I can’t believe they make phones without touch screens anymore.”
Stefan flushed. “They might not. I bought this used.”
“Jesus, get with the current century.” She pulled an iPhone out of her caftan pocket and poked at it to wake it up. “Here. Hold this for him.”
Stefan followed the terse instructions, although Luke had trouble with his part— His fingers were too clumsy, the soft keys too small. But he finally managed to peck out Look n armoore.
Luckily, Stefan got the picture. He handed Marguerite-Peg her phone and strode over to the armoire. He tugged on its door, and it swung out on a long creak that set Luke’s teeth on edge. Stefan peered at the shelves of neatly folded clothes. “What is it, babe? I don’t feel right pawing through Antoinette’s underwear.” Luke grunted, pointing at the door where the shawl still covered the m
asks. Stefan touched the shawl. “This?” Luke nodded, and Stefan lifted the shawl off the hook.
The silk slid from his fingers as he stared at the masks, and Luke never wanted to see that devastation on Stefan’s face again. He’d seen it once before— The night of Stefan’s twentieth birthday, when he’d walked out because Marius had given Stefan that damn signet ring.
Peg took hold of the door and swung it wider. “That top one looks a hell of a lot like those masks on display downstairs.”
“Yes.” Stefan’s voice was low and rough. “It’s Antoinette’s work.”
“Still think she’s not in it up to her eyebrows?”
Stefan shook his head, then picked up the shawl and covered the masks again as if he couldn’t bear the sight of them. He turned to Luke. “Is this what happened? When she made that mask, she somehow trapped you?”
Luke nodded, and Stefan covered his face with his hands. He took a shuddering breath, then dropped his arms to his sides. “Okay then. Now we just have to figure out how to reverse it.”
“How are we doing on time?” Peg asked.
Stefan checked his watch. “We’re about out. Rudy’s shift starts in ten minutes, but he’s always early.” He skirted the bed and sat down next to Luke. “I’m not sure when I’ll be able to see you next, babe, but I’ll take any chance I get.” He leaned down.
Panic shot through Luke’s chest, and he turned his head, so Stefan’s kiss hit his cheek not his lips.
“Don’t you want me to kiss you?”
Only more than life itself. But not when he looked like this. Smelled like this. God knew what he’d taste like.
Stefan’s long-fingered hand cupped Luke’s jaw and turned his head gently. “Let me kiss you. So you know that I know you’re in there. So that you know I love you even when your packaging is a little battered.”
Luke clenched his eyes closed—the left one didn’t respond of course. But he nodded because he couldn’t count on this happening again soon. Between Antoinette, DiBartolo, and Rudy, Stefan’s visits were bound to be sparse and brief. If he can stand it, so can I.
Stefan smoothed Luke’s hair back, then kissed him on the forehead, both eyelids, and finally, his lips. “Hang tight, babe. We’ll figure this out.”
Tested in Fire Page 10
