Smoke on the Water (25 page)

“I'm a kindergarten teacher!”

“That would be a good enough reason for me.”

She shook the jar. “Rosemary. Put a line across your threshold. It keeps the ghosts out.”

“I don't—”

She pressed the cool glass container into my palm. “You want his sister watching what goes on in that bedroom? Or Henry?” She held up her own container and Becca did the same. “We learned early on to ward the bedroom before Dad saw something he couldn't unsee.”

“I'm not—”

“Night.” Raye's door closed.

“See you in the morning.” Becca's followed.

Jealousy flared. It was the couch for me. I tucked the jar into my pocket, then went searching for PJs, not only because I'd be sleeping out here, where anyone could see, but my clothes were muddy and bloody. They had to go.

I found an oversized T-shirt in Raye's case that appeared big enough to reach to my knees. Perfect. I hated to borrow underwear, but I didn't have much choice. I snatched a pair and went into the half bath off the living area. There I undressed, then washed up and changed into the clean garments before taking my stained things to the utility area where I'd seen a stacked washer/dryer. Someone had tossed Sebastian's in at some point, and I moved his to the dryer, then retrieved the rosemary jar before I threw my stuff in, set the machine on “soiled” and pushed “start.”

I grabbed an afghan and turned toward the couch. Pru lay all over it. Unless I wanted to shove a wolf over, hunt for bedding and make a bed, or sleep sitting up, I was going to have to …

My gaze went to door number three again. “I should probably check on him.”

Pru snorted.

“You could move.”

She stretched out farther and showed me her teeth.

“Not very motherly.”

She closed her eyes and ignored me. I tossed the afghan back where I'd found it and headed for the bedroom.

The TV was on, though the sound was off. The flickering light cast just enough shadow to reveal that Sebastian was asleep. And naked—at least from the waist up. His hair was wild and curly from the shower, his earring flashed silver-blue. I wanted to chase it with my fingers through those damp strands the way I'd done in nearly every vision. His chest was big and broad, taut; his arms were too. I wanted to lick him all over.

I opened the rosemary jar and sprinkled a line across the door.

He shifted. His skin twitched, and he set his hand on the slice that Roland had made. Concerned, I hurried over. The thin red line had faded to pink. In this light I couldn't tell if the color indicated festering or fine. Becca had healed his flesh, but that didn't mean there couldn't be something nasty lurking beneath. What if Roland had used a poison blade? Which sounded exactly like something he would do. Bastard.

I set my hand atop the mark, terrified it would be hot to the touch, but it wasn't. Just to be sure, I touched him several other places.

All good. In fact, they were so good, I ran my fingertips over them more than I should have. I would have felt uncomfortable about stroking him when he was unaware, except my touch calmed him. The twitching and shifting stopped, and he appeared to have slipped into a deep, restful slumber.

I should wrestle Pru for a piece of the couch, sleep by the fire or maybe in a chair. But what if Sebastian began to thrash again during the night? What if he began to run a fever? What could it hurt to lie at his side and make sure everything was all right? It would hurt more if I didn't and something bad happened. The way things were going lately, bad was more likely than not.

I reclined on top of the quilt, feeling righteous—until the chill stole in. Then I crept beneath the covers and listened to him breathe. The in and out sounded natural, but what did I know?

I set my hand on his chest, and the steady up and down lulled me to sleep, too.

*   *   *

After his shower, which he'd had to cut short because the heat—or the blood loss, or the weirdness—had made him light-headed, Sebastian wrapped a dry towel around his waist. His bloody clothes had disappeared. He hoped someone was washing them. He couldn't very well return to the facility in blood-drenched clothes.

Sebastian wasn't sure how he was going to return to the facility at all and what he would say if he did, but he shoved those thoughts aside for now. He was too tired to deal with them.

He opened the door a crack, saw Willow, Raye, and Becca by the fire with the wolf—weirdness again—and shut it. He turned on the TV, muted the sound, then crawled under the covers. Easier than trying to make sure his towel pants were where they belonged.

