Chapter 11
Nix
Nix can feel a warm hand in his when he opens his eyes. He knows it’s Grayson because it’s not cooler than his own, and there’s a single callus on his index finger where he holds his paintbrush.
He’d gone to sleep with Finn’s knot still pulsing inside him, but somehow, after all that happened, what he’d needed more than anything was Grayson’s hand in his to fall asleep.
Grayson’s teacher violating his soulmate’s autonomy has forced Nix to remember things he usually only drags out in therapy—memories he’s been working through, yes, but ones that still fill him with impotent rage.
After an amazing dinner, he’d smiled and played games with Ignatius, loving that his new friend relished getting away with being sneaky (cheating) as much as Nix did.
He’d even chased Rowan around the yard. Still, it hadn’t been enough to distract him—not from the restless urge to creep away once the others had fallen asleep.
His wolf wanted to track down Dahlia Kirwan and show her exactly what it meant to interfere with his pack.
To remind her there were consequences beyond the law.
Karma had a name, and it was Nix Rhodes.
Gideon seemed to know what he’d been planning, or maybe it was that he, too, had thoughts about reminding her of her moral obligations to her students. After a not-so-covert discussion in the kitchen when Nix felt their eyes on him, Finn had become his shadow.
Shortly after the taillights of their allies’ taxi had disappeared down the drive, Finn had put Nix on his back in the upstairs nest, where his unique brand of physical and mental seduction had finally worked to calm Nix’s wolf’s suppressed rage.
Who knew orgasms could be as much mental as physical? Dr. Finn Merritt, that’s who.
Grayson had slipped in beside him not long after, warm palm and firm lips pressed to his bare shoulder, still smelling of oil paint, and it had finally eased Nix into a deep sleep.
Until he’d felt that weird pulling in their soul. The kind he feels when Grayson shares his dreams of places and times where their soul has lived other lives.
But this isn’t a dream, not like the others.
This time, he’s not on a rampart with wind he can’t feel in his hair.
This time, he’s standing in the kitchen of a small apartment.
There’s an old-fashioned floral teapot, an empty cup, and a saucer tipped on its side, spilling still-steaming tea over the pristine white countertop so it drips on the floor.
The space is so organized that the two items and the mess are incongruous with the otherwise fastidious space.
A phone rings in another room. Two short rings and then it stops.
Turning his head, Nix sees Grayson in his paint-splattered black tank top and grey sweats.
Their eyes meet, and Grayson’s widen in surprise. “Hey, I can see you!”
That’s new. Nix had always seen Grayson when they Travel—but Grayson had never once seen him. They’d wondered about it, guessed at reasons, but with no one to ask, they’d settled on the simplest: Grayson was the one steering these journeys, and Nix was only ever dragged along in his wake.
“Maybe it’s because of this?” Nix raises their joined hands. “Where are we?”
“I don’t know? It’s late, though, right? It was after 2:00 AM when I came to bed. But this tea still looks hot.”
Tugging on their joined hands, Nix pulls them toward the pile of neatly stacked mail on the counter.
Dahlia Kirwan.
“Holy shit,” Nix whispers. “We’re at your professor’s apartment?”
He knows no one can hear them. During Grayson’s last two Travels, no one had noticed him, no matter how much noise he made. They’re on a different plane. Inside time and place, but shifted one minuscule step to the left or right. Or maybe upside down.
They’re invisible except—now with their hands clasped—to each other. Given Nix is stark naked, it’s probably a good thing.
He doesn’t waste time asking why they’re here, of all places. Grayson thinks they go where The Plain wants them to go, and if that’s here with Dahlia Kirwan after the day they’ve had, then all they can do is wait until they’ve seen whatever it is they’re supposed to see.
“Come on. We’re here for a reason. Once we figure it out, we can go home and face her for real.”
A small, frazzled-looking woman wearing a white Victorian nightgown sits on an ancient, chintz-covered settee.
The small living room was oppressively fancy with gilded frames filled with sepia photographs of unsmiling ancestors and a bookshelf lined with leather-bound tomes.
A vase of dried black dahlias sits on a table beside the front door, under an oval mirror.
Porcelain and steel knick-knacks clutter the surfaces: dolphins, kittens, and, most disturbingly, a large spider crouched on the sideboard.
“It’s weird seeing her in her nightgown. Ugh.” Grayson pretends to gag, and Nix nods in agreement.
The phone rings again, and Dahlia isn’t the only one who jumps.
