Linda Welch - A conspiracy of Demons (13 page)

“Will Mike read them the riot act?”

“Not Mike,” Royal replied. “But no doubt he will ensure their captain does.”

“So we’re okay, then.”

“This time. But continuing to draw attention to ourselves is
unwise
. Fir
st
our visit to Provo; now this.”

My mouth twisted. “Yeah, you’re right.
One small slip and we’ve had it.
”

Garvaise
waited at his unit with the rear passenger door open
. We climbed in back
and said nothing more as t
he officer drove us to my home.

The black and white drove away. I flicked an eyebrow.
“Want to stay the night?
”

He didn’t hesitate
.
As I waited on the sidewalk, he
unlocked
his truck and reached
in
to pull
an overnight bag from behind the seat. Unlike yours truly, Royal believes in being prepared.

It had been a long day
a
nd
not over yet. Mel and Jack waited
in the hall.
I threw them a pointed look and nudged my chin at the kitchen as I
deactivated
the alarm. They ignored the message.

“
We saw you get in the police car,
” from Jack.

“Were you arrested?” Mel asked.

I peeled off my jacket and
hung
it on a hook at the bottom of the staircase. “No
,
we weren’t arrested.”

“Sorry, what?” Royal asked distractedly.

I sounded apologetic without meaning to. “It was . . . you know.”

“Ah, right.” He
brushed one hand over his chin.
“I’ll go on upstairs.”

I
snagged him before he could head for the stairs,
wrapped my arms around his waist and snuggled
in
his neck. “Go
on
. I’ll be there
soon.”

“You do like to make leaving you difficult,” he said as I whispered kisses on his skin.

“They say practice makes perfect.” I drew skin
in
my mouth before I let him go, eliciting a tiny gasp.

He kissed
me
before going upstairs.
I had to stand still a moment
and try
to refocus on my surroundings.

“Of all the things I miss. . . .” Mel’s voice sounded breathier than usual as it trailed away.

“D
on’t look at me,” Jack responded.

“If I could kiss
anyone
,
believe me, it wouldn’t be you.”

I went in the kitchen
with Mel and Jack trailing as they bantered
. Mac, at his place in front of the pantry door, got to his feet and waited expectantly.

“For
pity’
s sake! That’s all you’re ev
er interested in
,” I grumbled as I opened the pantry, making him move aside.

But then I went to my knees, pulled Mac on them and against my chest and buried my face in his brindle-black hair. Because one day, like Lynn, he
would not
be here.

He didn’t appreciate the loving when it kept him from his supper bowl. I let the heaving, wriggling, chunky body slip off my knees, climbed to my feet and got his food from the pantry. He
dove
in.

“Well?
” from Jack.

W
ithout a trace of enthusiasm
,
I told them why Royal and I were ferried to the precinct
,
then went up to join Royal.
Depression
followed me upstairs
to my bedroom
and
settled over
my shoulders like a
weighty
, moth-eaten old blanket.
My thoughts
went
in directions I wanted to
ignore
.

Royal lounged in bed, the sheet up to his waist, arms cros
sed behind his head and
hands clasped on his nape. The glow from the single, small bedside lamp turned his
pale-copper
chest
to
a landscape of flat planes, gentle hills and shallow vales.
He tweaked an eyebrow at me, but I was no longer in the mood.

I think he got the message when
I went to the window and looked out at a mountainside cut from black velvet, the sky abo
ve densely spackled with stars.

“What is wrong, Sweetheart?”

I shook my head mutely.
The chill coming through the glass panes made my skin pebble.

“Come to bed.
You look cold.”

With a deep sigh,
I pulled my shirt over my head and dropped it, then sat on the edge of the mat
tress to peel off my jeans. They
landed on top of my shirt, followed by my socks.

Royal lifted the sheet and duvet for me to slip beneath. I lay with my head on his shoulder, his arm
beneath
my back, holding me to his chest. With a deep sigh, I luxuriated in the warmth and comfort his body so readily gave me.

