It had been a long time since she’d properly looked him in the eye, and not because he had passed.
“I’m so sorry,” she croaked out. “I didn’t mean . . . that night you left, I didn’t mean to yell at you. I really didn’t.”
There was no answer coming back at her. Which hadn’t been the way things were. Before Rhoger had taken off that night and not come home, they’d been fighting constantly.
Over such insignificant things—or so it seemed now.
God, she wished she had been more patient. Or maybe not have dug so deep with the criticism. Maybe if she hadn’t been so hard on him, he would have stayed home that night.
Maybe . . .
She thought of the summoning spell. And everything Tallah had told her the Book would do for her.
Yes, she wanted to bring Rhoger back. But the truth was, it was her wrong that she wanted to rectify. She had started the downward spiral that had ended in his tragic death: After that particularly brutal argument, he had stormed out . . . and then crossed the path of his murderer at some point.
With a curse, she remembered those terrible days of waiting, sitting in the hard chair in the kitchen, praying for a call from him. And then the nights, trying to work at her desk, braced for the door to open when he came home.
The latter had happened, eventually . . . nearly two weeks after he had gone missing. She had smelled the fresh blood first, and then heard the stumbling feet. Rushing out of her room, she had come down the hall just as he had collapsed inside the front door, his loose limbs and out-of-joint torso the most terrifying thing she had ever seen.
“Rhoger,” she whispered.
If he hadn’t come home to die here? She never would have found him. She would have spent the rest of her life listening for the door, stuck with this house because it was where he would know to find her, wondering and imagining and torturing herself with a thousand different bad outcomes.
“I’m going to fix this,” she told him. “I promise.”
Getting to her feet, she groaned as every muscle in her body hurt—except that wasn’t true. It was only her upper arms that ached, and for a moment, she couldn’t figure out why.
Then she remembered being on the doorstep of the cottage. With Sahvage. Shooting at a shadow.
“I’ll be back tomorrow night,” she said to Rhoger. “I have to make sure Tallah is okay. It’s . . . a long story.”
The fact that she paused for his response made her feel really unhinged. So she went to her room and quickly packed an over-day bag. The truth was, she couldn’t wait to leave the house—which made her feel guilty. But for godsakes, it wasn’t like Rhoger was aware she was leaving him all alone. Besides, it was better for her not to be around the body. If another one of those shadows showed up?
If she didn’t have him intact, she didn’t know what the hell she was resurrecting.
Holy hell, what kind of life was she living.
Out in the garage, she took a deep breath—
The scent of spoiled meat put her paranoia back in the driver’s seat: Was it a legion of the undead coming for her? Dear God, why had she told a weapon like Sahvage to leave? She was totally undefended—
Mae’s head cranked around. To the rolling trash bin in the corner.
“It’s Thursday,” she muttered. “It’s trash day.”
As opposed to the Zombie-apocalypse.
Going to the Civic, she tossed her canvas over-day bag into the back along with her purse. Then she hit the garage door opener and marched over to the roller. As the panels trundled up, she tilted the weight and started to pull—
Directly outside the garage, there were two sets of legs.
That were standing toe to toe. Or boot to stiletto, as was the case.
She recognized the former. Those were Sahvage’s cargo pants and footwear. But the female’s?
As the door continued to ascend, Mae paid a whole lot of attention to what was revealed on the fairer-sex side of things: Lots of leg. Tiny skirt. Perfect hip-to-waist-to- . . . wow, that was a heck of a bust. Long brunette hair.
And a profile that was begging for a close-up.
Okay, so she’d been wrong. Sahvage didn’t belong with one of those rave types from back at the parking garage. This was who he needed. The female was as stunning a specimen as he was, the extremely feminine balanced with the extremely masculine. And their bodies would fit perfectly together.
The fact that Mae was ever so slightly jealous was nuts.
And what the hell were the happy couple doing in her driveway?
Just as she was about to bring up the trespassing laws of New York State, Sahvage’s head snapped in her direction.
He didn’t say a word. But his eyes were communicating a clear warning.
And then the woman looked her way.
“Hello,” the brunette said in a voice that was part Sophia Loren, part Judge Judy. “It’s soooooo nice to meet you.”
As she spoke, Sahvage didn’t move. It wasn’t even clear whether he was breathing. But those eyes of his. So intense, they did not even blink.
Meanwhile, the woman’s glittering stare drifted down Mae’s body. “You know, I’m sure you’re all well and good—and that your mother loves you. But I’m really surprised he’s risking his own life to save the likes of you.” She put her palms forward as if to be reassuring. “No offense, I mean, I just think honesty is the best policy, don’t you? And you’re not exactly what I’d expect.”
Sahvage looked down. But not because he was being called out. He was focusing on something.
Sending a message.
Mae let the woman continue to talk while she tried to figure out what he was directing her to—wait, was that a salt container on the side lawn?
