Chapter 41 #5
A swell of affection fills me as I return their embrace. Not having really known Asher makes this ceremony hard for them in its own way, but neither man has ever complained.
Salvatore leans in to nuzzle my hair. “We’ve got you, Elodie.”
Cole’s gaze weighs on me from where he’s standing a few feet away. When I meet his eyes, he holds mine for a few seconds, unblinking, before jerking his head toward the kitchen. “We should eat.”
His abruptness isn’t out of the ordinary, but on this particular day, it provokes a flicker of panic.
Does he think I’m not mourning his brother deeply enough? Does he suspect I’m not just an innocent victim here?
None of my matches has ever implied that I was responsible for Asher’s death, but the secrets I’m keeping have only been accumulating.
If he found out the truth, Cole would be the first to throw me out of our apartment. Through the window rather than the door, most likely.
Naturally, right as I’m thinking that, my phone vibrates in my back pocket.
My teeth set on edge. There’s only one person who’d be calling me who isn’t in this room, and I told him today was off limits.
Well, Uncle Nik can go choke on a chupacabra for all I care.
Without looking at the screen, I turn the phone right off like I should have to begin with and toss it onto the sofa where I don’t even have to see it.
“Problem?” Salvatore asks, with the darkly eager tone that tells me he’d be more than happy to take care of whatever problem it is, by whatever means necessary.
I shake my head. “Just a spam call.”
I’m a lying liar who lies. That’s just the way it has to be.
We cluster around the wobbly table while Salvatore stirs the herbed tomato soup he made that was one of Asher’s favorite foods, sets the grilled cheese sandwiches into the frying pan to sizzle, and pulls the strawberry rhubarb pie out of the oven.
“A man of simple tastes,” he joked way back when Cole first told him what Asher’s ideal meal would have been.
Byron pulls out my chair for me as if we’re at a fancy restaurant rather than our dingy apartment.
He fusses over folding my napkin just right even though I’ll be unfolding it in five minutes to stick it on my lap.
When he sits down, he reclaims my hand and kisses it as if he’s worried he hasn’t been doting enough.
The understated devotion of every gesture wraps around my heart. I summon a smile, tight but meant.
If Cole was judging me before, he’s let his concerns go. He comes up behind me and strokes his fingers down the long waves of my hair. A pleasant shiver travels under my skin, penetrating the haze of pain and loss that’s thickest on this day.
“One day at a time,” he says, a mantra that I think is for himself as much as for me. He may be in even more pain than I am—or at least, his is purer.
The dagger inside me manages to twist even deeper. I raise my free hand to caress Cole’s arm in turn, as if I can communicate how much he matters to me with a touch.
My brilliant, relentless match deserved so much better than this too.
Cole catches my fingers and clasps them, his thumb tracing soft patterns over my knuckles. He releases me only when Salvatore saunters over with our bowls of soup.
Our self-appointed chef manages to sound solemn in his proclamation. “Asher’s memorial dinner is served.”
Salvatore brings the plate heaped with bisected grilled cheese sandwiches as well, and he and Cole take their seats. The creamy tomato smell fills my nose.
It’s delicious, but my gut cringes away. Each spoonful goes down harder.
Salvatore notices my expression and frowns. “Are you holding up all right, mia amata?”
The tender nickname sends a pang straight through my chest. What would I do without these three men?
I shore up my determination to tell my biggest lie and my most important truth. “I’m okay. I just… I love all of you, so much.”
Byron’s expression softens. “You know how much we all love you, Precious. You should never—”
A sudden roar of sound blares through my skull, cutting off the rest of his sentence.
A surge of energy rams into me. I jolt partway off my chair. Every particle of my body, from my scalp to my toes, jangles wildly.
What in the nine circles of Hell…?
A cry slips from my lips. I grope toward my matches, toward the table, toward anything. The men have sprung up, their shouts bouncing off the ceiling.
Another jolt slams through my nerves, hard enough to fragment my vision and coat my tongue with the flavor of ash.
The world spins away from me, and my thoughts snuff out.
2
My mind swims back into consciousness slowly, with the impression that I’m wearing the scratchiest of wool outfits. Only worse than wool, because the scratchy sensation is coming from under my skin rather than on top.
My mouth feels like it’s stuffed full of cotton balls. There’s a distant ringing in my ears, like when you’ve just left a concert where the music was blared way too loud. The air is cool and crisp, with a whiff that’s oddly… meaty?
