Chapter 4 #3
The wipe was cool against my skin, but Kit’s fingers burned where they curved against my jaw. His touch lingered. The pad of his thumb traced my cheekbone, following the curve down to the corner of my mouth. My breath hitched, and his hand went perfectly still.
The basement faded away. The throbbing in my cheek disappeared. Even the ever-present hum of anxiety that lived in my chest somehow went quiet.
There was just Kit, kneeling in front of me, touching my face and holding my hand.
And then I saw it—something I’d never quite understood, though I’d seen the expression on Kit’s face before.
Kit looked sad.
Not just sad. Devastated.
Properly, deeply. The kind of sadness that settled into someone’s bones and refused to leave.
Which made absolutely no sense. Why would Kit Thorne, former military hardcase who could probably kill someone with a teaspoon, look so sad whilst staring at me? Was I really that pathetic?
I tilted my head slightly, and Kit lurched his hands away from me like he’d been electrocuted. “Sorry,” he said stiffly. “There was… loads of blood. All over your face. But it’s gone now.”
What the hell?
The urge to flee crashed over me. To disappear back to my cupboard-cum-office until the others arrived. Hide behind multiple monitors and pretend this whole mortifying incident hadn’t happened.
Just as I opened my mouth to make my escape, the blessed sound of footsteps echoed down the stairs, and Kit promptly leapt five feet away from me.
Saved by the cavalry.
Seb appeared first, our boss looking immaculate as always in his perfectly tailored charcoal trousers and that long black coat with the brass buttons.
His boyfriend Flynn followed, blue eyes wide as he took in the scene. He didn’t have an official role at Killigrew Street, but he often turned up to meetings anyway, seemingly for the entertainment value.
Rory, blond hair sticking up at odd angles like he’d just rolled out of bed, came last. He looked nothing like his older brother, with his baby face compared to Kit’s thick beard and brown hair.
Not to mention he only came up to Kit’s shoulder.
In his hands he balanced eight takeaway coffees—two trays of four, the familiar black and white stripes with the orange cat logo marking them as Fat Cat’s finest.
“Why have you got eight cups?” Priya asked, eyebrows raised.
Rory grinned, that mischievous expression that usually meant trouble. “I got Freddy his own decoy decaf coffee. Clever, right?”
Seb turned to Kit, drinking in his appearance. “I didn’t realise the dress code was so casual today.”
“Felix got hurt,” Kit said very seriously, as if I’d been in a car crash.
“I’m fine!” I squeaked, face burning.
“He looks fine to me,” said Rory, handing me a cup with a little frowny face on it. Probably drawn by Rory himself, to mark it as the only one with sugar, which he thought was disgusting. There weren’t any doodles of cats on any of the cups—Wren must not have been on shift.
A grey blur launched itself onto the coffee table with a theatrical chirp, tiny claws scrabbling against the wood for purchase. Freddy’s yellowed eyes gleamed with that eerie undead light.
“Here you go, sweetheart,” Rory crooned, pulling the lid off Freddy’s cup.
Freddy immediately stuck his tiny snout into the coffee and began lapping at it like a cat.
Which was disturbing on multiple levels, considering he was a zombie ferret, brought back to unlife with Issac’s necromancy.
The sight of his matted grey fur and visible bone patches always made my stomach turn slightly, but Rory watched with the devoted expression of a proud parent.
“Freddy insisted he come with me to Fat Cat’s again. It’s Wren’s fault—he keeps feeding him bits of chocolate chip cookie every time we go. But when he saw Wren wasn’t in today, he went mental and bit the barista.”
I almost laughed. I’d have to text Wren to tell him that. He was the only person aside from Rory who thought Freddy was cute rather than a creepy, psychotic creature of death.
“Theo’s late,” Seb said, checking his watch with his particular brand of vampire impatience that suggested someone was about to get a strongly worded lecture about punctuality.
“He’s not,” Rory replied without looking up from Freddy. “I can feel him. He’s just about to come through the bookcase.”
It had been months since Rory and Theo had returned from Scotland as lovers.
What happened up there was truly a mystery to all of us.
From my first day at Killigrew Street, Rory had always hated the London Met detective, calling him Detective Dickface…
to his face. Completely unfair, really, Theo’s face wasn’t shaped like a dick at all.
His face was nice, his stubble always perfectly trimmed against his dark skin.
It had frightened me, the intensity of Rory’s anger towards Theo, the way Rory’s entire body would go rigid whenever the detective’s name came up in conversation.
But all seemed forgiven now, and the pair of them were just as sickeningly in love as Seb and Flynn. Rory could even sense his whereabouts, apparently. A “wolf thing,” he’d explained with a shrug, like supernatural GPS was perfectly normal.
The bookcase at the far end of the basement began to swing inward with a soft grinding sound. Theo emerged from the hidden passage, running a hand over his springy coils, which he’d let grow longer than usual.
“Sorry,” he said, straightening his jacket. “Got held up at the station. New case came in that’s…” He trailed off as his sweeping gaze landed on me. “Felix, what happened to your face?”
“I’m absolutely fine!” I all but screamed at him.
The room fell silent. Theo stared at me intently. Crap. The telepath was probably reading my mind to see what on earth he’d missed.
Being the only human working with a bunch of supernaturals really was bloody exhausting sometimes.
“Right,” said Seb, clearing his throat. “As Felix is absolutely fine, should we begin?”