He must have slept, because he dreamed. First of the dark man—Roland—looming from the forest, right after Willow had predicted he would. She was right too often to ignore, even though he wanted to. Just like he wanted to forget about Raye floating to the ceiling and Becca apparently touching a gaping wound and making it close without stitches. He definitely wasn't going to think about Raye describing his sister, right down to the earrings she wore—one of which now resided in his own ear. How could she know that?

He turned, uneasy, and the movement pulled something where his wound had been—faded but not forgotten. The room was too warm, or maybe he was. He shifted, then he caught the scent of Willow. Even though it was different now—no longer institutional soap and shampoo—he recognized her. She smelled like fresh snow, heat lightning, and mint.

She touched him, and the heat receded; the pain eased and peace flowed into his soul. The emptiness that had been there since his parents died, since Emma had died, receded. He could fill that emptiness with …

Her.

She curled against his side, her skin so soft, herself so fragile and fey—like one of those little people his mother had told him about. She wasn't really small, but next to him, everyone was. He wanted to protect her, to save her. He wanted to love her. Which was crazy talk, but he was used to it. Though not usually from himself.

Her breath brushed his skin, made him tingle and shiver. Her hair drifted over his chest. It tickled. He liked it. He set his cheek atop her head and slept ever deeper. It had been so long since he'd held a woman, and he'd never held one who'd felt as though his arms had been waiting forever just for her.

When she kissed him, he kissed her back. Why not? He was a psychiatrist. He knew that sometimes dreams meant something and sometimes they didn't. This one meant he hadn't been laid in eons, and Willow smelled like heaven on a stick. She kissed like heaven, too, or maybe it was hell. Because he was burning, down low where fire like that belonged, and it felt so good, he ignored the ding-ding of warning as his hand cupped her ass and his fingertips grazed the soft skin where her thigh began.

Her moan rumbled against his mouth. His tongue slipped through those sweet-sweet lips and stroked hers. Since this was a dream—the
best
dream—he rolled her onto her back, settled between her thighs. With only a wisp of her panties between them, he nearly came like a kid.

His biceps bunched to keep his full weight from crushing her. Her palms curled around them, her thumbs stroked, then her fingernails bit as she arched. Her breath caught. He knew that sound. He could swear he felt her clitoris swelling against him. Then she wrapped her ankles around his and a soft “oh!” escaped her before she shuddered.

She continued to tremble in his arms. He kissed her harder. She nipped his lip. The dual pleasure and pain had his eyes opening, displeasure at the end of the dream a growl in the center of his chest.

Willow smiled—her eyes sleepy, her hair tousled, her lips swollen. Then she reached up and brushed her thumb against his earring. “I always wondered how that would be.”

He blinked. She was still there. “Oh, God.”

“I know,” she agreed.

Sebastian scrambled out of bed. Morning sunlight through a crack in the curtains lit her with a soft pink glow. Or maybe it was afterglow.

Her gaze lowered. His followed. He was naked and fully aroused. He scrambled back into bed. His bare leg brushed hers. Memories flickered. She reached for him.

“Whoa!” He held up a hand between them like a crossing guard. They were so close his palm brushed one breast, the erect nipple sliding enticingly on the other side of a T-shirt so old it was nearly transparent.

The dream hadn't been a dream.

He was going to hell. Right after he went to prison.

He looked around for the towel he'd had last night. Found it on the floor close enough to snatch and snatched it, then slid out from beneath the covers as he slid the cloth around his waist.

Hurt flickered in her eyes, across her face. “Sebastian?”

“We didn't—” he began. Had they? “I didn't—” Had he? “You. Dammit.” He rubbed his face and gave up.

She lifted her chin. “I did. And thank you. I never had before. It was lovely.”

“Lovely?” he repeated like the moron he was.

“Fantastic. Mind-blowing. Life-altering. What do you want me to say, Doctor?”

He certainly didn't want her to call him “Doctor.”

“Willow, I'm s—”

She held up her hand as he had. The universal sign for “Halt!” or perhaps “Shut the fuck up!”