It’s then that Nix notices that she’s gone as pale as her nightgown. She answers the phone without a second of hesitation. “Yes?”
“Your check-in is late.” The man’s voice can only be described as sinister. European, most likely, given the way he’s speaking heavily-accented English.
“I—I apologize, sir.” She doesn’t offer any explanation, grimacing. “There has been a recent development.”
When the man doesn’t say anything, Dahlia throws her shoulders back and grips the phone tighter. “The subject has destroyed the foci.”
“The spell is broken? I thought you said his magic wasn’t—”
“He has allies who unraveled the spell.”
“Do not interrupt me again, Ms. Kirwan.”
“Yes, sir. My apologies.” Dahlia shivers at the reprimand, even though tiny beads of sweat break out on her upper lip.
“Continue.”
“The subject’s allies from the Florida Guild are here, sir. Ignatius Parvolio, and I assume his greatest supporter can’t be far behind.”
There are sounds of a keyboard over the phone in the silence.
“Ah yes, Nimue Wyrd. A loss to our cause,” he murmurs absentmindedly. “I do not see any dispensation from the Tennessee authorities.”
Mention of Nimue’s name makes her clench her jaw, but the news that they’re here without the magical authorities’ knowledge puts a sinister smirk on her thin lips. “No? They’re here without permission?”
“Shit,” Grayson groans under his breath. “That’s going to be trouble.”
“It would appear so. If they’re in Nashville without permission, then we can…hmmm. Tell me the rest.”
“Yes, sir.” Dahlia seems more confident knowing that Grayson’s allies are in trouble. “The foci may be broken, but I am certain he’s the one. Yesterday I was able to encourage a true reading, and I know my instincts are correct. He’s the one we’ve been looking for.”
Nix doesn’t like the sound of that. The one?
“He has a worthy Time Affinity? You’re certain?” The man cannot hide his eagerness.
“He does, sir. Precognition off the charts, and the transcripts from my surveillance show he’s holding back on something big.
Even today, his…mate”—she grimaces at the word like it leaves a bad taste in her mouth—“his partner prevented him from speaking of it. They’re hiding something significant, sir. ”
“My Pre-cog is not ‘off the charts,’” Grayson whispers, always so humble, but this time it’s the truth. Grayson’s precognition is often just seconds.
Maybe it had been so obvious to her that Grayson was holding back his access to The Plain that she assumed he was hiding something bigger than he really was. It was big—to Grayson and to Nix—but not in the way she must think.
“You got him to break?”
“Yes, sir, and it was miraculous. I could feel the pure power.”
“That is not your Talent, Ms. Kirwan. Your ability to detect Time Affinities is limited to location, not strength.”
She flinches again, and her shoulders droop. It’s like his disparaging remark is an old wound she’s had poked a hundred times before.
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry. I haven’t forgotten. What I meant to say is that, given my vast amount of experience in locating Time Affinities, I can tell he’s different. And he can draw on it in a single instant.”
“That’s impressive.”
“Until today, he’s been subverting my experiment, lying to my face.
As far as I can tell, he doesn’t do it with his other instructors.
They’re fools, bragging about his talents as if they were theirs.
Even Headmaster Percival won’t stop boasting about how he stole such a treasure out from under the Florida Guild’s nose. ”
Grayson groans as his cheeks flood with heat. “I’m not a fucking treasure.”
Dahlia continues, building up steam and pacing the floor. Her eyes glow with a zealous fire. “But none of them see it. They keep him tied up in children’s classes, finding rocks and making weather when he could be at the Academy. They don’t know that he’s dest—”
The man hisses in a gasp before barking, “Ms. Kirwan! That’s enough. You speak of things beyond you.”
She gasps, sinking into the couch as a glow on her chest becomes visible beneath her nightgown, flaring red-hot. Her head lolls back, jaw clenched, the phone trembling in her grip.
Unmoved by her whimpers, the man keeps speaking. “We will take your report under advisement. The Oracle says that the threads are weaving around Nashville, so you may very well be useful yet.”
She holds the phone to her ear again. “How should I continue? I need to be of service to the Ob—” She stops abruptly, catching herself in time.
The horribly familiar scent of burning flesh wafts across the room, and his stomach turns over. His grip on Grayson’s hand tightens.
“I should also mention…” Her voice trails away before her breathing picks up. “His pack saw me earlier…at their home.”
There’s a dead silence on the other end of the phone.
“I beg your pardon? I thought you said you approached the subject at his home. A Were’s pack dwelling. Without our consent.”