This felt so nice,
but my thoughts would let not me relax.
I couldn’t keep still.
I wriggled.
Then I rolled
on
my back. Royal’s arm shifted
to accommodate me.

I gazed at a ceiling I could barely see, a grayness above our heads.

Royal was good about giving me space when he saw I needed it. He lay beside me silently, but I could tell from the way in which his muscles hardened beneath my neck that I tr
ansmitted my discomfort to him.

I sat up, drew my knees up to my chin an
d twined my arms around them,
pulled in a huge breath and let it out with a puff. “It kills me. Thinking of Lynn all alone, stuck in the same place, watchi
ng the world go by without her
.” I turned my cheek to rest it on my knees. “But there’s this horrible, horrible part of me which doesn’t want to find her because then I’ll be all she has, like Jack and Mel. She’ll want to cling to me.
And I’ll have to keep going to her. I won’t want to, but I’ll feel small and selfish if I don’t.”

I closed my eyes. H
is fingers
smoothed up my spine
.

Snippets of the past two days circled in my head.
M
y mind drifted to other dead people, so many of them.
And
I could no longer contain the long-held fear I
kept
locked
inside for years
.

I’ve
looked in Death’s eyes
. In the bowels of Morté Tescién at the hands of Royal’s brother Kien. In my backyard when I fought Phaid. In an
old
, abandoned plant below the High House when I went one on one with the ancient Dark Cousin Dagka Shan. The bombs in Royal’s apartment and my house. In the tiny English village of Little Barrow, and when an assassin tried to run Royal’s truck into the lake. Not to forget the black
pickup
which tried to push my car
in
the river.

“I don’t want to end up like
Lynn
, like the rest of them.”
I tried to swallow
,
but my throat had closed.

A heavy
silence settled over us. Royal
sat up
beside me
.
His voice rumbled in my ear. “I want to say that won’t happen to you, I’ll protect you,
no one
can harm you. But I can’t promise you that.”

“I know,” I whispered.

He hugged me fiercely with one arm.
“I can promise this. If someone takes you from me, you will not linger long, because they will not see another sunrise.”

Now I’d made him feel bad. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to lay that on you.”

“I’m here for you, Sweetheart.” He cupped my chin to lift my head so we looked
in
each other’s eyes. “I want you to tell me what bothers you. Don’t shut me out to spare my feelings.”

He lay back, taking me d
own so I rested
on his chest
. His
hands began to stroke rhythmically up and down my spine.
Drowsiness made my eyelids droop.
His fingers moved to
my neck and pushed into my hair to massage
the base of my skull. I dropped my face to his
sculpted
chest.

His hands stilled, his breathing changed to the slow, deep inhalation preceding sleep.

I hoped I would not dream.

Nothing like starting yo
ur day with a
long
,
refreshing
shower
when your shower-buddy is tall, built and lusciously hot
. Cold water finally drove us
from
the cubicle and we h
ad fun rubbing each other down -
nothing like a thick terry towel
to create
friction.

By
the time I left my very satisfied guy
drowsing in bed,
the water
had
warm
ed up
enough for me to take another shower, but alone this time. I insisted; we would be here all day if I didn’t.

I went in
the
bedroom wearing my robe. “I’m sending you my next water bill.”

Royal chuckled as he sprawled naked on my bed in a tangle of sheets and duvet.

Tempting. Yeah, very tempting
.

But I resisted, and kept my robe tightly belted as he used the he
at of his hands to dry my hair.

I looked through my closet and decided on a lavender tee,
navy corduroy pants
and black tennis shoes. Two
Ba
nks and Mortensen
T-shirts
hung
side by side, but
a
guy
in the supermarket
asked which was Banks and which Mortensen
the first time I wore one
. I told Royal I’d wear the shirts if the name
s were
not plastered across my chest.

I
came
downstairs feeling and no doubt looking rosy.
I felt better today, not
about Lynn, but my fear of ending
up as one of the lingering dead d
idn’t have as much weight
when
shared with Royal.

I should share more with him.

