“Short?” I had to laugh. “You’re like—what? Five-ten?”
“With shoes on.” He shrugged.
“And you’re not even wearing glasses. Your whole analogy is missing the mark.”
“The sixth wheel? The spare? Stowaway? That expendable chap? Whatever you like.”
“Why are you saying that? You’ve contributed as much to this investigation—to this whole journey—as anyone. You’ve tracked for us, found information, talked to mundanes for us, ventured into London night clubs. You helped me personally in trying to understand this micro-culture. Hell, Andrew, you cornered Gabriel when none of us had a clue how to do it. And besides all that … you make a stunning picnic.”
“Add that and you’re making me blush, darling.” He stood, not looking at me, but to the neat paper stacks we’d left on the floor. Enough to spend a few weeks reading through. I hoped I could weed out at least half just with quick skimming, though. “Next on your list?”
“Reading.” I sighed. “I’ll read these pages from Stefan’s on the laptop, then start on the notebooks—or sleep trying.”
“Go ahead.” He stepped past, moving to the doorway but offering me another smile. His complexion was tanned anyway, and the room was hot—improved tonight—yet I thought he was blushing after all. “This is the one night you’ll have for sleep so might as well try it. Anything else I can do? Want me to read for you? Tell you if I see anything that looks helpful?”
“That’s okay. You already helped a lot sorting them out. I’ll have to go from here. I just need a glass of ice and I’ll get moving on this.”
“Add it.” He jerked his head at my desk.
“What?”
“Add the ice glass, darling. I’ll get it.”
“Thank you very much. I think I will.”
I added a glass of ice to the side of my Friday list and crossed it off as Andrew returned. I knew better than to think I should have gone to get the thing myself. Despite having been flopped on my bed a moment ago, Andrew was now meaning to make his way offstage with his usual abruptness. Not even a kiss beforehand. Was that so surprising, though?
The last time Andrew had kissed me was the evening of our picnic in the apple orchard beside the Sable Pack’s territory—so long ago. Possibly the best kiss of my life.
I thanked him again as he set the glass on a coaster and backed to the door.
“Anything else?” he asked. “Warm slippers? Electric blanket?”
I smiled while I wondered if the sweat was actually beading on my brow. “I suppose not. Andrew…?”
I met his eyes and there was a beat, a break, a ripple through burning air between us.
Why the see-saw, Andrew? Since the day we met?
Why begging for attention, then looking the other way? Why flirting only to turn your back? Why insist you wanted to be taken seriously, even that we were made for each other—dropping all kinds of hints, inviting and solicitous, sexy and charming—only to prove your point, go far out of your way for me, then again escape?
Why, Andrew?
Making promises:
One night with me and you’ll never want to go back. You’ll never be able to think of any other male the same way again, the poor sods.
Then my asking, Want to come up here?
And his answer, No thanks.
Why?
What do you need from me, Andrew? What can I do for you? As a silver, a friend, a lover? As family? How can I help?
He looked back into my eyes, hand on the doorframe, partly blocking himself off, ready to go.
I finished only, “Moon bless.”
“Good night, Cassiopeia,” he said with a slight smile. “Sleep. You have tomorrow for the school books.”
I shook my head. “I won’t have time to go through all these notebooks. There’s a bag in the closet I can pack if it comes to that. Maybe I can even scare up some strapping individual who’d be willing to carry a bag of heavy papers through airports for me.”
“You’re such an optimist.” More of the smile.
“Aren’t we all?”
Andrew cocked his head.
“I mean, look at what we’re doing. Aren’t all investigators, police, first responders, and so on, optimists? Don’t you have to go on thinking there’s still time, or you can help, or you can make something better? Otherwise … what’s the point? It’s either optimism getting us through the day, or it’s just plain hope.”
He nodded, eyes locked on mine again. He was six feet away at least, yet I felt in that moment I could, and should, reach to touch him—embrace him, tell him I loved him, that things would be okay.
