Chapter 9
Despite Maxim’s research, which amounted to roughly three hours of typing various iterations of “magic,” “demon,” and “witch” into multiple search engines, he was only eighty-percent sure he hadn’t imagined the entire situation the previous day.
If there was magic, actual magic, wouldn’t someone have blogged about it?
Wouldn’t there be morsels of true information sprinkled among the aesthetically pleasing moodboards of candles and script-filled books?
Surely if murderous, terrifying demons really existed, there would be some mention of them outside the context of late-night TV adaptations.
Maxim shifted his grip on the crinkling donut bag and the cardboard tray of coffee as he walked up the stairs to Pippa’s apartment.
They had originally agreed to meet in the morning, yet Pippa had struck his phone with one delay after another: she had to finish a few things; she had to take a trip to the store; she just needed to clean up a bit, since there was still blood in the bathroom.
Now it was late afternoon, and Maxim held a bag of stale donut holes and a tray of coffee that had been reheated in the microwave half a dozen times.
Pippa opened the door before he finished knocking.
“Hi.” She said it in the voice of someone trying to be cavalier and failing.
The i in her greeting didn’t so much end as fade into nonexistence.
She must have showered recently: her hair curled around her shoulders in dark ringlets.
The collar of her loose T-shirt was damp, as if she’d pulled it on without fully drying off.
A droplet she’d missed glimmered at the crux of the shirt’s low V, and Maxim fought the urge to catch it with the tip of his finger.
“I brought things,” Maxim said lamely, after realizing he’d been standing in her open door without speaking. He lifted the coffee and bag in demonstration.
“Oh, you didn’t have to—” She gave him a brief smile. “Thank you.”
“The store was all out of frog hearts and demon brains, so I had to improvise.”
Pippa wrinkled her nose. “Funny.” She stepped aside and gestured for him to come in.
As he walked past her, he caught the scent of peaches. It was stronger now, lingering on her skin from the product she’d only just used, and there was a note of something tart as well. Apple, maybe. Or lemon. And beneath that, a sweet, heady smell that could only have been her.
He remembered the hints of those scents yesterday, and how they’d mingled with the acrid copper of her blood as he’d knelt before her in the bathroom.
“How are you feeling?” he said, turning to watch as she cast a roving look around the apartment complex then ducked inside and locked the door.
“Hmm?” She blinked at him.
“Your leg. And . . .” He gestured at her with the donut bag. “All of you, I suppose.”
Pippa shrugged. “A little in shock, honestly.”
He was about to commiserate and say that he felt exactly the same when he saw her lips twitch into a smirk.
“How so?” he said instead.
“I’ve never seen you in casual clothing.” She gave his jeans, T-shirt, and unzipped hoodie an obvious once-over. “I figured when your suit got dirty, you just molted and grew a new one. Like a cicada.”
“Keep bleeding on me, then. One of the new exteriors might have wings.”
“Sounds like an incentive.”
Maxim snorted. “When I’m redesigning my business card to ‘Maxim Sheppard, Lawyer of the Skies,’ I’ll make sure to have you credited.”
“Good. I take ten percent.” A low chuckle rolled out of her, hearty enough to cause her shirt to shift over her chest.
Maxim kept his line of sight glued to her earlobe so he wasn’t tempted to appreciate the thin fabric or her neck or the smooth, bare skin made visible by the deep cut of her shirt.
“It’s a deal,” he said.
Staring at her earlobe, he barely caught the flick of her eyes as her gaze traversed down his body, then snapped back up. He did catch her flush though, and the quick flash of her teeth as she caught her lower lip.
Pippa cleared her throat and spun toward the kitchen. “Want something to drink?” Her voice was pitched higher than before.
He followed her. She was barefoot, her pink-painted toes sinking into the plush carpeting, and she was wearing a pair of dark joggers that were loose around the thigh but tight on her hips and calves. He was staring. No, he was full-on ogling. God, what was wrong with him?
“I brought coffee,” he said, “but I’m not sure if it’s good anymore. I’ve microwaved it so many times that it might be sludge. I haven’t checked.”
“Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to be out for so long.”
“You’re a busy witch,” Maxim said. “I get it.”
“No, I . . .” She faced him. “There were some things I needed to do. Leads to follow.”
“Leads for what?”
Pippa shook her head. “It’s not important.”
He knew their arrangement was not the sort that lent itself to permanence. Maxim’s position in her life—the demon-filled, magical, exploding, knife-y part of her life—was not that of a collaborator. Yet he still wondered how nice it might be for her to trust him, if she ever decided to do so.
