Chapter Fourteen
Chapter
Fourteen
Attracted by the commotion, Leo strides into the hallway from the direction of the kitchen with the twins and the Lettermans all following at a frantic trot.
“What the hell’s going on here…” He trails off and stares at Lestat squaring up to Goliath.
It’s almost comical in a fantastically stupid sort of way.
What astounds me the most is that Lestat can even see Goliath at all.
He’s never reacted to any other ghost around me before; I can only assume that it’s an animal-related glitch.
Who knew? My one-eared little pug just became a Bittersweet by nature as well as by name, and bizarrely, it endears him to me even more.
Bohemia and Britannia Lovell are around too, but they’re over by the grand fireplace in the reception hall and far too embroiled in their own argument to bother trying to intervene. And, oh joy, from what I can gather, they’re arguing about Leo. I didn’t read that one wrong then.
“What the hell’s wrong with him?” Marina shouts over the top of Lestat’s howling, growling racket as Artie makes another failed grab for the dog’s ass.
“He’s fighting the sodding lion,” I mutter, wincing as Goliath lunges for him.
I hurl myself between them and scoop Lestat’s furious, panting little body into my arms as he twists in midair.
He’s practically foaming at the mouth, and the only thing I can do right now is get him out of there, so I turn and run for the door.
Oh God, oh God, oh my bloody God. Lestat.
He’s stopped struggling at last, and as I sit down on the stone steps, he goes horribly floppy in my arms. Marina and Artie are either side of me in seconds, and we all stare, horrified, as Lestat seems unable to regulate his breathing.
“Come on, little buddy,” I whisper, over and again, and I berate myself for all the times I’ve called him names and, sheesh, I wish I’d let him eat that stupid pancake this morning.
“I promise I’ll make you a whole heap of pancakes all to yourself,” I say, holding his stubby paw in my hand as I cradle him like a baby. “Don’t leave me,” I whisper, and his charcoal, beady eyes lock on to mine.
“Oh God, might it be his heart?” I say, stricken. “Is there a recovery position for dogs?”
“Melody.” Fletch strokes a gentle hand over my hair and hunkers down to study Lestat. “I think he’d be better on his side.”
I nod, overwhelmed with gratitude that someone, anyone, is taking charge.
Fletch lifts the dog easily from my arms and lays him down on his side on the shady top step.
I can barely breathe as Fletch runs his hands lightly over Lestat’s little body, tilting his head back and feeling carefully inside his mouth for his tongue.
He lowers his head to Lestat’s and listens intently and I know he’s checking if he’s still breathing.
Please let him be breathing.
Fletch lifts his eyes up to mine after what feels like an eternity and nods.
“I don’t think he’s injured; he seems to be in shock more than anything.”
I can barely bring myself to ask the obvious question of Fletch, who to all intents and purposes has just elevated himself to fully fledged vet in my eyes. “Will he be all right?”
He frowns. “Obviously I can’t say for sure, but I think so. Just sit with him and give him a few minutes to recover.”
Fletch puts his arm around my shoulders, and that’s how we all wait, quiet and observant, until, little by little, Lestat finally starts to rally. I watch his ribs move up and down and as his breathing pattern normalizes, mine does too.
“I thought I’d lost him for a minute there,” I say, almost shivering with relief when Lestat reacts to my gentle fuss with a halfhearted lick of my fingers.
Artie dashes the back of his hands across his eyes and nods, then gets up and lopes away across the gravel for a breather.
Marina catches up with him and Lestat stoically gives his legs a go and shuffles himself into my lap.
“Looks like he knows where the safest place to be is,” Fletch says, and I feel a rush of emotion wash over me like warm rain.
“Thank you.” My words catch thickly in the back of my throat. “I didn’t know what to do.”
He shrugs. “I covered a pet convention for the paper awhile back. It was one of the demonstrations.” He rolls his eyes. “I’m just glad he didn’t need CPR.”
“You really are the man who knows everything.”
