Tested in Fire

by E. J. Russell

  Luke flashed a feeble thumbs-up along with the parody of a smile that was all he could manage.

  “Okey dokey. Then how about— Oh! Here’s Steffie, looking gorgeous as usual.”

  Stefan edged into Luke’s line of sight and gave them a tight-lipped smile, strain showing in the lines around his eyes. The conversation with Antoinette must have been a real picnic. “Hey.”

  “Steffie.” Rudy planted a smacking kiss on Stefan’s cheek. “Your work is absolute heaven.”

  “Thanks, Rudy. We, ah, appreciate you bringing Signor DiBartolo down here, but I want you to have a chance to check out the show on your own too.” He grinned, and only someone who knew him as well as Luke did would be able to recognize it as a baring of teeth.

  Stefan gestured to a trio of women who were standing in front of Rudy’s portrait, giggling into their faux champagne. In Luke’s less-than-crystal-clear vision, they looked like fruit arranged for a still-life class: one wore a light green halter dress with a full skirt (Ms. Pear); the tall one wore a close-fitting yellow sheath (Ms. Banana); and the shortest one wore a red strapless gown that seemed to be made of three layers of ruffles (Ms. Apple).

  “Do you ladies have any questions?”

  “You’re the artist?” Ms. Pear gestured to the painting with her plastic cup. “Is he really that—that—” She pursed her lips and fanned herself. “Whoof! You took—what do they call it? Artistic license, didn’t you?”

  “You tell me. This is the model, right here. Rudy, may I introduce you to your fan club?”

  The three of them uttered a synchronized “Oooh.”

  Luke had to hand it to the guy. As much as he liked to camp it up, now that he’d been offered an opportunity to play the matinee idol, he was all over it.

  “Hello, ladies,” he said, just like the guy in the Old Spice ads, and they giggled madly.

  Stefan took Rudy’s place behind the wheelchair, angling Luke away from the group. “Why don’t you take the ladies on a guided tour, Rudy? I’ll stay with Signor DiBartolo for a while.”

  “You sure, Steffie?”

  “Absolutely. I want you to check out the show. I’ll shout if I need you.”

  Rudy grinned. “Come with me, ladies. You’ve seen the best part of me, but have you seen my face?” He held out his elbows so two of the women could latch on. Ms. Apple got cut out, but by the way her eyes narrowed and the way she swished the wine in her cup, one of her friends was about to need an emergency trip to the ladies’ room.

  Once they’d headed off to the mask exhibit, Stefan maneuvered the wheelchair into the corner behind a floor-to-ceiling fiber arts piece that resembled a rotting rainbow fishnet, then squatted down and caught Luke’s hand.

  “You doing okay, babe? You’re a little flushed.” I feel like I’m being roasted on a spit. But Luke nodded and squeezed Stefan’s hand anyway. “Things’ll start to go down soon, but I’ve got to tell you—it’s going to hurt. I’m sorry, but there’s not much we can do to change that.”

  As much as he was able, Luke squared his shoulders. Bring it on, motherfuckers.

  Stefan’s eyebrows snapped together. “Did you just think bring it on?” Luke nodded, a trickle of wonder sending a chill across his overheated skin. “Try it again. Think of something else.”

  If they hurt you, I will fucking kill them.

  But although Stefan’s eyes burned with intensity, no recognition registered on his face. Luke shook his head.

  “Damn. I got nothing. Maybe it’s . . .” Stefan glanced around the gallery, and his gaze landed on Rudy, still holding court with his attendant fruit basket. His back was to them as he held up his mask next to his face for the women to snap pictures, the gallery lighting illuminating his perfect rear as if he were the prize exhibit. “Look over there. At Rudy.”

  Nice ass.

  Stefan’s laugh was tinged with relief—unless that was hysteria. Luke could go either way himself. “I got that one, loud and clear. Apparently, we need to focus on the same thing. Peg called it being on the same frequency, communicating along some psychic pathway laid down by Arcoletti’s ghost. Make sense?”

  Luke shrugged. As much as anything makes sense in this fucked-up situation.

  “I hear that. Anyway, we may need that tonight. Just remember that I’m here for you. Whatever you need, I’ll give you.” He kissed the back of Luke’s hand.

  I love you.

  Stefan smiled. “Yeah. That.”

  The wheelchair jerked sideways, bumping into Stefan’s hip and making Luke bite his tongue.

