Chapter 15
fifteen
He settled in a chair by the window, propping his wet, booted feet on the sill. Sophie perched on the bed, staring at the blank screen of the television. The room was warm, but she wondered why the entire world still looked like it was wrapped in gauze.
The night was a confusing jumble. She remembered an all-night restaurant, a club sandwich he’d badgered her into eating, and icy rain driving against the windows.
A long street with lights burned out, and him pushing her against the side of a building, pressing a warning finger on her lips while something black and twisted slid past their hiding place—a slice of darkness suddenly seeming far too small to hold them both.
Now an anonymous motel room somewhere on the west side of Jasper City, and the rain had decided to start pounding like it wanted to find a way in.
The weird gauze covering the room was full of faces she didn’t want to look too closely at.
They moved, formed and re-formed, stared at her, some with goggling astonishment, others gazing into the distance, some moving their mouths as if trying to speak.
The ever-present smell of musk and male was comforting, and it seemed to hold the faces at bay.
He hadn’t said anything since he ushered her inside the room. She didn’t even remember if he’d paid for the night; the walls were dingy and the upholstery pink floral.
Her nylons were sadly the worse for wear; her suit jacket was soaked. And she had no goddamn idea what to do next.
Well, there was no harm in asking, was there? What was the worst he could do to her now?
You know, I really don’t want to find out. But Sophie gathered herself, having no other option.
It took two tries before her voice would work. “What do I do now?” she whispered, and braced herself for his displeasure.
Zach merely cocked his head, a small movement expressing attention. “You go ahead and sleep. I’ll keep watch.”
Sleep? After all that? “I don’t think I can.”
“Just lay down. The rest will take care of itself.” His hair was wet, curling a little, and if she hadn’t seen him kill those… those things, she might not have believed it. Now he slumped in the chair as if tired, rolled his head swiftly to stretch neck muscles, and sighed.
There was no sign of the thing he became, fur crackling from its skin, moving with a grace and speed that was far from human.
Sophie shivered, a tremor passing through internal fault lines. “I can’t.”
Sure you can.” He still didn’t sound angry, only thoughtful. “Just lay down. It’s almost dawn, we’re safer during daylight. Upir don’t come out much then.”
Much? “I thought vampires couldn’t stand daylight.”
“The older ones can, but not much of it. It’s fire they can’t stand, direct open flame.
Messy way to kill ’em, though. Best to take the throat out.
” He stopped, settled his boots more firmly on the windowsill.
“You’re safe. We weren’t followed—I broke our trail and doubled back. You should really sleep.”
“But I…” Her feet ached and her back twinged, too.
Running in heels was not good. Her glasses were spotted with sleet, but she hardly noticed because the gauzy things between her and the world were still moving, creeping closer and closer, pressing against the little sphere of normalcy her head ached to maintain.
Zach sighed, took his feet down, and rose fluidly. He shed his wet denim jacket, hanging it over the back of the cheap pinkish chair, and glided toward the bed.
Sophie flinched, but he was faster, catching her face in his hands. His fingers were gentle, but she still froze, now knowing the strength running through them.
And she’d seen the claws. Her brain stuttered, turned this over, and gave up, shoving the memory away as an Unpleasant Thing.
He tilted her face up, examined her in the bedside lamp’s anemic glow. His eyes were so dark, and he looked worried, mouth drawn tight and the shadow of stubble on his cheeks contributing, the line between his eyebrows having the final say.
“You’re triggered. It means your potential’s been actualized, and you’ve been set as a Carcajou shaman.
As our shaman.” He spoke gently, as if it would somehow make a damn bit of sense.
“Right now you’re seeing the spirits. The food will help, but you absolutely need to rest. Your body’ll finish changing while you sleep.
I’ll stand guard, make sure nothing gets to you.
You just relax, and everything will be fine. Trust me. If you can.”
Jesus. He’s serious. Sophie tried to pull away; his grasp was too strong. “Let go.” She sounded very tired, even to herself. “Why are you doing this to me?”
She expected anger then, at least, but no hint of irritation crossed his face. Instead, Zach grinned, and the expression did wonders for his eyes. When he softened, he was a lot handsomer. “What, saving your life? Maybe I like you.”
What the fuck? She stared blankly at him.