My defenses are down and my face is turned up, and it’s as natural as breathing when he lowers his lips to mine and kisses me softly.
It’s not a “God, you’re hot, let me drag you upstairs by your hair” kiss.
It’s a kiss borne from relief and gratitude, from a raw and unexpected moment of closeness.
He’s tender with me, thumbing a tear from my cheek as he lingers all too briefly, all the more sweet and exquisite for it.
I barely taste him, scarcely register the touch of his tongue against mine, and yet I feel the slow, life-affirming kiss in every cell and atom of my body.
“Better now?” he whispers.
“Think so.”
His laugh is low and intimate. “Need me to kiss you some more until you’re sure?”
Leo appears in the doorway of the castle and his eyes meet mine briefly over Fletch’s shoulder before he spins on his heel and disappears back inside.
“Best not.” I push myself up to my feet, Lestat still away with the fairies in my arms. Marina and Artie amble back across the drive and I hand the still-snoozing dog over into Artie’s care.
“He’s fine, I think,” I say. “Would you mind taking him down to the kitchen and settling him in his bed, please?”
Artie flushes, and I don’t know if it’s because he’s been entrusted with Lestat or because he gets to go and visit Hells Bells again. Either way, he smiles uncertainly as he takes the dog, smoothing a nervous hand over his gelled hair as he heads inside.
“One of you two needs to talk to that boy about the birds and the bees,” Fletch says, and Marina and I both stare at him, horrified.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he says with a shrug.
“You know the chat I mean, the ‘when a daddy loves a mommy very much’ one?” Deadpan, he makes a circle with the forefinger and thumb of one hand and makes sex motions through it with his finger.
He rolls his eyes when neither of us reply. “Fine, I’ll do it.”
“Don’t you dare say a bloody word to him,” I say, hot and bothered at the thought of Fletch leading a sex-ed class. In the space of half an hour he’s been a vet and a sex educator, not to mention that he found the time to kiss me breathless too. No one could accuse the man of being lazy.
“Fine. I’ll talk to him.” Marina sighs. “He probably could use some romantic advice about Hells.”
“Really?” I ask, high pitched. “What will you say?” I can’t think of many more awkward conversations to have with Artie than that one.
He’s like a gullible puppy and Marina’s advisory style can err on the bossy side.
I love her, but she just told me to forget about tomorrow and sleep with Fletch.
If she gives Artie the same advice we could end with the castle being more like a porn shoot than a movie set.
“Not sure yet.” Marina shrugs. “It’ll be much sweeter if you cover your peter?”
“Marina, no!” I say, horrified on Artie’s behalf. “I don’t think he needs sex advice; I doubt he’ll even kiss her for a good six months!”
Fletch smirks. “He’ll kiss her before the end of the week, tops.”
“So at least teach him about kissing first. Don’t go straight to sex,” I say, and Marina looks alarmed.
“You’re not suggesting I snog Artie, are you? Because like no frickin’ way.”
I pull a face. “Of course I’m not telling you to snog him. Jesus, Marina, you’d scar him for life. He breaks out in a sweat every time you pull your phone out of your bra.”
“Looks like it’s down to you to teach him how to kiss then,” she says with a sly, mischievous grin.
Fletch coughs as if he’s got a hairball in his throat. “Chill out, ladies. Unless you want to be closed down for sexual harassment, kissing the teaboy is a bad idea.”
I bridle at Fletch’s description of Artie. “He’s not the teaboy. Artie does lots of very important things at the agency.”
“Does he make the tea?”
“We don’t even drink tea. We’re sophisticated businesswomen. We drink only good Italian coffee.”
He smirks and shakes his head, heading for the castle doors. “I need to go to the little boys’ room. Later, ladies.”
“The little boys’ room,” I mutter at his back as he disappears. “Who says that?”
“Grown men who’re hung like donkeys and being sarcastic?”
I tuck my hair behind my ear and try very hard not to think about Fletch’s man bits. “I’m not prepared to confirm or deny if he’s hung like a donkey or a chicken or a…pig. One of those tiny ones that sit in teacups.” I make stupid little snorting noises to demonstrate my point and make her laugh.
