Chapter Eighteen
EIGHTEEN
“Are you registered to vote?” Gigi asked.
Ben stood at his sister’s side, holding a clipboard on which they’d recorded five new voters so far.
The centaur who’d opened the door looked at Gigi mistrustfully. “Who are you and why do you want to know?”
Ben winced, but Gigi was unfazed. “Gigi Rosewood, candidate for mayor.” She launched into her campaign spiel, which Ben had heard so many times at this point he almost had it memorized. He eyed a fountain in the centaur’s front yard, wondering if he could sneak away to drown himself in it.
Door-to-door campaigning was the worst. In addition to the dreaded task of public speaking, it involved invading other people’s territory, which had resulted in several hostile encounters. The last one had involved a scythe being waved in a threatening manner as a robed figure screamed he was not interested in joining their cult.
Extroverted Gigi had no problem knocking on doors not knowing what was waiting on the other side, but Ben wasn’t built like that. Could he handle difficult, unpredictable customers at the Emporium? Yes, because that was his territory and being the owner automatically made him an authority. This, though? Door-to-door canvassing ranked very high on the list of Things To Avoid If At All Possible, somewhere between stubbing his toe and testicular torsion.
The centaur was already registered to vote, but he took a pamphlet before shutting the door in their faces. The pamphlets were colorful and crisp, with Gigi’s new headshot—courtesy of Themmie—smiling over the words Gigi Rosewood: Howling for Change .
They headed back down the driveway, but before they could turn toward the next house—a purple, turreted monstrosity that either contained a winged person or someone with a flair for the dramatic—Ben stopped in his tracks. “I can’t take this anymore,” he said, holding out the clipboard. “Please, I beg you—find someone else to help you bother total strangers.”
Gigi wrinkled her nose. “I was wondering how soon the introvert juice would kick in and send you scurrying for cover.”
“It’s not about being an introvert,” Ben said. “Who actually enjoys striking up conversations with strangers?”
Gigi laughed. “Me, for one, but I take your point.” She patted his arm. “Thanks, bro. I know this isn’t your favorite thing to do.”
“It absolutely is not,” he agreed vehemently.
Gigi made a shooing motion. “Go check on the Emporium or hang out with Eleonore or something. I can handle the rest of today’s route on my own.”
“You’re not going to walk around alone and unprotected,” he said, appalled at the suggestion. “You’re a public figure now.” His little sister had made herself a target for the whole world, it seemed, and both Ben’s brotherly and pack instincts refused to leave her to fend for herself.
“Oh, yes, a very important public figure,” she replied. “I can’t even wipe my ass without a bodyguard’s help, lest the toilet snakes try to murder me for my political views.”
Ben ignored the snark and pulled out his phone, thinking of the most aggressive friend they both knew. “I’m calling Calladia for backup.” He immediately reconsidered. “Wait, not Calladia.”
As a personal trainer with a love of mayhem, Calladia had flexible hours and a mean right hook, which would normally make her an excellent candidate for some daytime bodyguarding. Unfortunately, Cynthia Cunnington was Calladia’s mother, and though the two were estranged, he suspected having Calladia actively campaign for Gigi would cause major drama.
“I feel so bad for Calladia,” Gigi said with a frown. “It’s mind-boggling that horrid woman produced such an amazing person. And Cynthia doesn’t even seem to realize how wonderful Calladia is.”
“I know.” Ben couldn’t understand that family dynamic either. The stories he’d heard about Calladia’s upbringing had sounded nightmarish, with an absent father and a demanding mother who had wanted her daughter to be another icy, pearl-wearing socialite. Calladia was about as far from that stereotype as one could get, and Cynthia had been vocal in her displeasure over that fact. The two had basically had no contact for the last two years, and though Calladia seemed at peace with that choice, it couldn’t feel good.
Ben’s parents were kind and loving, and the extended clan was equally supportive. No one was forced to be someone they weren’t, even if people enjoyed some good-natured teasing. If he needed help, he could dial any of a dozen numbers and have someone on their way immediately.
Speaking of which…“I’ll text Avram,” he said. “If he can’t canvass with you, he’ll know someone who can.”
Fifteen minutes later, Ben’s cousin arrived with Kai and Lilith in tow. Both werewolves were wearing their rugby kits—they must have come from a game—and Ben was amused to see that Lilith was wearing a Fable Farms Furies T-shirt and had pom-pom ribbons dangling out of her pocket. Of course, being Lilith, she also had a broadsword strapped to her back.
“Sorry about that,” Avram whispered, jerking his thumb over his shoulder at where Lilith was sharpening the sword while cheerfully suggesting Gigi close her pitch with “Vote or die.” “I only invited Kai, but those two are attached at the hip these days.”