This new pause was beginning to stretch when he said, “Hope has never won a war. Perhaps hope and … a little magic can. Good night.” He retreated down the dark hall.
I started reading the chapter on scry troubleshooting. I read the first page eight or ten times while remaining unaware of the contents.
A short time later, I was in bed, skimming the notebooks and holding the ice glass against my face.
I was able to rule a few out, go through more papers, find some interesting stuff about scrying living people versus mere location versus targeting certain objects that I’d partly forgotten through the years. Then, unable to keep my eyes open, I turned out the light. And lay awake, eyes wide, hot and achingly sad, for a long, long time, listening to the hum of fans, imagining Andrew lying awake just the same on the couch.
I was still debating going to talk to him an hour later when I finally fell asleep.
Chapter 10
I dreamed about my shamanic journey, the coyotes, visions and scries from before. Nothing new. Until the end. When I turned from a black and burning city to see Andrew sitting on the low rail wall along the river in Tom McCall Waterfront Park, his back to me.
Andrew? I walked closer. Fog closed in, thick, hot, and metallic on my tongue. I moved faster, reaching out before it was too late.
The fog crushed me while he never grew any closer, never looked around. I struggled through a quagmire of mist the consistency of oatmeal.
Andrew!
He was gone.
I woke burning, sheets soaked. Scrambling from the puddle, I found drops of sweat were actually trickling down my thighs and back as if a bucket of hot water had been thrown over me. Bewildered as my blood boiled and eyes stung with sweat, I struggled from the tangled bed. The room was not hot—even cool now. I wore only a tank top and hipster-cut underwear for sleep.
The room was dark, just hints of dawn’s gray and lavender touching the sky outside. I should be quiet to respect my two roommates. Instead, by the time I reached the bathroom, I headed straight for the shower.
I turned it on, switched the spray from the tub to shower head, peeled off my sodden tank, and was about to climb straight into the cold downpour when I turned sharply away and vomited into the toilet instead.
What the hell?
I sank to my knees, shaking, tears in my eyes, gripping the toilet seat to keep from falling over. I really did have a fever, then? Caught something? Food poisoning? Yes, that would be it. Something from the bar? Or lunch earlier? Although I hadn’t eaten much today, the seaweed salad could be a culprit. Then again … the reason I hadn’t eaten much was I’d already been feeling bad. And … maybe the day before also.
Dammit, it must be some sort of stomach bug or flu, but not from food. Which meant it might last for a while…
I’d be fine. Couldn’t get sick. Sickness was a luxury I couldn’t afford right now.
It took me a minute to be able to get in the shower, still shaky on my feet. I only remembered about the underwear once in. It didn’t make much difference pulling the things off in the spray. They weren’t much more wet than they had been anyway.
I hadn’t meant to wash my hair today, though did the best I could with a full, cool shower while I ached to lie down—knees trembling, stomach still unsettled.
Very diluted coffee, ice, crackers, maybe some
juice. And go to Willow’s, a great local health food store, on the way to meet Skye. Get some ginger chews and whatever all I could remember Nana proscribing for nausea. Nux vomica, peppermint oil, all forms of ginger, anything else they recommended. I couldn’t be sick on the plane. Hell, I couldn’t be sick today.
As far as actual treatment rather than just Band-Aids, that depended on what was wrong. A virus? I should have elderberry in the medicine cabinet already. And if it came to seeing a doctor? Didn’t matter. I’d be in England before that. One thing at a time.
What about Skye? Meeting for brunch? Toast and jam and tea should be all right.
By the time I was out of the bathroom, wrapped in my robe, hair still soaked and feeling woozy but at least cooled down, I just needed to go back to bed. A bed which, to my dismay, turned out to be just as wet as it had seemed in those first moments waking up. There was a puddle down my sheets that had soaked into the mattress pad.
I’d had fevers before. Not like this.
One of the charms about this apartment besides a nice location on the southwest side of the city, was that each unit had their own stacked washer and dryer crammed into a little closet space that used to be a pantry.
