Chapter 27
He was tired—too tired to get up and make his way to bed. And worried about Rayn, but he only had a few hours before he had to be back at work, staring at the photos of the dead, some of them centuries old, some of them parishioners of the Church of Holy Judgment.
One of them had been Dale Durant, the minister, or reverend, or whatever of the church.
They still had three of the recently dead in need of identification, as well as dozens of the resurrected. Ward Campion had been there every day, almost as long as he had. Hart and Cass were both back, too, and everybody had been putting in long hours.
He just wanted to sleep.
I pushed the pillow to the side, not wanting to know anything more. I already felt guilty enough about the amount of work I’d created for Ward.
I was feeling better—not completely, but well enough that I’d been able to drive over to Raj’s house, although he’d tried to convince me to let him pick me up.
I’d managed to win the argument by pointing out that if he got called to work, I’d need a way to get myself home without him.
Given the mess that the Church of Holy Judgment had left in their wake, Raj getting called back to work was pretty likely.
The minute I’d set foot in the house, he’d bundled me over to the couch and brought me a glass of iced tea. I like iced tea, but I’d had enough of being coddled. I’d drained my own magic raising the dead—I hadn’t been shot or injured like Cass or Hart.
And it wasn’t like I hadn’t ever experienced post-magic-drain recovery.
Just every few weeks for most of my life up to the age of twenty.
And it was better when you were the one who had drained yourself, since your body went into shutdown before you could go too low, unlike when someone forcibly stripped it from you.
So while I didn’t feel fully energized, I was fine. I could even have done magic, if I’d had to, although Mason had warned me, when he and Ward had brought me some pre-made meals, that I should leave that for longer than it felt like I had to.
So I took my tea and got up to see if I could be useful in the kitchen.
Raj looked up when I stepped into the kitchen doorway. “You should have called me if you needed something,” he said.
“I don’t,” I replied.
He frowned. “You should be resting,” he said, and where once his concern for me would have felt sweet, now it rubbed me the wrong way.
And I didn’t think it was just because of what Hart had said at the warehouse, although that had made it clear that I wasn’t irrational for thinking it to begin with.
“I’m fine,” I told him. “I’m not exerting myself just standing here.”
He studied me, then decided to drop it, turning back to his cutting board.
“I don’t suppose you’ll let me help,” I said, wincing a little at just how bitter the words sounded, at least to me.
“I don’t need anything else done,” came Raj’s response as the chef’s knife cut through the onion, and it bothered me that I couldn’t tell whether or not he was just saying that so that he didn’t explicitly have to say no.
“Are you sure?” I didn’t want to pick a fight with him—but I also did. Because I couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that he didn’t think I was capable.
And, despite what Hart had said to him, he hadn’t apologized.
Probably because he didn’t think he was wrong.
He stopped chopping, then looked over at me. “I’m sure,” he replied. “Although I get the feeling you’re not talking about onions.”
I sighed. I wasn’t good at talking around things. “I don’t need to be coddled,” I said. “And you’re coddling me.”
“Rayn, you’re vulnerable. You need to be taken care of and protected.”
I went from slightly annoyed straight to furious.
Yes, six months or so ago, I would have needed—I did need—his protection. But I didn’t now, and I felt like I’d more than proven that at the warehouse. And yet, he continued to treat me like I was fragile and breakable, supposedly for my own good.
What it felt like was that he didn’t trust me. He didn’t trust my abilities.
Hart’s words from the warehouse came back to me: You’re treating him like a child or a pet instead of your partner.
He didn’t think of me as an equal, but as a child to be protected.
And I didn’t think much of that.
“I can take care of myself,” I ground out between clenched teeth.
He rounded on me, the knife he’d been using to cut onions still in his hand—not threatening me with it, of course, but, still, it was there. “And what would you do if someone came after you directly with a weapon?” he demanded, crowding me.
I knew what he was doing. Or, rather, what he thought he was doing. Proving a point. Getting in my space to let me know how easy it would be to hurt me. Kill me.
I bared my teeth at him. “Kill them,” I snapped back. “Just like I killed my uncle.” And the man driving the car into the crowd at the Dance with the Dead.
I realized what I’d said a split second after the words left my mouth. Far, far too late to take it back.
Long before he fully processed what I’d said.
“The fuck do you mean, just like you killed your uncle?” he hissed, eyes wide, nostrils flared, the hand holding the knife lowering to his side.