Dark-haired Kai was doing energetic push-ups next to Lilith. He hopped up and pumped his fist. “Three cheers for democracy,” he declared. “Huzzah!” When no one joined in, he elbowed Lilith lightly. “Come on, Lili. Huzzah!”
She pinned him with an icy stare that would have sent most people fleeing. “My next pom-pom will use your intestines for ribbons.”
Kai bit his lip and gave Lilith a flirty look Ben recognized from bar nights he’d been dragged to in years past. Kai had always had a way with the ladies. “Damn,” he said, “it’s hot when you threaten to maim me.”
Ben shook his head, chuckling. The two were the oddest couple, but somehow it worked. Lilith’s red hair and dramatic threats made him think of Eleonore, and he decided to go home rather than stopping by the Emporium as planned. “Good luck,” he said, clapping Avram on the shoulder. “I’ve got my own menacing redhead to check in on.”
The family all knew about Eleonore and the crystal situation by now, of course. Text messages had flown fast and furious all week, memes had been shared, and Ben had been razzed to hell and back for getting drunk and buying a possessed plastic rock. Everyone wanted to know if they were dating, of course, and no one believed him when he said they weren’t. He now had about fifteen social invitations to pass on to Eleonore, which he was trying not to inundate her with all at once. He wasn’t sure how she felt about spending time with strangers, and he wasn’t sure he wanted her anywhere near people who knew his most embarrassing childhood secrets anyway.
Avram perked up. “Did you tell Eleonore she has an open invite to come play rugby?”
“I did. She wanted to know if knives are involved.”
“Alas, no.” Avram winked. “Not while the ref is looking, anyway.”
Ben laughed, then waved to the group as he headed out. On the drive home, he found himself whistling and jostling his knee, in an oddly good mood for someone who had been forced to ask people about their voting habits. He couldn’t wait to see what Eleonore had been up to today.
She was constantly surprising him. He might come home to find her reciting Shakespeare, or she might greet him with a flurry of bizarre facts she’d learned on Witchipedia about historical massacres or animal reproductive habits. One time he’d come home to a kitchen full of smoke and a vampire succubus shrieking gruesome threats at a ball of blackened cookie dough. Another time he’d found her practicing some sort of martial art with his knitting needles.
“I thought they were weapons at first,” she’d admitted when he’d inquired about the needles. Amused, Ben had attempted to teach her to knit, which Eleonore had gamely tried for half an hour before pronouncing it excessively complicated for something so boring .
A curtain twitched when Ben pulled into the driveway. Had she been watching and waiting for him?
He felt a bit breathless at the thought.
“I’m back,” he called out as he opened the front door. “And I am never going canvassing again—” He broke off, nearly tripping over his feet.
Eleonore stood in the living room wearing a sleeveless, high-necked dress. The emerald fabric clung to her breasts, waist, and hips before falling loose to the floor. Two slits reached high enough on her thighs to reveal the edges of leather knife holsters, and matching loops of leather ringed her waist and wrists. The bracelets covered her forearms like gauntlets, and when Ben spied the gleam of metal tucked into one—a tiny hidden dagger—he nearly whimpered.
Oh fuck. It was like some god had plucked an image out of his subconscious just to taunt him with his deepest, most untouchable desire.
“A live audience reaction,” an unexpected male voice said. “Excellent.”
Ben hadn’t even noticed Astaroth, Calladia, and Themmie seated on the couch. He tugged at his collar, flushing at having been caught ogling. “I don’t recall inviting you over,” he told the demon, witch, and pixie, frowning at them and hoping his jeans were sturdy enough to disguise his response to Eleonore in that mind-blowing, earth-shattering dress.
Astaroth shrugged. “Hasn’t stopped me before.” The demon’s lean frame was encased in a dove-gray suit, and his beringed fingers were interlaced on the skull top of his cane. His pale blond hair shone in the sunlight falling through the window, as perfectly coiffed as the rest of him.
Next to him, Calladia had her bare feet tucked up on the couch, as casual as her partner was formal. She wore teal workout spandex and a T-shirt that said Punch Like No One’s Watching , and her long blond hair—a warmer, more golden shade than her partner’s—was pulled up in the messiest bun Ben had ever seen.
Themmie rounded out the trio, a burst of chaotic color and patterns that were presumably fashionable, not that Ben would be able to tell. Privately, he thought it looked like she’d thrown a bunch of costume pieces in the air, closed her eyes and spun around, and selected things at random. Her top was black-and-white tartan, which contrasted with a fluffy pink skirt and chunky, rainbow-hued jewelry, and her hair had been bespelled bubblegum pink. Her brown cheeks were dusted with something glittery that for all Ben knew might be actual pixie dust, since it mirrored the shimmer of her wings.
