Rob Thurman - Deathwish

“I think one bite might lodge in an artery and stop my heart,” I said truthfully.

“Worse ways to go,” he pointed out with a dark grin as he poured the batter on the griddle. “We were nearly eaten by vengeful sushi last night. Live a little.” He boosted himself up and sat on the counter. “How are the ribs? They don’t look too bad.”

I pulled on the black shirt that I’d been carrying in my hand and replied, “Bruising. Nothing more.” He was moving with only a little stiffness, and I knew his back was no worse. He’d showered not long before I had. I could tell by the still-wet black hair and the water spots on the T-shirt that I’d lent him last night. The sopping washcloth half covering the drain, the toppled shampoo bottles, and the towels on the floor had been a clue as well.

He gave another grin, this one not as dark. “I was going to ask if she was gentle with you, but I think I’ll sit here and smirk instead.”

“You’re a gentleman without compare.” I went to the refrigerator, saying over my shoulder, “Your pancakes are burning.”

There was a curse, a thud of feet on the floor, and the smell of singed batter. By the time I sat at the table with my juice and yogurt-granola mix, he had a plate of half-runny, half-burnt pancakes and was squirting syrup over them. The typical feeding habits of the Cal Leandros in his natural habitat. I was long used to them.

“No Promise?” He took a sticky, dripping bite. “I made enough for her.”

“So you plan to poison her and leave me a celibate and lost soul. Cunning.” I dipped a spoon in the bowl. “She’s sleeping in. Centuries of habit are hard to break.” I studied the yogurt before me, then made a decision. Cal was right. I should live a little. “I’ll take some after all.”

“You’re shitting me. Really?” He slid the plate closer. “Help yourself.”

I reached over with the spoon, carved off a piece, and took a bite. I chewed, swallowed, and made the best decision of my life. I went back to my yogurt. We ate in companionable silence. Cal was not a morning person. I was surprised he was as coherent as he was this one. When I finished, I pushed the bowl away and looked at him. This time I wasn’t looking at wet hair and shirt or the casual slouch as he chased the last bite of pancake around the plate with his fork. I was looking past that—past the still-sleepy gray eyes to where Cal could be his own worst enemy. The place where he stuffed all his fears, his misplaced guilt, his anger . . . his rage. Hid them away. Tried his very best to forget about them. I looked there for the beach we had stood on last night.

I didn’t find it.

“So, then.” I tapped my spoon on his plate to get his attention. “We’re going to be all right, are we?”

“Yep,” he said agreeably, giving up on that remaining bit of pancake.

“And if we’re not?” I wouldn’t give up my faith, but it had to be factored in with reality. Believe, but be ready.

“Then we take those bitches with us.” The eyes weren’t sleepy anymore. They’d gone from drowsy to dark, savage, and ruthless.

“There’s my brother.” My lips twitched. “I was afraid you’d taken all my Zen.”

“Like I’d want it,” he retorted. “Jesus. I’d need a pack mule for all the granola.”

“I am stunned with your witty riposte. Give me a moment to recover.” I took another spoonful of yogurt that I didn’t particularly want, but my body required. I needed to ask Cal something, and it was a memory that wasn’t going to do much for either of our appetites, which is why I’d waited until he was finished with his pancakes. Pushing the almost-empty bowl and spoon away, I asked, “The Auphe you killed last year, the one that attacked us on the way back from Florida”—when George had been kidnapped and we’d needed help from a Rom clan to obtain her ransom—“was it a male or female?”

For a second, his eyes went blank. Completely. For a moment Cal was gone. I reached over and squeezed his wrist hard and said his name as forcefully as if we were in the midst of a battle—which, for all intents and purposes, we were. I was about to repeat his name when he blinked. “Sorry.” I let his wrist go and he used both hands to scrub at his face. “Yeah . . . Florida. I was a little . . . distracted.” “Distracted” was Cal’s way of saying “walking a very fine line between sanity and the alternative.” “Shit.” He shook his head. “I don’t remember. Male, I think.” His pupils dilated and I could see the past sucking him down. The Auphe trying to drag me through a gate to Tumulus. Cal all but disintegrating its head with the entire clip of his gun while the door to hell stood hungry and open only feet away.

Enough. I’d needed to know, but I wouldn’t make him see anymore. He’d seen too much already. I took his plate and promptly pushed it into his stomach. “Enough ancient history. Cleanup time.”

He was slower to come back this time, but he did come, grumbled, glared, and cleared the table. What he didn’t do was ask me why I’d wanted to know. He may not have remembered my even asking, or he may not have wanted to know the reason. Either way . . . I was grateful. Because I still could be wrong.

Let me be wrong.

Forty minutes later, the wolves were at the door, literally. I left Promise with a kiss to her bare shoulder, and we were gone. Outside, the sky was blue for the first time in days. With the sun the day felt warmer than it really was. Cal didn’t seem to notice. He kept sliding a glance at me from the corner of his eye as we went down the stairs. It was a look both alternately worried and confused. Finally, I said with mild exasperation, “Enough. I feel like the last movie I forced you to watch that had subtitles. What is it?”

He didn’t snipe back in our usual give-and-take of his cultural, scholastic, or martial arts lack. We had just passed through the front entrance to Promise’s building and taken a few steps when he shook his head, growled, grabbed two handfuls of my coat and shoved me up against the stone facade of the building. Then he pressed his nose to my neck and jaw and smelled me. I ignored the looks of the people jostling by. I knew my brother. He did some odd things, but he always had a reason . . . maybe not a safe reason or a particularly good reason, but he always had a purpose of some sort.

“I think you may be spending too much time with either Delilah or Robin,” I said equably.

He didn’t react to the humor. Letting go of me, he backed up. “Jesus, Cyrano.” He seemed both disgusted and angry. “You smell like him. You smell like that goddamn Seamus.”

Seamus, who, although I had spent time with him in his loft and later at the art show, I would’ve showered away his scent at least three times by now. The last shower was this morning before we left, but it hadn’t been the last thing I’d done before leaving the apartment. I’d kissed Promise’s bare skin in good-bye. I hadn’t asked where she’d been when Cal and I had been fighting a giant eel. We hardly kept track of each other’s every movement. She very well could’ve met Seamus to further discuss his case. It would’ve been a professional courtesy.

But she hadn’t mentioned it.

Considering that we’d decided last night that everything was to be put on hold until the Auphe were dealt with, it skirted along the border of suspicious. If it had been anyone but Promise, it would’ve been far beyond the border and seeking, no doubt Cal would say, a fake green card. But this was Promise. She and Seamus were old friends, old companions. I had no reason to think “old” had changed to “current” or that she was keeping anything from me. I had never seen anything like that in her. And being suspicious of her now would only taint everything we had. I wouldn’t do that—no matter what Sophia had taught me all her life: that everyone lies. Everyone deceives. Cal didn’t—not unless it was to save my life; then he would lie like the proverbial dog. But otherwise, Cal wouldn’t deceive me.