Chapter 10
He was still at Pippa’s table, a fact which left her with a curious mix of relief and suspicion.
The entire time she’d spoken of the magic that had haunted her entire life, she expected Maxim to turn around and exit through the door as fast as possible.
If she were the one who had just learned about magic and was in the home of someone who openly admitted they were capable of necromancy, she would have run.
Probably screaming. Definitely without looking back.
But Maxim stayed. He stayed, and he even fucking commiserated. In response to her opening up about the thing that most frequently kept her awake at night, he’d given her something of his own.
It all begged the question: Why?
They barely knew each other. Could a few days of conversation and danger really transform him from someone who could barely tolerate her presence into someone who cared what anguish she’d experienced as a child?
Maxim had sipped his water, and as he continued to ask questions, Pippa filled the glass as soon as it emptied so she’d have something to distract her from wandering thoughts of Maxim’s recently exposed midsection as well as the feelings of attraction she’d discovered last night.
Feelings which were rapidly strengthening under the bright wattage of camaraderie.
At least his other questions weren’t as startling as the ones he’d already asked.
Are all demons evil?
Do we work with any?
Is Reggie Cavatappi one?
He seemed to accept the reality of demons having as much moral ambiguity as anything else in a world that spoke, lied, and cheated.
If hatred could be in the little bodies of childhood playmates, then perhaps it wasn’t a great leap to think that friendship could be in something with horns and a tail.
Maxim lifted his glass and paused before it reached his lips. His gaze was aimed at the water, but it was distant enough for Pippa to tell that his attention was elsewhere.
She took advantage of his distraction to look at him, taking in the creases in his forehead that had been etched into his skin from the intense frowning she’d grown used to over the past few months.
The crinkles beside his eyes were shallower, as were the lines bracketing his mouth.
Signs of a face more used to displeasure than joy.
The long, crooked line of his nose as well as the little bump on the bridge sent a twinge to her chest when she thought of how she once assumed the old break had been from him bullying others.
Pippa could straighten it if he wanted, but she somehow knew he wouldn’t take her up on the offer.
In grade school, her dentist had remarked on her overbite and suggested wildly expensive orthodontia. When Pippa had returned home with her mother, Mary had given her a consoling side hug.
“Don’t worry,” she’d said. “I can fix that with magic.”
By the time Pippa realized her mother had been lying, she hadn’t cared enough to fix it herself, especially since “fixing” would require intensive anatomical research and some very careful bone fracturing.
She’d grown used to her body and considered its imperfections as the pieces of herself over which she could genuinely take ownership.
As Pippa looked at Maxim’s crooked nose and late-day stubble, the creases in his forehead, the nearly invisible white scar in one of his earlobes from what could only have been a regretted piercing, the mangled patch on his stomach now covered by soft cotton, she saw someone who might believe the same thing.
She sipped her tea. It had cooled to room temperature, and she choked a little on the unexpected tang.
Maxim blinked rapidly several times, brought back by her noise, then drained his glass.
As Pippa reached for it, he held up a hand. “I’m good. Actually need to get rid of some. Mind if I . . .” He jerked a thumb in the direction of her bathroom and stood.
She fought a cringe. “Oh yes, um, of course.” At least he was hydrated, thanks to her desperate attempts at busying herself.
The moment the bathroom door closed behind him, Pippa slumped in her chair.
She scrubbed her face with both hands. Fuck, she could still feel him.
The hearty spice of his aura hovered in the air around her, thrumming along her skin as if it were a tangible thing.
His presence managed to overwhelm her even though he was across her apartment.
Pippa glowered at her cold tea, then grabbed the mug roughly and circled one hand over the top. Magic vibrated against her palm and the water began to swirl. This was one of the easiest and earliest tricks she’d learned. A bit of heat and a bit of patience. Far quicker than a kettle.
She had spent most of the day checking out possible locations of the Tro’grath lair.
She even returned to the warehouse district and the courtyard to see if she could sense any lingering traces of the aura she’d followed before, but so many days had passed that the demon’s trail was as faint as pollen.
