Chapter 7 #2
He drags himself away from the windows and follows me into the hallway. The first room is my study-slash-library, and the second is the main bathroom. I open the door to the third room and gesture for him to precede me inside.
He takes two steps in and stops dead. I smirk. I do have great interior design skills.
“This is the guest room?” He sounds stunned. “Holy fuck.”
I can’t blame him for saying that. I got a look at his place when we picked up his stuff, and while it’s nice, almost the whole thing would fit in this room.
There’s a king-size bed with a plush upholstered headboard and oversized nightstands, a separate lounge area with a three-seat sofa, two armchairs, and a coffee table, all angled toward the wall-mounted flat-screen TV, and a wall of closet doors.
I could have sacrificed the sitting area for a walk-in-slash-dressing room, but it’s a guest room.
Even if people are staying for a while, there’s plenty of storage for their stuff, and they’ll get more use out of a private living space than a walk-in closet.
“I like my guests to be comfortable,” I say loftily. It’s true, but the real reason the place looks like a luxury hotel suite is because I had fun doing it.
“Uh-huh. Is that a door out to the terrace?” He points to the french windows by the sitting area.
“Yes, but it’s warded, so don’t go out in the middle of the night unless you want to stay out there until morning.” Because even if he yells and wakes me, I’m not getting out of a nice warm bed just because he didn’t pay attention. “The bathroom is next door—you’ll have it to yourself.”
He nods, still taking in the room.
“There’s a few streaming services already logged in on the TV, and I’ll get you the Wi-Fi password. Help yourself to anything you want in the kitch— Oh.”
Finally, he turns his attention to me. “Lots of blood, not much food?”
Crap. I’m going to need to order groceries.
“No, there’s plenty of food, but most of it is blood-infused, and I think we’ve established that you don’t like blood.
” Memories of that blood kiss rise unbidden, and I push them back down, ignoring the stirring of interest in my pants. That ball’s in his court.
Heh. Balls.
“We’ll get takeout tonight,” I decide. “Any preferences?”
He shrugs. “Anything’s fine, but can it have veggies?”
I don’t know why I’m surprised by his request, but I am. “Of course. The restaurant across the street does a great veggie pasta. Are you vegetarian?” I can’t remember if I’ve ever seen him eat meat, but if he doesn’t, that’s going to impact my shopping list.
“No.” He shakes his head. “But I didn’t get a lot of veg in the labs, and it’s made me a bit of a convert.
” He snorts. “Teenage me would never have thought I’d actually want vegetables—not unless they were smothered in cheese or something.
Which is still great, but now I just really like fresh food. ”
Ever been kicked in the stomach before? I have, and what I’m feeling now is somewhat reminiscent. I also want to go out and buy him as many vegetables as he can eat.
I make myself smile and say, “Well, there are vegetables and fruit in the fridge, and I’ll get some more, but most of my grocery items have blood in them, so we’ll get takeout tonight and breakfast on the way to work until we can sort that out.”
“I’ll get the groceries.” There’s a stubborn set to his jaw that tells me not to argue. “Since I’m living here rent-free.”
I hesitate. Part of me—most of me—really wants to push his buttons and insist on buying the groceries. But… this is a way for him to maintain control of his life, and given how very out of control things have been for him, I’d be a horrible person if I didn’t let him have this.
Compromise?
“Fine, but I’ll come with you. I’m very particular about what I stock in my kitchen.” Points for me for saying that with a straight face. “Make yourself comfortable. I’m going to order dinner and grab a shower.” I leave before he can say anything else.
I call the place across the street and sweet-talk them into sending over some food (they don’t actually do takeout, but I eat there so often that they bend the rules for me) and then jerk one out in the shower while imagining Noah on his knees before me—and yes, I’m aware that he’d be more likely to bite my dick off than suck it.
After, I pull on loose cotton pants and wander out to the living room.
It’s empty, but I heard the shower running in the main bathroom as I passed.
When Noah emerges in sweatpants and a T-shirt, dinner is just being delivered.
We settle in to eat with minimal conversation, although he makes a point of thanking me for the food and saying how good it is.
Then he insists on cleaning up. I watch like a hawk, because I’m very fussy about my kitchen, but he does a decent job of it.