  “Well. Isn’t this touching?” DiBartolo drawled, stepping out from behind the fishnet. He had his jacket slung across his shoulders again, the pretentious prick. “Do I need to worry that you’ve found another, Stefan?”

  Stefan stood up slowly, his extra height allowing him to look down on DiBartolo. He gripped Luke’s shoulder. “I think you’re fully aware that there’s only one man for me.”

  “Ah, yes.” When his gaze flicked to Luke, Luke flipped him off. Getting to be a habit, that.

  “If you’d really wanted to fool anybody, you could have done a better job, Giacomo.”

  DiBartolo barked out a laugh. “So you know, eh? Perhaps it is easier this way.” He brushed at his sleeve as if he were removing unseen filth. “When you address me in future, remember I am Signor DiBartolo to such as you.” He snapped his fingers at a passing server, sweat soaking the pits of his lavender—lavender!—silk shirt.

  Shit-fuck-goddamn-son-of-a-bitch. Luke’s hands shook with the need to throttle the bastard, his anger heating his belly until his core was molten lava. God, DiBartolo was a waste of oxygen.

  DiBartolo grabbed a glass of wine from the server’s tray and downed it in one go, then shrugged off his jacket and flung it across the arm of the wheelchair, half on Luke’s lap. Seriously?

  Luke pushed it onto the floor because he couldn’t bear one more piece of clothing anywhere near him, especially DiBartolo’s. He scrabbled at his collar trying to loosen his tie, cool his skin, but his fingers were too clumsy.

  Why had Rudy insisted on a tie anyway? This was fucking Florida. Everyone lived in polo shirts and cargo shorts. He needed this thing off. He needed a glass of ice water. He needed a fucking ice bath, because this was unbearable.

  “Luke?” Stefan’s voice seemed to come from a great distance. “Are you okay?”

  Luke panted, desperate to catch his breath, pain lancing through his head as if it were about to split in two. From somewhere far away, someone was screaming. It might be him. He pawed the air, searching, needing that one person, the one who’d promised to be there for him, the one who would never fail him.

  A strong hand captured his. Help me, Stef. I’m dying.

  Either the mask in the kiln had shattered or this was the normal transfer process. Antoinette had said it was painful, but this—Luke’s face was lobster-red, he was jerking like he was having a seizure, and his groans . . . Christ. Stefan crouched behind the wheelchair and wrapped his arms around Luke’s chest, so he wouldn’t eject himself off the seat.

  Meanwhile, the guests had backed away, leaving a wide circle around DiBartolo, screaming and writhing on the floor. Rudy was in the front row, his mask dangling from his hand and his face contorted in a grimace, as though Peg’s grip on his arm was holding him in place.

  “Call 9-1-1!” Rudy told her.

  “On it,” Peg said, wielding her cell phone with one hand without letting go of Rudy. Stefan doubted that call would connect.

  “Jacques!” Antoinette pushed through the gaping crowd and fell to her knees next to DiBartolo, not bothering to pretend who she truly cared about any more than Stefan was. “It shouldn’t hurt this much.” She gathered him to her chest, glaring at Stefan over his head. “What have you done?”

  He met her glare with one of his own. “You wouldn’t stop it, so I did. I shoved one of Ms. Gallipolis’s ashtrays under that new mask. Pretty sure the thing has exploded by now.”

>   She grew as pale as DiBartolo was red. “Non. Please tell me you did not.”

  Stefan didn’t bother to answer. He tightened his grip on Luke. “Hold on, babe. We’re about to make our move.” Luke’s breath sawed in his throat, and his hand twitched feebly. In this weakened body, he couldn’t take much more. “Peg! Now!”

  Peg dropped Rudy’s arm, although he still apparently couldn’t move, cursing as he strained against . . . the air? Oh. Hootie must be on the job. Reaching into her bag, Peg pulled out the plaster cast of Luke’s face along with a giant wooden mallet. She slammed the cast on the floor, where it cracked into three jagged pieces. Antoinette cried out but couldn’t move with her arms full of flailing DiBartolo. Peg bared her teeth at her, then knelt and brought the mallet down again and again until the cast was a pile of rubble.

  Stefan wanted to stand up and cheer. Later. At the moment, he had a job to do.