I reached out and took it from him, his fingers pliant as they let go of the wooden handle. I set it on the counter.
“I killed him,” I repeated. “With death magic. When he threatened my mother, my unborn sister, and me.”
“He fell down the stairs,” Raj said slowly, but he didn’t take his eyes off me and his body remained tight, coiled, tense. Untrusting.
“That’s the official report,” I replied flatly. “But he was dead before he fell over.”
“Rayn—”
I turned an angry glare on him. “Going to arrest me?” I challenged him, still angry. “Have me incarcerated or committed for homicide? Murder?”
“Rayn—”
“Or doesn’t the statute of limitations apply when it’s your boyfriend?” I glared at him. “Just like trusting me as a member of the team stops applying when at even the slightest hint of danger… because I’m your boyfriend?”
He stared at me.
I let out a huff of breath. “Let me know when you decide what your answer’s going to be,” I said, anger making me impatient and unwilling to compromise.
I turned and walked out of his kitchen, headed for the front door.
I let it slam behind me, striding to the car and practically throwing myself into the driver’s seat.
I’d already backed halfway down the driveway when he stepped in front of the rear bumper, and I hit the brakes hard, panic rising in the back of my throat.
He just stood there, refusing to let me leave.
I stayed where I was, angry breaths heaving my chest, until I couldn’t take it anymore and flung myself back out of the car.
“What do you want from me?” I demanded.
Now that I wasn’t driving, he walked over, stalking me.
“Rayn.”
I glared.
He reached out, setting first one hand, then the other, on my shoulders. “Rayn…”
I was panting. Angry. No, furious.
He sucked in a breath, his eyes suddenly black and wide with something that wasn’t anger. Fear. “Rayn,” he whispered, “please stop.”
I shoved him away from me, horrified, staggering backwards. My broken arm stung from the force of my push, but I couldn’t get him away from me fast enough, so I didn’t care.
Because when he’d put his hands on me, my rage—my magic—had started siphoning off his. I hadn’t meant to. But that didn’t matter.
I stumbled, backing away from him, but not knowing where to go or what to do. Only knowing that I couldn’t let him touch me.
I tried to get back into the car, but he moved faster than I could, putting one big hand on the door. “Rayn.”
I shook my head. “Get away from me.” I was panicked, breath coming too shallow, the edges of my vision shadowed. I’d been angry with him—no, furious—but I hadn’t meant to use death magic on him. I never wanted to use it on him. Not Raj.
“Rayn.”
“No!”
But his arms came around me, and I found myself clinging to his shirt with my good hand, sobbing.
“Shhh.” He barely vocalized the sound, his arms tight, his chin resting on my hair. “You’re okay.”
“I’m sorry,” I gasped into his chest.
“It’s okay,” he murmured. “You’re okay.”
I tried to push at him, failing to match his strength. “I don’t care about me!” I protested, panic mixing with anger.
“I’m okay,” he said softly.
“But—”
“Rayn.” His tone said that he didn’t want to hear whatever it was I had to say. “I’m fine. You stopped when I asked you to.”
“But I didn’t—”
“I know.” I felt him move his head, place a kiss against my hair.
“Raj, I could have—”
“But you didn’t,” he said softly. “You could have, but you didn’t.”
“But what if—”
“There are a lot of what ifs in the world,” he said, his voice smooth and even. “We can’t worry about all of them.”
I pushed at him again. “I can worry about this one!” If I lost control and hurt him, or, worse, killed him—
The tears came again, fast and frightened. His arms tightened around me.
“Jaanu, it’s okay. It was just a little magical tug. I’m fine.”
I didn’t know what jaanu meant. I probably didn’t want to know.
Nausea surged in the back of my throat, and I pushed myself away sharply, twisting out of Raj’s arms before throwing up in the grass.
“Rayn. Rayn…” Hands took my shoulders, pulled me back, although I fought to stay hunched over and away from him, choking on a mixture of sobs and vomit. “Mera ravi, please, come back in the house.”
The pressure from his hands was insistent, but not unkind.
I resisted. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t let him convince me to go back in, because if he did, I’d let him coddle me again.
I’d let guilt make me accept being protected and pitied because I felt terrible about what I could have done.
And if I got angry again—if he coddled me too much—I might use magic on him again.
And if I was angry enough— I shuddered. “Let me go.”
He did.
I stumbled to the car, scrubbed the tears out of my eyes, and drove away, nausea still hot in my gut. I didn’t look back.