It takes what seems like an hour before I can locate my eyelids and force them to blink. When I open them fully, all I can make out at first is wavering whiteness.
With several more blinks, the haze fades and the mottled blotches condense into more definite shapes. I assess the situation cautiously while testing my muscles with subtle flexing.
I’m lying on my back on a flat surface, uncomfortably hard against my shoulder blades. Birch-pale bookshelves line the wall to my left. A matching cabinet stands a short distance beyond my feet. The domed light overhead is framed by what looks like an antique bronze fixture.
Memories of alien abduction stories I’ve read flit through my mind, but I can’t imagine a spaceship looking so ordinary. I don’t think I’m about to be probed, at least.
Where the fuck am I? We don’t have any furniture this sleek or lights that fancy in our apartment. I don’t recognize anything around me.
Or anyone. The guys—where are my matches?
I jerk upright, and my brain lurches as if it’s been thrown into a spin cycle. Swaying, I clamp my mouth tight against a surge of nausea.
Then I catch sight of what’s lying on the table next to me, and I can’t stop myself from doubling over.
Tomato-soup-red vomit sears through my mouth and splatters the light beige floorboards. My stomach heaves, and heaves again, until all that comes up is clear spittle laced with the acid that’s burning my throat.
A sunny but cautious voice pipes up from behind me. “I’m sorry.”
I jerk around, every muscle tensing, but whatever’s happened to me has screwed with my reflexes. Another wave of dizziness nearly knocks me off the table. All I can do is clench the smooth steel edge to keep my balance and stare at the woman who spoke.
She twitches her hand past her billowy hair, tawny as a lion’s mane. Her mouth twists into an apologetic smile. From the lines at the corners of her lips, I’d guess she’s around forty.
She doesn’t look like much of a threat, all wide eyes and skinny limbs, I think a little shorter than me. But appearances can be deceiving.
I should know better than anyone.
Her frenetic voice babbles on. “I figured the trip would be hard on the body, but there wasn’t much I could do to ease the way. I didn’t even— Well. Don’t worry about the mess, anyway, not at all. I’ll get it cleaned up later.”
As if what I’d be worried about is the vomit I spewed on her floor.
My defensive instincts scream at me to pull into a crouch so I’ll be in a better position to maneuver, but from the way my head is reeling, I suspect I’ll end up sprawled on the ground if I try. Instead, I brace my hands and feet against the table.
My voice stings my raw throat. “Where am I? Who are you? How did you— What did you do with the guys? What the hell is going on?”
Another instinct tugs at me. I need to search for an escape route, for potential weapons…
My mind balks at turning my head. At the thought of getting another glimpse of—
The woman holds up her hands as if I’m a wild animal she’s attempting to tame. A shadow passes through her bright brown eyes.
I don’t think she was expecting me to react like this. How the fuck would anyone else react to finding themselves kidnapped in a strange room with a strange woman and—and—?
The woman speaks before I have to wrap my head around the worst of the strangeness. “You don’t recognize me. I never considered— Well. Of course it was possible. Ellie, I’m your Aunt Daphne.”
I snap to stiffer attention, unnervingly grateful to have a more specific puzzle to latch on to. “I’ve never seen you before in my life. No one calls me ‘Ellie,’ and I don’t have an aunt.”
Daphne’s forehead furrows. “Elodie, then, if that’s what you’d prefer. I suppose it is possible… Where you came from, is your father an only child?”
“My father? My father’s dead.”
But as I spit out that last word, a shock of cold sweeps through my body. Way back, when Dad was still with us—didn’t he tell me stories about his sister a few times?
A distant memory wavers up: drying fingerpaint itching at my face and arms, Dad’s buoyant guffaw. “It’s not so bad. Your Aunt Daphne smeared paint across our whole hallway back home when she was your age.”
Her face has tightened at my words. She’s older than Dad was before he died, but… his hair was the exact same shade of brown, wasn’t it, just shorter and tamer? His eyes were a deep green that I inherited, but wide set like hers, and the shape of her nose and jaw…
My fingers curl against the tabletop. Even if it’s true, her being family doesn’t justify her dragging me off to wherever the hell this is.
Daphne’s next words come out quiet. “He isn’t dead here.”
It takes several seconds for the statement to sink in. “What—what the fuck are you talking about?”
She’s insane. That’s the only explanation. I’ve been kidnapped by a madwoman, and radiants only know what she’s done with my matches, and—