As he was wet to the knees, I couldn’t in good conscience say no. I pointed to the half bath and walked away. As I crossed to the wall and pressed the circle that opened the closet, tiramisu and coffee scents wafted to me from the still-warm jacket.
Something long forgotten and gentle moved deep inside me—a sense of calm and comfort. I removed a hanger. Closed the closet. And took another long breath of the coat, my nose buried in the layers of wool at the back of the neck. Sweetness. Coffee. The memory of sheets sliding around me as he pulledme across the mattress and settled me against his chest. Softness. Solace.
I carried the clothes to the fireplace, hanging the coat to the side, where air exchange would dry it quickly.
The toboggan was too wet to hang. I squeezed it out in the sink, rolled it between two hand towels, and stretched it over the curlySon the coatrack, hoping it would dry.
Villetti emerged from the guest bath and crossed to the fireplace to warm his hands. “It’s miserable outside.” He gave an exaggerated shiver. “I feel so much better being dry. I hope you are hungry. There were no restaurants open, so I thawed some frozen things from my house and put a meal together. I remember you liked my Nona Zeira’s recipe for hand-rolledtrofie al pesto, canederliwith smoked bacon, and hergoulash Triestino. I had parts of them in the freezer and made the rest before I came. Not as good as Nona Zeira’s but better than any restaurant.”
Lee had cooked for me?
He turned from the fire and saw his toboggan. “Mytoquelooks quite jaunty up there,” he said.
“Yes. It does,” I said, without looking at the hat rack.
He met my eyes, his filled with laughter.
That warm something flew between us, from my heart to his heart and back. That memory of comfort. That memory of…love. Of tenderness. Of passion.
His face twisted in some unfamiliar expression of anguish and adoration. “Cara,” he whispered.
Before I could respond, his expression changed, and he stood straight, the look of desire vanishing from his face. He strode to the kitchen. “I’m starving. Why don’t you open the wine while I start the pasta and warm the goulash.”
But I had seen it, that instant of tenderness and loss. I moved toward him.
He brought me Italian goulash from his Northern Italian grandmother. I loved his Nona’s goulash. “That sounds…”Not nearly as good as what I’m thinking. But I didn’t say those words. Instead, I said, “Wonderful.”
EJ
EJ and the guard unit had begun eating as they talked about contingencies and plans with the queen’s security and their grandfather. EJ kept an eye on everyone, but mostly their bodyguard.
Walter still stared at the screen. At the green flash, the shadow, the hidden energies of the woman he once loved and who had betrayed and abandoned him. He lifted his hand to his brand and rubbed it as if it itched. He turned his back to the screen. “Evan Junior. Is my brand magicked? Is it tied to Nyoka’s ring?”
EJ started, a bread boat full of pulled pork halfway to his mouth. “What?”
“My brand.” Walter pointed at his face in irritation. “Don’t act as if you never saw it before. I find myself forgetting this, but Angelina said it was glowing. I remember—though that memory is difficult to focus on—that it was hot to the touch. Is it— Is there a working in it?”
EJ took a bite from the bread boat and warned the others at the table, talking with his mouth full, “Mytorta ahogada. No stealing.” Putting the mangled bread boat on his small plate, he swallowed, stood, threw his leg across the chair, and strode across the room. As he moved, he whistled a single note, reached Walter, and concentrated on Walter’s brand. Then he cocked his head and whistled a different note.
Still not satisfied, EJ walked to the wall of weapons, his gait changing from the boy he played to the man he had been in the war. Fluid, confident, dangerous. He removed three small flutes from the wall and returned to Walter.
The guard unit watched them from the table. Eating, casual. Hands on weapons.
EJ blew a series of notes on one flute, a silver, six-inch instrument. Pocketing that one, he blew the same series of notes on the second flute, similar riff, different key. He pocketed that one as well. He blew the series of notes on the last piccolo, this one sounding flat, after the previous ones.
EJ leaned closer, shifting so his ear was half an inch from Walter’s cheek. The vampire’s scent was the steel of weapons overlaid with funeral flowers and a hint of sweet peppers, his eyes the cold hard detachment of the warrior.
EJ stepped back. “Something there. Faint, maybe faded. But there. Can’t tell if it’s a curse or a bl—”
Walter interrupted, “There is no blessing in this scar.”
EJ pulled Nyoka’s cloth-wrapped jewelry from his pocket and repeated the process, listening to the notes he played and the magical ones heard only in his head. “Same notes, same resonance. I never thought to look—” He broke off, his face deep in thought. “When were you spelled?”
“I do not know. I first felt its warmth at Londyn’s home. I thought it was because I was attracted to the law enforcement officer, Sergeant Rocas, but she is not on premises.”
“So maybe something stuck to you at the crime scene?” Grizz asked.
Walter blinked, tilted his head, as if to capture an elusive thought before it slithered away.