Varying degrees of trouble, all three of them.
“So?” Themmie asked, gesturing at Eleonore. “What do you think?”
Was he supposed to be capable of thought? Ben held his breath, daring to look at Eleonore once more.
Breasts.
Yes, those were definitely breasts, he confirmed silently. Full breasts and wide hips, the contours of which were made very clear by the tight fabric. The neckline rose nearly to her chin, but despite the lack of visible cleavage—or maybe because of it—Ben couldn’t stop thinking about the shape of her and how she’d feel under his hands.
It wasn’t that her curves were news to him—far from it. But she was such a dynamic force, always moving or hissing or being outrageous, that ogling her generally took a back burner to adapting to her chaos. And besides, he went out of his way not to ogle her, eyes darting away whenever her lush curves and strong thighs caught his attention. Staring wasn’t gentlemanly.
Now he was being asked to stare. So, cheeks hot and palms sweating, he did.
The green fabric was the perfect contrast to her pale skin and flaming hair, which hung unbound and waving to her waist. When she shifted, the fabric whispered, exposing more of one creamy thigh. The holster was digging slightly into her skin, and for a mad moment he contemplated unbuckling it—possibly while she held the knife to his throat—and then soothing the pink marks on her skin with his lips.
Astaroth cleared his throat. “Do you suppose he’s had a stroke?”
Ben tore his gaze away from Eleonore. “Ah,” he said, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. “It’s a…dress.”
Themmie winced.
“Spot on,” Astaroth drawled. “I knew werewolves had heightened senses, but your powers of observation are unmatched.”
Eleonore crossed her arms, and her lips turned down. “He doesn’t like it,” she announced.
“I don’t think that’s the issue,” Calladia said, eyes sparkling with mischief.
Themmie was mouthing things at Ben behind Eleonore’s back, and though he couldn’t tell what the specific words were, he picked up on the general meaning when she started gesticulating passionately.
“It’s a very nice dress,” he hurried to say. “Very, ah, green. Yes, very green.”
Themmie escalated to wringing an invisible neck—his, no doubt.
“Beautiful,” he continued, trying to dig himself out of this horniness-induced hole. “You look beautiful. I’m sorry, I’m not always good with words.”
Eleonore’s arms loosened, then dropped to her sides. “You think it’s beautiful?”
I think you’re beautiful, no matter what you wear. “It’s astounding,” he said. “In a good way, to be clear. You look very…yes.”
That slit was high enough that he could push the fabric aside to kiss his way up her inner thigh to that wet, sweet spot between her legs. Would she sigh at the touch of his lips? Moan? Or order him to put his mouth exactly where she wanted it? He got harder imagining it.
Her eyes widened. “Oh, you do like it,” she said, reminding Ben of the unfortunate fact that she could sense his erections. He would have been more mortified if her frown hadn’t vanished to be replaced by a look of delight. “Excellent,” she said. “It’s for any political events I need to attend as your sister’s bodyguard.”
“Oh.” Ben revisited the staring situation, this time trying to figure out in what world this was a good outfit for a bodyguard. “Isn’t it a bit…movement-restricting?”
Tight, he meant. Very, very tight up top.
“Not at all,” she said. “Watch this.” There was a blur, and then she stood still once more, looking at him expectantly. “Well?”
“Maybe drop out of warp speed and try that again,” he suggested.
As always, Star Trek terminology made her face light up. “Aye aye, Captain.” Then she went through a sequence of movements that involved spinning, ducking, punching, and kicking. She was right—the fabric was stretchy, her arms were unencumbered, and the high slits allowed her to kick and move freely. The slits also revealed quite a bit more of her, but thankfully—for Ben’s cardiovascular health—she was wearing spandex shorts. She finished the routine by pulling both knives from her thigh holsters and flinging them across the room.
Ben stared at where the hilts stuck side by side out of the doorframe, quivering from the force of her throw. “Well,” he said, mouth dry. “That explains the mysterious holes I’ve noticed around the house lately.”
The long skirt swished as Eleonore strode across the room to retrieve the knives. “As you can see,” she said, sliding them back into their holsters, “this dress will allow me to blend in at formal events while still being able to kill people if I need to.” She grinned, brushing her long hair back over her shoulder.
Ben suspected nothing would help her blend in, especially not that miracle of a dress, but he was still stuck on the violence she’d apparently been inflicting on his walls. He wasn’t planning on moving anytime soon, but a Realtor would have questions if he did. “How about I set up a target dummy in the backyard for you to throw knives at?” he suggested.
She stopped in front of him, eyes widening. “You would do that for me?”
