Chapter 8 #2
He righted his head, a challenging, devastating smirk turning up one corner of his mouth. “Only if you do.”
“Deal.” He tossed his razor on the palette, capped his paints, and rinsed his brush in another mug he’d claimed for paint water, before ducking into the bathroom to wash his hands and check his bandages. When he reemerged in his tee and boxers, Mac was spreading a blanket on the couch.
“I said bed. You’re way too tall for that sofa, and this bed is big enough for you and me and two more people.”
Mac eyed the couch, looking anywhere but at Paris. “I’ll be fine here.”
Paris pressed his lips together and waited, hands on his hips, for Mac to glance up and meet his no-you’re-not glare. He caved almost immediately, chuckling as he snatched up the blanket and headed for the other side of the bed. “I see why you and Icarus are friends.”
“We’re nothing alike,” Paris said as he crawled under the sheets and quilt. “He’s all strong and bossy and sexy.”
“There’s more than one interpretation of those words.
” Mac stretched out on top of the quilt, fully dressed, the blanket tossed over his feet.
Paris let him have that distance, counting it a win that he was beside him at all, that he would get the good night’s sleep he deserved.
Counted it a bonus when Mac turned on his side to face him, his dark hair falling across his forehead and making him look years younger.
Sweet, almost. His words were even sweeter.
“You’re both good people. I didn’t believe it about either of you at first, but like him, you keep proving me wrong. ”
Paris would have liked to stay in that gooey good place, but the ache in his heart wouldn’t allow it. “Is Icarus really okay? He was always good to me. I’ll never forgive—”
Mac’s hand covered his where it rested between them. “He’s fine. So is Adam. For what it’s worth, you helped bring them together.”
“Adam’s the Devil, right? He’s a phoenix?”
“Was. Like Icarus was a vampire.”
Shock sent Paris levering up on his elbow. “He’s not anymore? How did that work?”
Chuckling, Mac tugged him back down. “They were counterbalances—walking rebirth and walking death—whose souls became entwined. Mated, for lack of a better word. Nature released them both, channeling the magic back to her, and giving them a second chance. Their souls chose to come back together.”
That did not sound like an easy task for the reaper who had to guide them. “And how did that work for you?”
Mac closed his eyes, but not fast enough to hide the wretched melancholy that streaked through them. He rolled onto his back and folded his hands over his middle. “We do what the souls deserve. Adam and Icarus deserved that second chance.”
Paris started to reach out, but stopped himself short. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“I told—”
“What you felt?”
His Adam’s apple bobbed, a hard swallow, then a single tear escaped the corner of his eye and raced toward the dark hair at his temple.
Fuck it.
Paris was a tactile person, and it was killing him not to try to soothe the obviously upset man—friend—beside him. He scooted closer and laid a hand on his shoulder. No words, just contact, letting Mac know he wasn’t alone.
He found his words again after another swallow. “When you know the person on your list, when you love them”—he tapped his chest with his fingers—“it’s a special kind of hell. What I want to happen and what must happen aren’t always the same.”
“Your aura was a wreck that day in Encinal and when you first showed up here.”
He whipped his face Paris’s direction, glassy eyes wide. “You can see auras?”
He withdrew his hand, tucking it back with the other beneath his pillow. “I couldn’t before. I don’t know why I do now, and I don’t know how I know what they mean, but I do. Assuming I’m doing it right.”
“What did you read in mine?”
“Loyalty, duty, regret.”
He returned his gaze to the ceiling. “You were reading it right.”
“What do you regret, Mac?”
“So much.”
The words were faint, barely audible, but no less a wrecking ball for their hushed volume.
They might as well have been a shouted cry for help, and it was everything Paris could do not to close the scant distance between them and to wrap himself around Mac like he’d done for him twice now, but he sensed even this was more truth than Mac let most people see.
Balling his fist under the pillow, he forced his instincts back and waited Mac out, doing what he could to comfort with his presence and breaths.
Eventually, Mac’s slowed to match his, and after another minute, he turned back onto his side, facing Paris, hands tucked under his own pillow.
“We’ll ask the witches to help you with the auras.”
“I don’t want to get rid of them. I think I’m supposed to see them.”
“To help you understand them. Read them.” He smiled softly. “For when they’re not as obvious as mine.”
“Thank you.”
His eyelids seemed to grow heavy, slipping closed as he muttered “Welcome,” and a moment later a light snore slipped out from between his lips.
He shifted onto his stomach, close enough Paris could feel the puffs of his snores across his own face, could watch as the tension flowed out of his muscles. Finally, at rest.
But Paris was more awake than ever. His gaze wandered past Mac to the murals on the wall.
They came to life in the dancing firelight, as did all the questions Paris still had about the people in them.
Who was the monster? Who was the vampire?
Why were he and Lola targeted? How could he help Mac deliver them?
And why did he always see them in purple?
“The auras?” Mac mumbled, eyelids fluttering, and Paris realized he must have asked that last question aloud. And that Mac wasn’t completely asleep yet.
“No, the souls.”
That sweet, soft smile flitted over the raven’s lips again. “Because I do.” Then disappeared into the pillow as he nuzzled down, surrendering fully to sleep.
And if Paris hadn’t already started surrendering some of himself to this man, the tug he felt between them told him it was only a matter of time before he was ready to surrender it all.