“Maybe I like you a whole lot. Maybe I bumped into you and thought you smell really good.” A small shrug, his smile turning one-sided, one corner of his mouth lifting even further.
“Maybe I like the way you walk, and I like your cute little librarian look. And maybe, just maybe, I like you, not just the fact that you’re a shaman. How ’bout that for reasons?”
Vast, numbing incomprehension settled over her. Maybe she was still sane but the world itself had gone mad.
“For right now,” he continued, “you need rest. Not just any sleep, but shaman-sleep. I’ll keep watch. When you wake up we’ll feed you again, and we’ll figure out what to do next. I’m all for finding out why the upir are so hot to put you six feet under, if we can do it without you getting hurt.”
He let go of her face, but didn’t leave her be.
Instead, he slid her jacket from her shoulders like she was a little kid, tossed it aside, and half-pushed, half guided her down on the bed.
He eased her shoes off, and the feeling was so wonderful she could have cried.
He even, carefully and awkwardly, slid her glasses off, folded them up, and put them on the rickety little nightstand next to the twin bed.
“I’ve been handling you all wrong.” The tone was soft, soothing.
Like when Marc was in his rare happy moods, the ones reminding her of why she’d married him in the first place.
“I’m going to do better. But for right now, close your eyes and take a deep breath. ”
She didn’t want to close her eyes. If she did, the gauzy faces might come closer, and if they touched her, she wasn’t sure what she’d do.
Go entirely mad herself, maybe, if she wasn’t already there.
“There are faces. In the mist.” I sound about five years old.
Exhaustion weighed on her arms and legs.
He leaned down, brushed her hair back from her forehead, trailed his fingertips over her cheek. It was an oddly intimate touch, and should have made her blush. “They won’t hurt you. I promise. Just trust me, and close your eyes.”
I don’t trust you. You kidnapped me twice.
But the thought was very far away. Her eyelids were heavy, and he kept stroking her forehead.
Her eyes closed without any conscious direction on her part, and the last thing she felt before slipping into complete darkness was one fingertip, calloused and warm, trailing down her cheek to touch her half-parted lips.
“Just sleep, shaman,” he said. “I’ll take care of everything else. No more worries for you.”
* * *
“Let’s have a talk,” Marc said, pleasantly.
Sophie’s mouth went dry. She stood in the kitchen, sunlight bright through the bay window with its neat collection of neatly terracotta-potted green herbs.
The dishtowels on the rack were carefully folded, and she had dried every plate twice before putting it away.
She frantically reviewed everything done today—if she could anticipate and apologize, he might take it easy on her.
Just this once.
Marc ran his hand back through a blond razor cut, the shark-charming smile showing his pearly whites.
Everything about him was expensive, from the Oxford button-down to the immaculately pressed designer jeans; he was barefoot, his pedicure resting against the granite tiles he’d had installed the summer he almost broke her wrist and did crack two of her ribs.
The same summer he’d almost drowned her in the big cast-iron bathtub upstairs.
The granite had been his grand gesture—as if she wanted stone growing around the room where she spent most of her time.
“Are you listening, Sophie?”
“Yes.” She searched for the right answer, backing up into the angle between the corner sink and the counter. The porch door was eight feet away, and the kitchen island was between them. Copper-bottomed pans glowed, hung on a rack overhead.
Sometimes in the middle of the night they would rattle and buzz, rubbing against one another like they were alive. Marc never heard them.
“I’m a little worried. Your friend Lucy called last night.
She left a voicemail.” He paused. Sunshine gilded him, turned him into a statue, and he was wearing that most dangerous of smiles—the friendly one.
Other people thought Marc charismatic, but that smile always chilled Sophie’s skin, sending a prickle of alarm down her back.
His bright ice-blue eyes were calm, thoughtful, and just a little bit amused.
“She seemed to think you were having coffee with her on Wednesday.”
Of course she was, Wednesday was always her coffee day with Lucy.
Sophie was getting closer and closer to blurting something out, though; each time they met and the bruises twinged, she would tell herself to keep her mouth shut.
It wasn’t that bad, she would repeat to herself, over and over.
Millions of women dealt with worse. And the house was so beautiful, Marc was so rich—what right did she have to complain?