I go to turn on the TV, although I’m not sure what I want to watch. Noah comes over and hovers uncertainly next to the couch I’m sitting on. It’s not like him to be indecisive, and my curiosity is piqued.
“You can sit, you know. Is there anything you want to watch?” I surf through a bunch of channels, but I’ll probably end up switching over to Netflix.
“Actually, I was wondering if you mind, uh, spotting me while I practice with the magic.”
I drop the remote. It somehow just slips out of my hand.
“Of course.” I rein in my surprise. Noah, asking me for a favor? Has the world ceased to turn? “But since I can’t use magic, there’s not a lot I can do if—”
“I know. I just think it’s safer if someone else is here. Plus, if I end up hurting myself, you can call an ambulance or whatever.”
There’s a cheery thought. “Try not to hurt yourself. Sam would not be happy, which means Gideon would be unbearable.”
There’s that tiny wince.
“You know Gideon wouldn’t hurt you, right? Despite his demeanor, he’s actually one of the good guys.” If Noah’s going to be working in close proximity with our team, he can’t be walking on eggshells around Gideon, no matter how amusing I find it.
“I know that.” He hesitates. “Are you sure he doesn’t eat live kittens for breakfast?”
I snicker. Gideon would probably find that funny. “Pretty sure. And even if he used to, he’d never do it now. Can you imagine Sam’s reaction? Come on, forget Gideon. Show me what you’ve got.” Whoops, I did not mean for that to come out sounding suggestive.
Slowly, he crosses to an armchair that’s about as far from me as he can get and still be in the seating area—which kills any hint of an erection I might have—and lowers himself into it. I scoop up the remote from where I dropped it and turn the TV off.
A second later, there’s a ball of glowing white hovering about a foot in front of Noah. It spins almost gleefully in place, then divides into three smaller balls. He didn’t do that today, so I guess he’s playing with his ability.
“Do you want me to talk to you, or do you want to concentrate?”
“Talk,” he says, his gaze fixed on the balls, which are bobbing around randomly.
“How does it feel?”
He takes his time answering. “Easier than earlier today. Like, it’s the end of the day and I’m tired, but the—the movement? action? I don’t know what word to use. It doesn’t feel as awkward.”
“And the white light doesn’t wear you out like the fireball did?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “To use a really dumb analogy, this feels like an LED light instead of halogen. It takes less energy to power. The fireball was exhausting.”
I make a mental note to talk to David about that. It makes sense, since the lightballs emit just a white glow, whereas the fireball had heat as well—and was probably burning oxygen. But it might impact the kind of exercises he has to do.
The balls begin to move in a smoother, more neatly defined pattern, as though Noah is getting the hang of coordinating them.
“Can you juggle?” I ask, and his gaze flicks to me for an instant.
“Uh, not well. I know the basics, though. But I’m not sure if the lights are solid enough to touch.”
Oh, now there’s an interesting thought. I file it for later. “Don’t touch them, then. You’re moving them with telekinesis, so try juggling them that way too.”
His brow furrows with concentration, and then a moment later, the three balls form a wobbly arc. He fumbles a few times, and I can tell this is taking more effort than what he was doing before, but he’s doing it—telekinetically juggling three lightballs.
It’s amazing.
Does he realize how special he is? To the best of our knowledge—and this is the type of thing we keep track of—no human has done this in nearly nine thousand years.
Those who are capable of it don’t allow themselves to experience it properly, instead making up rhyming spells and rituals that only hinder them.
And yet here’s this man refusing to see any limits and seizing every opportunity he can.
I know that Noah’s young, even for a human, but there are times when it’s so easy to forget that.
Unlike many other young people, he never defers to the rest of us or expects us to take control because we’re older.
He found himself in an untenable situation in Tish’s custody, but he never gave up.
Sure, he had the magic on his side, even if he didn’t know it, but he was still a teenager in hiding with no way out.
I’ve known adults in similar situations—adults who weren’t human, who had a better chance of defending themselves—who gave up, unable to cope, and became catatonic.
He’s exceptional.
The juggling slows a little, and then the pattern changes. I grin. “I thought you said you weren’t good at this?”
He laughs. “Turns out it’s easier when you’re controlling the balls with your mind and don’t have to worry about dumb things like gravity.”