Looking into her green eyes, Ben wondered if there was anything he wouldn’t do for her at this point. “Of course. If you have any other weapons or equipment you want me to order, please let me know.”
“Oh,” she said softly. “Thank you.” Her grin bloomed, bright and open, and a light flush dusted her cheekbones. A man could get addicted to that smile.
He was in so much trouble.
Ben was a practical man by nature. There was no world in which Eleonore, with all her strength and fire and passion, would return his feelings. He was an awkward, socially inept workaholic whose dating skills, if they could ever have been termed “skills,” were beyond rusty, and that was before one considered the messy power dynamics involved. The plastic crystal was locked in a safe in his bedroom so no one else could get their hands on it, but he was aware of its existence nearly every moment of every day.
The curse was the only thing tying him to Eleonore, but though he already mourned the day she would walk out of his life, he wanted her to be free more than anything.
He wasn’t her partner and never would be, but he was still going to spoil and care for her in his limited way for as long as she let him. If she wanted a jousting arena in his backyard, he’d build one. If she wanted a lance, he’d chop down a tree and carve one by hand. And once she was done jabbing the stuffing out of a dummy, he’d cook her dinner, pour her a mug of hot blood topped with marshmallows, and then go jerk off in the shower to keep her sexual hunger sated.
It was the least a good host could do.
She was standing very close, he realized. Close enough for his sensitive nose to pick up the musky undertones of her natural scent. Close enough to see the golden flecks in her eyes.
He was definitely staring, but so was she. The air between them felt thick and charged.
Why was she staring at him? Should he stop staring at her? Was this weird?
This was definitely weird. He should absolutely stop staring.
God, she smelled good.
A cleared throat made him startle, breaking the spell. He tore his eyes away from Eleonore to see Calladia stand, brushing off her hands. “Great job, team,” she told Astaroth and Themmie. “Let’s go get lunch.”
“Wait,” Astaroth said. “What about the other dresses we brought her to try on?”
“Leave them,” Calladia and Themmie said in unison. The two women gave each other a significant look that made Ben feel paranoid. Could they tell he was infatuated with Eleonore?
Oh, who was he kidding. He might as well have hearts in his eyes like some cartoon character.
Astaroth looked like he wanted to argue, but Calladia tugged on his necktie and whispered something in his ear. “Oh,” the demon said. “Right.”
“Bye!” Themmie chirped, half walking, half fluttering to the door. “See you at the rally!”
Ben had no idea what she was talking about. “Sure,” he said, giving a half wave.
Then he was alone with Eleonore.
The moment was gone, though. In true Eleonore fashion, she was now darting around the room, flitting between the mirror and the window, then trying out a few more kicks. She raced to the wall, scaled it like a lizard, and started crawling over the ceiling, red hair and green fabric dangling beneath her.
Ben’s pulse spiked. He was still not used to that particular vampiric skill, which belonged in a horror movie and not his living room. “Please don’t ever do that in the dark,” he begged. “You’ll give me a heart attack.”
She stopped above him, head angled so she could grin down at him. Her hair was long enough to drape over his shoulder, and he unconsciously lifted a hand to brush the strands. Soft, so soft. “I would not wish to give my werewolf a heart attack,” she said.
Her werewolf?
Before he could bask in the glow that induced, she skittered away and descended the wall headfirst. Once she was standing again, she grabbed a handful of her hair and frowned at the tangles in it. “I will have to text Themmie to ask what an appropriate hairstyle is for possible combat at political rallies.”
This was the second mention of a rally, and he had the unpleasant suspicion he’d forgotten something. “Rally?”
“The one tonight outside City Hall.”
Shoot. He had forgotten. A hasty consultation of his mental calendar made him realize today was Thursday, not Wednesday. And Thursday evening was, indeed, Gigi’s inaugural rally. Friday would bring a meeting of the Glimmer Falls Resiliency Project at the Annex, then Eleonore’s second performance—this time attended by a Seattle theatre critic, which was putting stress on both her and him. Saturday was a special discount day at the Emporium, for which he anticipated high turnout, followed by another outing of Eleonore’s performance. Sunday…he didn’t even want to get into the array of events the Annex would hold on Sunday.
Lycaon, he was tired.
“What is your bodyguard attire?” Eleonore asked.
Ben blinked. “Ah…what?”
She shook her head, then grabbed his arm and started dragging him out of the room. “Show me your closet and weaponry. We will outfit you appropriately.”
Ben could have told her his closet was light on weaponry and bodyguard outfits, whatever those might be, but he kept his mouth shut. Eleonore was touching him and enthusing about all the things she’d learned about modern clothing from Themmie and Astaroth, and it was wonderful.
He might never be her partner, but if she felt like manhandling him, he felt like letting her.