Chapter 16 #2
I answer his unspoken question without a trace of self-consciousness. “I use this room for my own personal rituals and spellcraft as well as a working space for the shop.”
“Fascinating,” he murmurs. “So I saw you moved all the cursed objects from the display cabinet in the shop.”
I nod and hand him a mug that says Something wicked this way comes… which for some reason seems apt. Mine says Do no harm.
“I’ve actually had another two items sent to me since then, but I haven’t had time to study them. I truly don’t know what possesses people to create things so cruel and harmful.”
“It’s the nature of some.” Sam takes a sip of his coffee, and his hum of approval warms my belly. “Some people bring light and love, and some…only pain and destruction.”
He lifts his hand to his face, his fingertips lightly tracing the scar running down his cheekbone.
I don’t even think he’s aware that he’s doing it.
I want to know what happened, I want to know everything there is to know about him.
I’ve never met someone who interests me as much as Sam, but I won’t ask him.
I wouldn’t want anyone prying into my secrets, and I’m certainly not going to do the same to him.
“What’s in the parcel, then?” I ask, changing the subject. “Or am I supposed to guess?”
Sam grins and hands it to me. “For you.”
Curious as to what he could’ve brought me, I open the bag and straightaway realise it’s a book. An old one, from the looks of it. I reach in and carefully withdraw it from the bag, and when I turn it over in my hands to look at the front cover, I gasp in surprised pleasure.
Crawshanks Guide to the Recently Departed, by Cornelius Crawshanks.
I’m holding in my hands the thoughts and words of one of my ancestors. Not that Sam knows the significance, but still. Having seen Cornelius so often in my dreams of late, now I can actually read his own words.
“Is this Tristan’s copy?” I ask, remembering that he had a copy of this book, but Sam shakes his head. “How did you get it?”
“There was a very limited print run on this book back in the late eighteen hundreds. Only fifty copies and strangely enough, they never were sold. The entire print run sat in a back room of Madame Viv’s bookshop in Whitechapel.
Tristan has one copy, and when I went by there yesterday to pick her up, I asked for a copy for you. ”
“You went to pick her up?” I ask without thinking. “Why?”
“You know the presence Tristan has nicknamed Chaos, the one that was terrifying his dad?”
I nod. “I put wards and charms in Martin’s room to protect him.”
“Well, it was going after Viv too. Not surprising, really, if this entity is trying to come through the portal that’s located in her shop.”
“Is she okay?” I frown. I may have plenty of issues with her, but at the end of the day, she’s my mother. I don’t want any harm to come to her, regardless of how I feel about her giving me up.
“She is now.” He sighs. “We’re all feeling a little guilty that none of us thought to check in on her. Tris found her sleeping in a tiny little stockroom behind the cash desk in her shop—it’s really little more than a cupboard—because she was too scared to sleep upstairs.”
“Where is she now?”
“Staying with Tristan and Danny at their new flat.”
“They have a new flat?” I blink. “Already?”
“The ceiling fell in at their old place. It’s been leaking for a long time, but the landlord kept putting them off when they asked for it to be repaired. With this storm and the relentless rain, it finally just gave way.”
“Are they okay?” I bite my lip worriedly. I may not have known them for very long, but I’m finding that I’m actually quite fond of them.
“They’re fine. Lost a few of their possessions, nothing that can’t be replaced. Their new digs are actually in Whitechapel, not far from Viv’s shop.”
My thoughts return to my mother, who was too scared to stay in her own home. Is this what she gave me up for? Was this what she was trying to save me from? A building that holds far too many dark secrets that we’re both tied to by blood?
A sharp pain stabs through my skull and my vision wavers. I sway slightly and Sam catches me with one arm, setting his cup down on a nearby bench with the other.
“Whoa there, Prickles.” He wraps his arms around me and I sag into his hold.
Even though his coat and hair are damp, he smells so good.
I can’t help but inhale slowly, drinking in the scent of him.
There’s something about him, something I can’t explain.
Where he stands is a blank space. I can’t get a read on him at all, not so much as a stray hint of an emotion, unlike when I’m around other people.
It should scare me not being able to gauge his intentions or motives, but it doesn’t.
It feels…soothing, like a balm to my soul.
I’ve never felt such contentment. I almost wish I could exist in this one moment of time, so I can rest from the world.