By the late afternoon, she’d narrowed down her list to a few sewer branches and picked one at random. She’d climbed down a few feet, not wanting to completely ruin her shoes, yet the auras she felt had been benign ones: some rats, a raccoon, a bored ghost looking for entrances to old buildings.
When she’d arrived home after her sewer expedition, she’d felt the faintest hint of an aura hovering around her apartment.
Not the thorns and grease of the Tro’grath; this one left a taste like burned steel at the back of her throat.
It wasn’t strong, and it wasn’t that of a demon that was still close by, but it lingered in the air as if its owner had circled her home several hours earlier.
She’d sensed it again after she opened the door to let Maxim in.
Pippa glanced at the empty chair and worried her lower lip. Despite all of his questions, she hadn’t told him about the Tro’grath and the whole issue with the accidentally-on-purpose killed prince.
It would be a terrible idea. She’d known the man for four months and really only known him for a few days, yet she was certain that if she told him about any of her problems, he’d want to stick around to help her solve them.
It was a thoughtful enough gesture for a broken modem or a clogged drain, but a horrible one for a hit put out by a murderous demon family.
Pippa rolled her shoulders and stretched her neck, then shook out the hand she held above her cold tea. A blend of irritation and worry had been building within her all day, tightening muscles she didn’t know could cramp.
If only you knew a lawyer masseuse.
She took a slow, steadying breath, trying not to dwell on the memory of the firm pressure of his fingers on her thigh and how that strong touch might feel rubbing away every bit of her tension. The tea was beginning to warm under her hand, and gentle steam tickled her palm.
She’d dreamed about him last night. A chaste dream, unfortunately.
Although most of it remained foggy, his blue tie and exposed forearms had made a prominent appearance.
Neither were present today, and though she’d been a little disappointed at first by his different appearance, the faded sweatshirt and jeans gave him a softer feel.
His hair was more relaxed as well, and lacked the expert carefree styling of both comb and product.
Today, it was genuinely rumpled and likely wouldn’t crunch in her hands if she grasped it.
He looked wholly human, and perfectly relatable.
This was the guy she could accidentally spill coffee on without worrying about the liquid seeping into his circuits.
The relatable aspect had crumbled when she’d seen him half-shirtless. He had a line—a legitimate line—between his abs, and they had been firm beneath her embarrassingly roaming fingers. There was a ridge along his hips as well, the sort Pippa briefly fantasized about tracing with her tongue.
How would Maxim respond if she licked him there?
Would he groan? Gasp? Push her away because he was ticklish, or guide her down along the trail of coarse hair that dipped beneath his jeans?
She closed her eyes, imagining how it might feel to brush her fingers against that hair.
It was several shades darker than the blond on his head, and by the dusting that showed under the raised hem of his shirt, she’d guess it covered his chest as well.
She could twine her fingers in it, pull him close.
The stubble along his jaw would be a harsh rasp against her cheek and her neck and her breasts and her thighs, and she would grip his hair and hold him right where—
Boiling water splashed out of her mug and stung her palm. Pippa hissed in pain, snatching her hand away and cursing silently.
The bathroom door opened and Pippa urged her breathing to steady as she forced the fantasies from her thoughts.
Maxim had pushed the cuffs of his sleeves to his elbows (damn him), and his hair looked slightly more arranged than it had been earlier.
A few dark, damp locks implied he’d used her sink as a styling accessory.
Was it for her, or was it for whatever he had planned when he left her apartment?
Pippa found her good mood twisting at the thought of him strolling into a bar with friends to chat up someone attractive and unencumbered by the wrong sort of magic. Or any sort of magic.
Maxim came over to his chair, though he didn’t sit down.
“I have one last question.” He shifted on his feet and shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “I should have asked this earlier, but I . . .” One shoulder lifted briefly in a shrug.
Pippa sat up straighter. A frisson of excitement scurried through her chest at what question was making Maxim embarrassed, and even a little nervous. She wet her lips.
“Can you tell if someone is, I don’t know, magical?”