We
knew relatively little about each other
. The important things, yes, our likes and dislikes, little quirks, how we felt about each other. But not our lives
before we met. When you ha
ve clung to your privacy all your life, like I have, you do
no
t
casually
share the dark days of
your past
with
another person.

I didn’t talk about my youth because remembering childhood and the teen years made me feel dirty. Maybe I should. Not everything back then was horrible.

Maybe, if I talked about my past, Royal would talk about his.
Royal, his mom, dad and older
brother lived in Eau Clare, Wisconsin, where Royal was born,
until they were
called to Bel-Athaer to take over House Morté Tescién when Royal’s uncl
e died. How did he feel
being taken from everything he knew to another dimension, which must have been as alien to him as to me? How did he c
ome to terms with the odd, semi—
modern/semi-medieval lifestyle?
His parents died in the fifty-year war in Bel-Athaer after the High Lady
’s
assassination
.
What was his life then with the mentor who, in the end, betrayed him?

“Been working out?” Mel asked
, ripping me
from
my musing
. Her tone told me she didn’t mean on the treadmill.

I admit I a
m easily embarrassed, and I do
no
t discuss my sex life with my roommates, but I must have had a devil in me. I plopped on a kit
chen chair, propped
my
chin on tent
ed hands and half-lidded my eyes as my tongue ran slowly over my lower lip. I held her gaze for a moment, then breathed, “Oh, yeah. You wouldn’t believe . .
. well, use your imagination.”

I widened my eyes. “You still have an imagination, right?”

“I have.” Jack
stood in front of me with
hands clasped at his chest. “Last summer,
out
in the backyard, shirtless, mowing your grass, those slippery, sweaty muscles f
lexing.” He brought one hand up and pushed an
index finger
below his bottom lip
. “Then he came inside to shower. All I could think about was how the water must sheet over that body. I could see him with a soapy sponge.
Mm. Mm.
”

“Was Tiff in there with him?” Mel asked.

“The shower’s not big enough for three.”

I retaliated. “I’m gonna have to tell Dale you’re cheating on him.”

Jack flipped one hand. “Oh tush, I’m dead, I can’t cheat.”

“
Partners ch
eat in
other
ways.
”
I hunched my shoulders.
“It isn’t only a physical thing.”

“I
imagined
it!” Jack whined.

I
continued
relentless
ly
. “
You’re
cheating in
your mind when you
wis
h you
were with another person.”

Then I recalled my little peccadillo with Christopher Plowman. I didn’t
invite
him to hold and kiss me, but I can’t deny I enjoyed it.

I half expected Chris to pop out of the woodwork just because I thought of him. It was the kind of thing
he’d
do. I saw his lazy hematite eyes and heard his drawling voice in my head.

“Tiff, why is your face red?”
Mel asked.

Grateful they couldn’t distinguish temperatures,
I
fanned my face
. “
It’s
warm in here.”

A
nudge on my ankle reminded me I had not
seen to
my boy
’s needs
. Glad he used his nose and not his teeth, I fed Mac and let him outside.
The usual routi
ne,
but dogs love routine when it
involve
s
favorite activities
.

I went to the coffeemaker, put a new filter in and fill
ed the reservoir with water. W
hich blend sounded good this morning? Behind me, Jack grumbled to himself. I decided on my good old Columbian, spooned some
in
the filter and pressed the on switch.

Royal came downstairs wearing
a
soft, vanilla-colored, brushed-cotton shirt, brown jeans and boots
.

“Coffee?”

“I’d love some.” He came to me and sniffed at the coffeemaker, where the first few drops of hot water on the grounds already sent aromatic tendrils through the kitchen.

“I’ll fill us travel mugs
and we can
leave
.”

“
Not
until after breakfast.”

I leaned one elbow on the counter. “You offering?”

His head
poked
in
my 1950s bubblegum-pink refrigerator. “Ah. Eggs. And eggs.”

“I like eggs.”

He looked at me over his shoulder. “I mean, all you have is eggs.”