Realising I’m still clutching onto him like a lifeline, I flush in embarrassment. I try to pull back, but my head pulses again. The paracetamol only dulled it slightly, and now it seems to be intensifying.
“Steady there, Prickles.” He chuckles quietly. “Stop trying to run away. You’re safe with me, I promise.”
The funny thing is…I believe him.
He helps me settle onto a stool and then takes Cornelius’ book from my hand, setting it on the counter beside me. Then he hunkers down in front of me so we’re almost eye to eye. I feel absolutely stripped bare as he studies my face.
“Maybe you should see a doctor. As pretty as you are, Prickles, you don’t look well.”
“I’m fine,” I say, but even I can tell my tone lacks conviction. “It’s just a stubborn headache I can’t seem to get rid of. I—I haven’t been sleeping well.”
“Hmm.” He continues to watch me. “I’m pretty sure I can help with the headache.”
“What?” I frown. “Are you a secret brain surgeon or something?”
He chuckles. “No, but I think I know what the problem might be,” he says earnestly. “Will you trust me?”
My knee jerk reaction is yes. Maybe it’s just because I’m in too much pain or that I’m so tired I feel like I could sleep for a week, but for once in my life, I don’t try to analyse my instincts. Instead, I nod slowly so as to not cause my head to throb further.
Sam smiles at me and surprisingly my body relaxes. He stands and moves behind me, placing his hands on my shoulders.
“Close your eyes,” he instructs.
“Why?”
“Just do it, Prickles.” I can hear a hint of amusement in his voice.
With a quiet huff, I comply.
“Now, breathe in slowly to the count of four.” Even though I feel a bit silly, I do as he says, letting him count it out. “Now breathe out to the count of four.”
We do this a couple of times, and I gradually feel the tension in my body releasing its ironlike grip.
“Now find your centre and block everything else out.”
His voice is low, his accent sexy and all rumbly. But his solid presence at my back is soothing. After a moment, his hand slides gently up my neck to my head, his fingers splaying out, and I can’t hold in the groan of absolute bliss when he begins to massage my scalp with firm, circular motions.
It’s at this moment I realise how starved for touch I’ve been.
When I was a child, my dads were always affectionate.
I had plenty of hugs. But I guess as I grew up and became more withdrawn to protect myself from people’s emotions, I cut myself off physically as well.
Now I’m realising how a simple touch can make me feel like I want to cry.
Sam doesn’t make a big deal out of what he’s doing. He simply starts talking in that gorgeous low burr of his, and it’s like being wrapped up in the softest, warmest blanket imaginable.
“There are headaches,” he begins, “and then there are psychic headaches.”
He continues to massage, and it feels like my bones are melting.
“When I first woke up in the hospital after the attack that almost cost me my life, I knew straightaway something about me was different.” His voice is a low, soothing murmur.
“Not just mentally and emotionally, not my view of the world and my place in it. But physically I was different, and not because of my injuries. At first, I didn’t understand it.
Every person around me, everything I touched, it was like a never-ending barrage of images and feelings that didn’t belong to me.
Then the headaches started.” He sighs. “At first, I put it down to the concussion, but it was excruciating and relentless. Scans and test results showed nothing, so out of sheer desperation, I eventually found my way to a psychic healer. She was the first person I’d met who got it without me having to fumble to explain something I didn’t really understand myself. ”
“She helped you?” I say quietly.
“Yes, and she taught me how to manage it all as best I can. Those of us who have preternatural abilities often suffer like this. It’s the very unglamorous side of what people would assume is a gift but can quite often feel like a burden.”
I begin wanting to offer a little part of myself in exchange for his admission.
“Where I grew up in Devon, it was hard for me, especially as a child. Knowing I was different, trying to learn how to control my abilities. It was too much. I suppose I’ve isolated myself over the years.
Now being here, in one of the busiest cities in the world–”
“It’s a lot,” Sam agrees as he continues to massage the pain away. “I came into my abilities as an adult. I can only imagine how hard it is for a child to deal with.”
He slides his thumbs down to the base of my skull and presses firmly. I suck in a sharp breath as the pain releases its grip on me. With that comes the overwhelming desire to cry. His words, his quiet understanding, his gentle touch and care, the exhaustion I feel…it’s too much.
My eyes burn and my vision blurs as the tears spill over and slowly roll down my cheeks.