The woman sauntered up to the edge of the garage’s concrete slab. “Anyway, enough with the chitchat. I’m thinking about buying a place in this neighborhood.” She indicated her fabulousness, sweeping a hand down her curves. “You can thank me for improving your property values later. But right now, how about you give me a tour of this incredibly quaint little abode of yours? I’m just dying to see what you did with the kitchen. Harvest gold, right? With macramé plant holders and a throw rug the color of an avocado. I mean, you look like someone who peaked in the late seventies, early eighties. Assuming second grade teacher is, like, a style or an era.”
The smile was a study in condescension.
And as Mae looked back at Sahvage’s face, the woman threw her hands up. “Oh, will you stop worrying about him? Fine, yes, I’m going to fuck him, but I assure you, it’ll mean nothing on my side, so it won’t threaten your relationship—well, until he kills himself. That’s not going to be my fault, however. Besides, take my word for it, he’s a bad bet for anything long-term. You should never trust what you cannot control. Something tells me you already know that, though, don’t you.”
Mae focused properly on the woman.
And in a slow, clear voice, she said, “You are not welcome here. I do not welcome you into my home. Now and forevermore.”
The woman’s black stare narrowed. “I think you’re mistaken.”
Sahvage took three steps forward and crossed over onto the concrete slab. Facing the female, he stayed silent and went still again.
The expression on the rare beauty’s face shifted, her lashes lowering over eyes that now glittered with rage.
“Oh, you fuckers,” she said in a low voice. “You’re not that smart, either one of you. And parlor tricks aren’t going to keep me away. I am everywhere.”
Backing up, Sahvage extended his arm and punched the button to close the garage door.
As the panels began to trundle shut, the woman growled deep in her throat, like a predator.
“You’ll be seeing me again soon,” she said. “That’s a promise.”
Knocking.
Lots of knocking on Balz’s bedroom door.
As his heavy lids lifted, he couldn’t figure out why in the hell someone was waking him up in the middle of the day. He was fucking sleeping.
“What,” he snapped.
At his kind invitation, the door opened and airmailed him a shaft of light from the hallway that was like getting rusty-spiked in the iris. With a hiss, he went classic Dracula, putting his forearm over his face and rearing back.
“How are you still in bed?”
Syphon, back again. Of course. The Mother Hen motherfucker was an alarm clock that ran on gluten-free organic smoothies, almond shakes, and organic porridge.
On that note, if only there was a bag of Doritos to throw at the guy.
Or anything that had Red Dye 40 or GMO shit on the ingredients list.
“Yes, I’m still in goddamn bed,” he shot back. “It’s almost one in the afternoon. The question is why you aren’t in—”
“It’s midnight.” When Balz didn’t respond, the bastard went hello. “Twelve a.m. Like, one dozen bongs from the grandfather clock out in the—”
“I can count.”
“Can you?”
Balz threw out a hand to his bedside table. Grabbing his Galaxy S21, he checked the time, ready to throw the hour back in his cousin’s face—
12:07 a.m.
Sitting up, he pushed his hair out of his face, even though he’d recently gotten it cut and there was nothing in his eyes. Sure enough, next to where his phone had been, there was that travel mug and the croissant that was still wrapped in a dish towel.
Jesus. He’d slept like he’d been punched in the head.
And no dreams of his female.
The lights overhead came on as Syphon flipped the switch, and then the fighter said the words every Brother and bastard dreaded like the second coming of the Omega.
“I’ve called Doc Jane.”
“What?” Balz tried not to scream. “Why? I’m perfectly fine—”
“You were electrocuted.”
Balz frowned because he couldn’t have heard that right. When his cuz merely stared back at him expectantly, like the bastard had just proved for a fact that pigs could fly, it was apparent that true logic was going to have to be spelled out.
Where were a whiteboard and a marker when you needed them?
“Back in December.” Balz indicated himself. “And in case you haven’t noticed, I don’t glow in the dark.”
“And you think that means you’re fine.”
“I think it disqualifies me as a night-light. And being a patient of Doc Jane’s four months ago—”
“Did someone say my name?” The good doctor, and V’s shellan, poked her head around the doorjamb. “How we doing?”
Balz groaned and flopped back against his pillows. “Can someone explain to me why doctors use the royal ‘we’ when they’re talking at people they think are sick? Who is this ‘we’?”
The blond female walked by Syphon and gave the bastard a pat on the shoulder—which was the universal sign for We’re good, thanks.
“I agree,” Balz muttered. “You can go, Cousin.”
“Both of you are so cute.” Syphon marched over and parked it in the chair by the bureau. “Really. It’s cute.”
Having clearly lost that fight, Balz focused on Doc Jane and shook his mental hat full of excuses, not really caring what came out. And as she patiently stared back at him, it was hard to be frustrated at her. With her short blond hair and level green stare, she looked like the kind of person who could treat anything from a hangnail to a ruptured aorta with competence, compassion, and calmness.
And she really needed to take all that expertise somewhere else, to someone who actually required it.
“So I understand you’re fatigued,” she said as she sat down the edge of his bed.
“Of this visit? Yes, and we haven’t gotten started yet, have we.” He cursed. “Sorry, I don’t mean any offense.”