“Wrong, mister,” I pushed up from the counter. “
There’s
cheddar, and milk.”

“Scrambled eggs?” Mel enthused as she zoomed in on the refrigerator. “Cheesy scrambled eggs, really cheesy, so they’re thick and stringy with melted cheese?”

“Bread?” Royal asked, at the same time opening the bread bin.
“
French bread, perfect.” He took out the long, thick loaf.

In England, I learned
the supermarket
French bread we buy here is nothing like French bread in Europe, and I suppose in France. Our French bread is not as chewy and does not have the crisp crust. The only thing the two versions share is the shape. My mission, every time I saw a bakery I had not before explored, was to find
real
French bread, and this loaf from a German bakery in
Logan
came close
.

I poured coffee
in
a mug, added milk from the bottle Royal
had
already
taken from
the refrigerator -
I ha
d run out of liquid creamer -
and sat at the table while Royal took over my kitchen. He moved from cabinet to stove to refrigerator to kitchen drawers, shadowed by my enraptured roommates.

He settled a loaded platter on the table
fifteen
minutes later and went back to the cabinets to get dishes and silverware.

First,
slice a loaf
of French bread
in
thick sl
abs
and
pull some bread
from
the middle of each slice to leave
a hole.
Pop them in a hot skillet
sizzling with butter, crack an egg
in
each hole
and cook until the u
nderside is crisp, golden-brown
a
nd the egg is starting to set. Carefully f
lip each slice over and repeat. Last stage, sprinkle shredded cheddar over the slices and put them under the broiler until the cheese
bubbles
.

“Why don’t mine come out like t
his?” I shoveled two slices on
my plate.

Royal put a tall glass of milk at my elbow. “You are too impatient. You
use a
high
heat
and the bread browns before the eggs are ready.”

“Hm.” I did end up
tossing
my charred attempts in
the trash can more often than not. “But I’ve c
ome up with a foolproof method - you make them
and they’ll
always
be perfect.”

H
e slid the other four slices on
his plate. We clinked glasses
and
dug
in.

“It would be perfect with two slices of bacon on top,” Jack observed.

“Grilled tomatoes,” said Mel.

I scraped
melted
cheese off the plate and offered it to Mac, then checked I still had four fingers and a thumb.
“How can you eat so much?
” I asked Royal.

“It’s a guy thing.
” He held up his plate.
“Want one of mine
?”

I shook my head and took another mouthful of milk. “Not if I
want to keep my svelte
figure.” It is
no
t fair how much food a man can put away and not gain weight, while we women look at certain foods and the pounds accumulate.

He wiped milk off his upper lip
with a napkin
. “I’ve seen how much you tuck away at Audrie’s.”

“Eating out doesn’t count.”

We lapsed into silence as we
demolished Royal’s culinary creation
.

Royal stood
up
. “Shall we go?”

“Nope. Not till you do the dishes.” I pulled his plate across the table and stacked it on mine.

He scratched his head. “But I cooked.”

“
You
made the mess,
you
clean it up.”
I upended my glass to get the last drop of milk.

“There’s gratitude for you,” Jack commented.
“You’re a hard woman, Tiff.”

I almost spat milk when Royal said, “You’re a hard woman, Tiff.”
His eyes lit up deviously. “I think you need softening up.”

I
gave him a firm look
as he edged around the table.
“Nope. Won’t work. The sooner you get those dishes done, the sooner we leave.”

Royal didn’t give me a chance to activate the alarm, he did it for me.
Outside, he stowed his overnight bag behind the truck’s seat and got in the driver’s side
.

Breakfast with Royal
left me feeling cheerful, as if we held t
he real world -
including murders and shades - at bay for a few hours.
I settled in
the seat, fastened my seat
belt and waved at Jack and Mel as we drove away.

The mountainside looked bare; when would the first snow
arrive
, a dusting or a thick, white blanket
? We usually had
some
snow by the end of
October
.
It could be
the only snowfall
until January, or storm after storm hit Clarion all the way
through until March and snow
layered the valley
until May.