I stripped the bed, only to realize I couldn’t barge into the kitchen and start laundry while Andrew was sleeping in the living room. Not that he was likely sleeping anymore. I had a spare sheet set but he was also using that. A blanket would do. I could still lie down for another hour and catch my breath.
I stepped out to deposit the sheet pile in the hall—and jumped at the figure standing there.
“Andrew,” I gasped. “Sorry, did I wake you?”
He’d just been coming down the hall for the bathroom or to see me.
“You were too late, darling.”
“What?”
“Your roomie was up hours ago.”
“She—oh. Seattle. She’s gone?”
“Yep.”
“I forgot. I had nightmares, then hot flash and sweaty sheets and—”
“Early morning chores?”
“Yes. Sorry.”
“You all right?” He was squinting at me in the gloom filtering through my window. Just light enough that I hadn’t turned on the lamp. Had he been able to hear I’d vomited? No … the shower had been on. Probably okay, even with his ears.
“I’m kind of stressed, I guess. But no, I’m fine. I’m just going to put these in to wash and lay back down for a while with my notebooks.”
Andrew nodded. “Let me know if I can help.”
I also nodded.
We stood there.
Did he know? Could he smell acid in my breath? I’d rinsed and rinsed my mouth in the shower, but not actually brushed my teeth.
Why was I lying to him anyway? Not only for his sake—so they didn’t all start worrying about me more than they did already—but for my own. I had to be okay and a good first step seemed to be saying so out loud.
Andrew walked on for the bathroom. I put in laundry.
After a swig of elderberry syrup, I hunted ginger. We had the dried powder form and the fresh root form, both of which Preeda used routinely to cook. I sliced off a round like a nickel from the fresh stuff and sucked on that as I returned to bed. It burned by tongue a bit, but did help.
I bundled in robe and blanket, towel under my wet head on the pillow, switched on the bedside lamp, and settled to read a promising purple notebook from late in my teen years of mixing homeschool time with Nana and high school time with mundanes. This one was full of scry notes. I skimmed and read—nothing relevant.
I shut my eyes for a second, chewing the last of the fibrous ginger coin. Why couldn’t I just remember? That would be the simplest. Still a full day here. I’d find something. Or not a full day? I had to take my pack somewhere for the Lunaenott celebration. A city park was a drop in the bucket. We could do better…
“Belle? Cassia, hey…” Someone kissed my nose. That would be Zar.
Funny how it didn’t sound like Zar.
“Cassia? You all right?”
He touched my wet hair. Only … my hair wasn’t wet.
The room was warm and bright with muted sunlight. The fans hummed gently. A bit of a summer breeze drifted in.
Andrew stroked his thumb across my cheekbone. His nose was close to mine. For a second I thought he was in bed with me. No, only on his knees by my bed.
He was supremely beautiful—contact lenses in, hair thick and fluffy so I wanted to run my hands through it.
“I’m fine,” I mumbled. “Just dozed off.” And I really did feel fine. Much better than before. No inferno. Maybe it had been just a touch of food poisoning?
“I’m glad you slept, darling. But I’d be negligent in my duties around here if I didn’t call your attention to a certain to-do list.”
“Sorry. I’m getting up. I’ll get through this stuff.”
“I was thinking of your date.”
“My—” I sat up with a shudder, clutching robe and blanket to my chest. “What time is it?”
“Half ten.”
“What?” Horrified, knowing “half ten” meant 10:30, and I was supposed to meet Skye at 11:00 a.m. It would take at least fifteen minutes to get there. “Why didn’t you wake me before?”
“Weighing my responsibilities, I suspected sleep was more important than strict adherence to punctuality.”
I hardly heard him, already barreling past, running for the bathroom, then whipping around and running back to find clothes first.
Chapter 11
Brunch was a blur. It was good to see Skye. On the other hand, I kept thinking of needing to get through books and look after my pack on this special Lunaenott—rather than sitting with her and Andrew at Cafe Creme by Portland State.