He set his offerings on the counter. The narrow kitchen made up for its size with tall cabinets. Considering Pippa’s height, he was surprised she didn’t keep a stool handy at all times.
“I was being serious earlier, when I asked how you were,” he said.
“I’m all right.” The coffee was indeed rather sludgy as Pippa poured the contents of one paper cup into a mug. She frowned at it, gave Maxim an apologetic grimace, and poured the contents into the sink. “I’ll buy next time.”
“I don’t care about the coffee. Does your leg still hurt?”
She rubbed at the spot on her thigh absentmindedly, then snatched her hand away. “A little. Barely.” Her sigh stretched her shirt across her breasts and Maxim twisted to look at the crumpled paper bag of donuts.
“Are the stitches making it worse?”
Pippa shook her head. “I already took them out. Felt a lot better than they did going in.”
A powerful sense of curiosity struck Maxim.
“Can I see it? If that’s not too weird.” At her look of surprise, he continued.
“Just to make sure I didn’t fuck up the stitching too badly.
” It was almost entirely the truth. A great deal of his reasoning was that he wanted to see how the magical healing had concluded, and only a fraction was because he wanted to see her thigh again.
“Sure,” Pippa said. She went over to her little table and sat in a chair, and as she began to wiggle the elastic cuff up her shin, Maxim sat in the chair next to her and chewed on his cheek. The cuff barely made it to her knee. She huffed in frustration.
“These are tighter than . . .” she muttered.
“You don’t have to show me,” Maxim said, suddenly embarrassed at the real risk of her breaking the seams on her pants to satisfy his prying. “I’m being nosy. It doesn’t matter that much.”
“No, no,” she said, “you saved my life. You have every right to be nosy.” She drummed her fingers on the table as if in thought.
“I don’t know if that really means—”
Pippa stood and started undoing the ties at her waist.
“Uh, I— You—” Words rose up and lodged in Maxim’s throat. Before he could attempt to say “Don’t drop trou on my account, really,” her pants slid over her hips and pooled around her ankles.
Pippa sat back down and shrugged. “I was basically like this in the bathroom yesterday,” she said. “Same thing.”
This was simultaneously the same and exactly the opposite. Yes, her thighs were bare, her legs fully uncovered, her underwear (navy blue without the scalloped hem that was on yesterday’s pair) fully visible. Just like yesterday.
And yet so very unlike yesterday, Maxim was not panicked.
Pippa’s blood wasn’t smeared over his nitrile-covered fingers.
When he breathed deeply, the smells invading his lungs now were those of bitter coffee, burnt sage, and peaches.
Calming smells. Grounding smells. No overwhelming punch of dread pummeled the pit of his stomach.
He didn’t have to force his hands steady out of worry he’d hurt her more.
No, he had to force his hands steady for an entirely different reason.
Pippa swallowed audibly. “Anyway. Um. Here.” She pushed at her thigh and the thin, pale scar with her thumb.
If she hadn’t pointed it out, Maxim wasn’t sure he would have known it was there.
He realized he was leaning forward to see it better, and even reaching out, about to touch her.
He drew his hand back and glanced up at Pippa.
“Do you mind if I . . .”
“That’s fine.” She huffed a short, breathy laugh. “Happened in the bathroom yesterday, too.”
Wrong. When he touched her thigh now, there was no barrier enclosing his fingertips. He felt the barest ridge of the scar, yes, but he could also feel the warmth of her body and how her soft skin prickled into goosebumps.
The wound looked like an injury that had healed years ago.
There were none of the deep ridges or valleys that adorned his own mangled stomach, yet as he pressed into her skin slightly, he felt a stiff seam of scar tissue.
As someone who had been injured frequently over the years, he had a fair amount of experience with such things.
Without thinking, he began to push harder in an attempt to knead out some of the stiffness.
Pippa inhaled sharply.
Maxim stopped at once. Even though he hated to do so, he snapped his hands to his sides.
“Sorry,” he said. “Did that hurt?”
“Not— No. Um. A little. Maybe.” She looked almost as flustered as when she’d moaned against his neck.
A very inopportune time to remember that. Maxim cleared his throat and straightened, pressing his spine into the chair slats and letting the dull edge of the wood bring his mind back to where it needed to be.
“It helps to massage it,” he said. “To break up the scar tissue. Make it heal better. Hurt less.”