Page 43 of Ex Somnis

The cold hits my face when I step outside, and I take a full breath of it, the first one in five days that doesn’t smell like the combination of antiseptic, sugar, and lemons.

Pulling up my jacket, keys in hand, I turn toward the Mercedes, then stop. Nevan Shaw is standing at the front wall of the Vaughn mansion.

He’s facing the wall with a spray can raised in one hand, arm extended, completely still, and he’s wearing only a pair of gray boxers and one sock, suggesting whatever journey brought him here did not include either a plan or adequate footwear.

“Nevan.” I cross the path toward him, then reach out and close my hand around his wrist, turning him to me. “What are you⁠—”

The spray can hisses, and paint hits the left side of my face in a cold burst.

Shit.

Taking a step back on pure reflex, my hand comes up too late. All I can do is stand there with paint dripping from my jaw.

What in the world?

I take off my glasses and look at them. The left lens is entirely red. I wipe my sleeve across my mouth, redistributing the paint more than it removes, look at the smear on my cuff, then back at the glasses.

I don’t know how, but this has to be Ridge’s fault.

Nevan is looking at nothing. Not at me, not at the wall. His expression is completely absent, not vacant the way someone looks when they’ve checked out of a conversation, but the way of a person whose consciousness is somewhere other than their body.

He’s asleep.

Holy shit.

I put my glasses back on and take him in properly. His breathing is slow and even. His eyes are open but not tracking. He’s standing upright in one sock in the cold, and he has absolutely no idea I’m here.

He’s sleepwalking.

And you should never wake a sleepwalker unless they’re in immediate danger. The shock of sudden waking can cause confusion, panic, and acute disorientation, none of which would be useful to either of us right now, with him in his underwear and me with paint drying on my face.

Spraying someone else’s property is, technically, not an immediate danger, right?

I check the wall behind him. He’d only managed the top half of a letter before I interrupted. Hard to say what it was going to be.

The street is empty, and the mansion windows are dark, except for the kitchen. I have approximately four minutes before Nora Vaughn takes her morning tea to the front window and discovers a half-naked young man with a spray can standing at her wall, at which point she will absolutely call the police.

“Let’s get you home,” I whisper when I step beside Nevan, reach up, put one hand gently on his shoulder, and begin guiding him toward my car.

He comes easily, his body following the redirect without his brain needing to participate. I walk him slowly around the back, open the passenger door, and maneuver him inside. After closing his door softly, I quietly walk around the car and get into the driver’s seat. It’s not until my door shuts that Nevan blinks, and I watch his consciousness return behind his eyes, assembling the situation.

“Good morning, Nevan. You’re safe.”

“Where… where am I?”

“You’re in my car because I was about to drive you home. Are you cold?”

Nevan frowns, then looks down at the spray can in his hand. His gaze rises to the mansion, then lands on my face.

“Fuck.”

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“Fuck!”

“Nevan.”

“This is a new low, even for me.”