  “Now, babe,” Stefan murmured into Luke’s ear. “There’s nothing left to anchor you in that body, so get the hell out! Push, goddamn it. Push!”

  Fire. I’m on fire.

  Luke’s skull was splitting, his blood molten, his breath trapped in a vortex of heat and pain.

  “Luke.” A voice penetrated the roaring in his ears. “Come on, babe. Focus.”

  Stefan.

  Stefan was here, with him in the inferno. Because he promised.

  Luke latched on to that voice, that presence, concentrated on it, leaned on it, so sturdy and strong, as it lifted him out of the fiery pit.

  He opened his watering eyes. A ring of faces, gaping in horror. Rudy, struggling against an invisible force. Antoinette on the floor, holding a keening DiBartolo in her arms.

  “Damn it, Morganstern!” Peg shouted. “You did it before. Break free!”

  Then Stefan was kneeling in front of him, the face Luke most wanted to see. “I know it hurts. I know it’s hard. But he’s at his weakest now, and you have something he doesn’t.” Stefan squeezed his hands. “Me. We both want one thing. So use me. Use my strength and push. Him. Out.”

  Push. Him. Out.

  Luke gasped as Stefan’s . . . essence washed over him, cooling the heat, enfolding him in hope and light and love. Yes! It’s my life, damn it. Our lives. You have no right to them. No right to any of it. And you will never. Ever. Threaten Stefan. Again.

  Luke gritted his teeth, bore down, and pushed.

  Vision black. Can’t breathe. Bones grinding. Blood boiling. I need . . . I need . . .

  Air. He sucked in a giant lungful, then retched, alternately coughing and wheezing as if he’d almost drowned.

  “Fire,” he muttered, eyes clenched shut. “Why is it always fire?”

  “Jacques?”

  He opened his eyes to find himself in Antoinette’s arms. Oh no. Get me the fuck away. “Not anymore, sister. Get used to it.” He struggled to sit up, but his bones had turned to water. At least they’re my bones.

  “Mr. D!” Luke was dimly aware of Rudy scurrying across the floor to DiBartolo’s side at last. “Don’t you fret. I’ll take care of you until the paramedics get here.” He glanced worriedly at Luke. “I have no notion what’s going on here, Steffie, but do you think—”

  “It’s okay. I’ve got him.” Then Stefan was looming over him, offering him a hand. “Can you stand?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Then I’ll sit.” He plopped down on the floor, regardless of all the people still gawking at him, and drew Luke away from Antoinette and into his arms.

  “I may not be able to stand, but I can do this.” Luke raised his arm—his left arm for the first time in forever—and pulled Stefan down into a kiss, moaning into it even though it was chaste by their standards. Too long. It’s been too long.

  Stefan broke the kiss, stroking Luke’s face with his beautiful long artist’s hand. “Welcome back.”

  “You know . . .” Luke’s voice turned husky, whether because he hadn’t used it lately or because Stefan’s kiss had stolen his breath. “I’m feeling much better now. Let’s go up—”

  “Stefan, damn it.” Peg’s voice cut through the murmur of the crowd. “The foo is shitting!”

  Stefan glanced around wildly. Rudy was bent over DiBartolo, but clearly it wasn’t solicitous—Rudy’s tie was wrapped around DiBartolo’s hand, and DiBartolo was leaning sideways, using his weight to pull Rudy off balance. Rudy’s eyes bulged, but he was obviously trying to disengage without hurting his patient. Do it, damn it. Hurt him, the way he hurt Luke.

  But shit, Antoinette— She was standing in front of the wheelchair, Rudy’s mask in her hand, her gaze flicking from Rudy’s face to DiBartolo’s.

  Antoinette’s will. Christ, it didn’t matter that Rudy’s mask wasn’t the right clay. If she wanted to badly enough, could she use it to push that bastard into Rudy’s body? I’m the freaking idiot who told her how it works. If I’ve saved Luke only to doom Rudy—

  “Jacques! Non!” She hugged the mask to her chest, her gaze bouncing from DiBartolo to Stefan. “You said it was me, my fault, my will, and I told him. But I never thought he would try to seize another host, not here, not—”

  “Oh, cut the fucking drama.” The crowd edged away from Peg as she strode over and whacked DiBartolo on the elbow with her bag. He wailed wordlessly and let go of Rudy’s tie. Understandable—if she still had that mallet in her purse, it had to pack a punch.