“Do
not
say you're sorry.”

“But—”

“Zip it,” she ordered. “My fault. I shouldn't have slept here. I was worried you were getting a fever and—” She glanced away. “Let's pretend it never happened.”

“Just so we're clear …
what
happened?”

“You made me come. First time ever. Woo-hoo.”

Her voice didn't sound very woo-hoo. He didn't feel very woo-hoo either.

“We didn't—I didn't—um—”

“Take my virginity?”

He winced. This was getting worse by the second, and he hadn't thought that was possible.

“You didn't.” Her lips tightened.

Did that mean he hadn't taken it or that she wasn't a virgin? And how did one ask such a thing? Considering the way she was glaring at him … one didn't.

“Forget it,” she said. “Please.”

He didn't think he could. From her expression, he didn't think she could either. He sighed. They were going to have to talk about this.

His gaze landed on the TV, which he'd turned on last night in an attempt to make the unfamiliar room more familiar. He often fell asleep to the flicker of the television. It was something you could count on nearly everywhere you slept, and he'd gotten used to drifting off to the muted silvery-blue light The sound was off, but he didn't need it to know what was going on.

The camera panned back to show the Northern Wisconsin Mental Health Facility. In front of it, Zoe and Deux. Cop cars filled the parking lot. On the steps stood Dr. Tronsted, arms akimbo, scowling at the spectacle. At the bottom of the screen blared a headline.

New Director of NWMHF Helps Patient/s Escape!

He cursed, then found the remote and turned on the sound.

“I saw him kissing her.” Zoe's lip curled. “He was always around her, touching her. Very inappropriate.”

“Bitch,” Willow muttered.

Sebastian had to agree.

“Things have pretty much gone downhill since he came,” Deux added.

The reporter turned to the camera. “According to reports, one inmate…”

“Patient,” Sebastian corrected.

“… Has escaped several times. A caseworker is dead and a second inmate has disappeared with Dr. Sebastian Frasier. Be on the lookout for—”

His photo appeared between one of Willow and one of Mary. From this angle, they all appeared as desperate as he felt.

“I need to find Mary,” he said. If he returned with the missing patients, he might keep his license. His job was already toast. Probably had been for a while now. Dr. Tronsted had been very tolerant, but her expression as she'd surveyed the fiasco from the top of the steps hadn't been tolerant any longer.

“About Mary—” Willow began, and licked her lips.

Sebastian was distracted by memories of how those lips tasted. Sweet. Warm. Heaven. Hell! He yanked his gaze to her eyes, which were troubled. “What about her?”

“She's … uh … a little dead.”

He thought she was kidding, except what was funny about that, then tears replaced the trouble. The two had been friends. Or as friendly as anyone got with Mary McAllister.

“How? When? Why? Are you sure?”

“I don't know the how, except by
Venatores Mali
. Since she was alive a few days ago, the when is recently. The why—she was trying to save Becca. Am I sure?” She shrugged. “I don't know why my sisters would lie.”

Sebastian wasn't certain if a dead, escaped inmate—
patient,
he reminded himself—was better than one who was in the wind or not. It definitely wasn't better for Mary.

He was such an ass, worrying about his job when the poor woman was dead. Still, he should probably take her back with him.

“Her body?”

The glance Willow cast his way made Sebastian feel the same way Zoe's curled lip had. “You'll have to ask Owen.”

Well, that was a conversation he couldn't wait to have. Right up there with the one he hadn't had yet with Willow.

“This isn't your fault.” He indicated the tousled bed with an awkward hand wave. “I'm your psychiatrist.”

“No,” she said. “You aren't. And after what happened last night—” He tensed, and she cast him that disgusted glance again. “
Before
this—all that you saw, what I did, what they did. I don't think I need a psychiatrist anymore. I didn't need one in the first place.”

“Willow, you—”

“I'm
not
crazy, Doctor. I never was.”

She got up and went into the bathroom, the long, smooth line of her bare legs giving him flashbacks. The slam of the door gave him a chest pain.