“Chickens are all girls, so I can rule that one out.”
“They’re not actually, for the record. Male chickens are cocks. Now do you think we can stop this and get some actual work done?” Much as it pains me, I need to talk to Leo, and seeing as he looks across when we walk back inside, I seize the opportunity.
“Leo, could I speak with you in private, please?”
The creepy twins exchange distress calls—tiny little coos that I can only imagine are secret code for kill her, kill her—but I fix a small professional smile on my face and look him dead in the eye.
I see there that he is still sniffy with me about the kiss he caught me sharing with Fletch outside just now, but he makes a point of sighing dramatically as he steps forward.
“After you.”
I ignore Marina’s quizzical look and lead Leo out of the hall and down the hallway. I don’t actually know where I’m heading, but when I see Fletch coming toward us in the other direction I make a hasty decision and dip sideways through the first door I come to.
“Are we going to say our prayers?”
I let Leo have that cheap dig. The chapel wouldn’t have been my first choice either, but we’re here now so I shoo him into the back pew and perch alongside him.
We sit in silence when the two ghostly nuns who seem to be in charge of the chapel drift in and kneel in front of the pretty stained glass window at the end of the aisle.
“What the hell’s going on between you and Britannia Lovell?” I rasp through clenched teeth, earning myself a sharp over-the-shoulder glance from one of the nuns.
Leo looks bored. “What the hell’s going on between you and Fletcher Gunn?”
“At least he’s bloody breathing,” I spit.
He looks down at his hands and flexes his long fingers. “I think it would be wise to keep this conversation strictly business.”
“This is business. Our business, mine and yours, is to find out why Britannia, Bohemia, and Dino are all tethered here and to help them resolve whatever it is so they can move on and leave Barty and Lois to enjoy their castle in peace.” I hear my voice skittering up the octaves.
“Nowhere in that job description does it include the need to turn their love triangle into a love square and make matters a million times more complicated!”
He looks at me and shakes his head slowly. “Is this all because you’re jealous?”
What the? “What, exactly, do you think I’m jealous of, Leo? Your current love interest has been dead for a hundred years.”
Bollocks. I’m not proud of what I just said; he really does know how to goad a reaction out of me. This isn’t going very well. He still has that superior look in his eye, that “we both know I’m better than you because of my flash-in-the-pan TV slot” expression that he’s so damn good at.
“You’re pissing the nuns off,” he says, bowing his head as they both turn to stare at us.
“And you’re pissing me off,” I whisper urgently. “Have you got any useful information at all out of Britannia Lovell yet?”
“I’m working on it.”
Famous last words. “Tell me, do you always find it helps you to work if the ghost sits on your lap and whispers in your ear? Only it’s not an approach I’m familiar with.”
“At least I’m trying to communicate with her, rather than snogging in hallways and on the front steps,” he half shouts, and on that the nuns turn in unison and glide soundlessly toward us.
“Crap,” I mutter, dipping my head. I don’t even know what a Hail Mary is to say one.
They hover at the end of our pew and emanate waves of disapproval, and I’m instantly reminded of the many times Marina landed us both in detention when we were in high school.
Thankfully these seem to be the silent sort of nuns, otherwise I’m sure they’d turf us out for unruly behavior.
“Very sorry,” I whisper. “So is he.” I jerk my head toward Leo. “For the shouting thing, about er, snogging. Very bad form in church.” I can’t think of any more apologies to make, and after a few more long, painful seconds they move on.
“When is your camera crew coming to film again?” I whisper.
“Tomorrow,” he mutters. “Shame it wasn’t today. That scene with your dog would have been TV gold.”
Jesus, he’s mercenary. “Presumably because you can’t think of anything else to fill your segment.”
He curls his lip. “I’ve got plenty, actually.”
“Good, because so have I,” I say. “Like whether or not Britannia’s death was an accident or if someone murdered her.”