  Peg turned to Antoinette and yanked Rudy’s mask out of her arms. “That won’t work, you idiot. He hasn’t been exposed to the original mask—and nobody will be, ever again.” She shook her blonde curls, mouth pinched in disgust. “Deliver me from fools who don’t know what the fuck they’re doing.”

  Antoinette brushed her hands under her eyes. “I wouldn’t have— No matter what you think, I was not going to . . .” She glanced at Stefan. “Not when I know his name.” DiBartolo flailed, but Rudy grimly straightened him in the chair, hands on his shoulders to hold him in place, so he glared at her instead, as if he wanted to flay her alive. She squared her shoulders and met his furious gaze. “No more, Jacques. I am done.”

  Peg nodded, patting her on the back with a force that jolted Antoinette forward two steps. “Found your self-respect, eh? About time.”

  Antoinette faced Peg, shaking back her hair. “You said no one would ever be exposed to the soul-anchor again.”

  “That’s right. I’ve got it and I’m not returning it.” Antoinette stared at Peg’s bag in horror. “It’s not here, for fuck’s sake. The damn thing would contaminate the whole block.”

  “You will destroy it then?”

  “I will. But not yet. From what I’ve been able to learn, there may be backlash. So when the time comes . . .” She handed Antoinette a business card, her gaze flicking to DiBartolo, slumped in the wheelchair.

  A tear tracked down Antoinette’s cheek. She brushed it away, but it left a trail of mascara behind. “I understand.” She tucked the card in the pocket of her skirt.

  “You know,” Luke murmured, “her soul anchor is still out there. She could move on herself, even without DiBartolo as a sidecar.”

  Stefan shook his head. “She won’t. She only did it for him.”

  “If you say so, but . . . uh, Stef?”

  Stefan stroked Luke’s hair, heart welling because he could again. “Yeah?”

  “Did you forget? You’re in the middle of the biggest show of your career.”

  Stefan glanced around and realized that, yeah, the guests who hadn’t slunk out the door were all gaping at them, some of them filming the whole thing on their cell phones. “Shit.” He pulled away from Luke, making sure Luke could sit upright on his own, then jumped to his feet.

  “Performance art, ladies and gentlemen. Give our intrepid volunteers a hand.” Stefan clapped, loud and slow. “Weren’t they great?”

  Peg got the picture at once, morphing back into her Marguerite persona and fluttering to the middle of the floor to take a bow. One or two guests picked up the applause, then it grew
in a wave, sweeping around the gallery, with a few whistles thrown in—one of which may have come from Marguerite.

  Stefan heaved a sigh of relief and helped the still-shaky Luke to his feet. “And that,” he murmured, “is how you do it.”

  “You busy again this evening?” Stefan glanced up from cleaning his paintbrushes. “Peg’s invited us over for poker night.”

  Luke leaned against the wall next to the sink. A week after booting DiBartolo out of his body, his skin still didn’t seem to fit right, but he could at least appear relaxed now. Go me. “You think you can take me in poker?” He could even inject some of his old snark into his tone.

  “I’ve had a lot of practice with faking it lately. You may be surprised.”

  “Fat chance.”

  “Of course, we’ll both be at a disadvantage. Three of the other players are ghosts. And they cheat.” Stefan dried off his hands, then circled Luke like a stalking cat while Luke tried not to bolt like a cornered mouse. Stefan hugged Luke from the back, his hands drifting over Luke’s chest toward his belt buckle. “In the meantime, I have an idea how we can occupy ourselves.”

  Luke pulled away, as he’d done every time Stefan had gotten close since the night of the party. “Don’t touch that.” Luke kept his tone light—or as light as possible. “You don’t know where it’s been.” Hell, I don’t know where it’s been.

  “Maybe not.” Stefan leered, waggling his eyebrows. “But I know where it’s going.”

  “Stef. I’m serious.”

  Stefan sighed, carding his hands through his hair. “I don’t get it, Luke. You’ve barely let me near you all week, yet you were ready to head up here right after you jumped back into your body.”

  “That was before I had a chance to think.”

  “About?”

  “What the fuck do you think? DiBartolo. Me. The whole soul-kidnapping fiasco.” Luke paced in front of the refrigerator, arms wrapped across his belly. “He used me, Stef. My body. Which sounds fucking pathetic, but while he was driving it, I don’t know what kind of joyrides he took.”