Skye was fun, savvy, a Portland hipster with pink hair and a purse made of recycled tire rubber. Seeing her again reminded me of how I’d felt last night in Stefan’s place. He never had called back. Probably turned his phone off for the whole trip.
Skye asked if I knew the origin of the block—which, of course, I didn’t. She asked if I knew exactly when it had started—which I didn’t. And she asked if I was certain I truly was the victim of a magical attack on my scries at all—which … I wasn’t.
“You can ward your personal space and objects against scrying,” she said thoughtfully over her eight-veggie omelet. “But you know that already.”
“It’s not something against my home. It feels like someone targeting my magic rather than watching me. Somehow, I was magically fed a repeating loop. Not only that, I feel sure they’ve blocked me reaching them, maybe sent confusing images—or I’m just getting confusing images because of them blocking me—from early on when I tried scrying them.”
“Then they have to know you, Cassia. They’d have to know what you’re doing, or what you’re looking for at the very least.”
You already know.
I felt a little breathless and sipped the black tea instead of coffee I’d ordered, though my stomach was much improved.
“If I want to scry my mom, no problem. Not much harder than a phone call,” she continued. “If I want to scry, say, Orlando Bloom, I could because I know who I’m looking for. Not the same, but I could find him. Especially if I’d just watched one of his movies or something else that gave an illusion of connection. If I wanted to scry … your fifth cousin who lives in Alabama and I’ve never even seen a picture.” She shook her head and lifted both hands. “Hit or miss? At best. And, if I tried, who knows what I’d get? I might catch a glimpse of his pickup, or his dog, or might see the highway that he uses to commute to work. Or I might not see anything. Maybe you would. But you’re a really good scry, Cassia. You’ve said that’s always been a thing for you—that it came easy. Well, if it comes easy…?” Hands up again and eyebrows raised.
“The least glitch makes me think there’s some crisis?” I said.
“Not that I wouldn’t rule it out. It does sound fishy. But to get random images,
or a repeat of a scry from last Tuesday? For the rest of us—who aren’t great scries—it’s not much to write home about.” She peeled back the skin of her orange slice garnish. “I wish I knew more about it and could help. First thing that comes to mind, though, for me, isn’t, ‘Attack of sinister magic on my scries.’ More like, ‘Oh, shit, I should brush up on my technique.’ Did you ask Stefan? He has all those books. Maybe also thoughts to support or shoot down theories.”
By the time we left Skye—and I ran back on the sidewalk to return her phone, which Andrew had been walking away with as if totally normal—I felt even more confused. I also wished I had another go at Stefan’s library. I wished I’d brought that whole scrying book, permission or not.
I checked that I had my own phone—yes—while we walked. At least I had the small joy of having left the van parked by home and driving my own Volkswagen here. Andrew’d had the nerve to smirk at my little car. For me, it was like seeing an old friend. Without any of the baggage attached to seeing Skye.
I was so used to it now I only felt one quick heart palpitation to discover my keys were missing from my purse. That wasn’t all that was missing, either. Yes, I had my phone. I didn’t have much else.
“Andrew? Are you wanting to drive? Need to refresh your lip gloss? Sore throat? What’s the deal?”
“I wasn’t contributing to the conversation, darling. Just eager to lend a hand.”
“That’s so thoughtful. Why don’t you get the doors?”
Andrew produced my car keys from a pocket and beeped open the locks, then followed up with my lip gloss, a hair tie, a cough drop, and a twenty dollar bill.
“That’s why you always wear cargo pants…” I shook my head—couldn’t have figured that one out by now?—and sighed. Cargo pants were the clown car of clothing.
On our way, I made a stop at Willow’s but was feeling so much better I confined my purchases to a couple types of ginger and some elderberry tablets just in case I did have a virus. Best to be safe with the flight and take both. Andrew wandered around, finding a bag of soft, locally made maple caramels, and a pint of coconut ice cream, but mostly disappointed in the products.
Moonlight Lovers: A Reverse Harem Shifter Romance (The Witch and the Wolf Pack Book 7) Page 5
