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“Done.” I sat back on my haunches. “Lift him, and let’s go.”
Once the golem had his partner in a bridal carry, we began the long walk back to the parking lot behind my shop, where I had parked my SUV. Halfway there, I texted Colby a heads-up. Healing made her nervous, and with good reason. She still heard the Proctor grimoire speaking to her on occasion, offering tips, tricks, and helpful suggestions.
Every time I muffled its voice, it found a new way to be heard, and I had to plug that hole.
Honestly, it was a lot like playing whack-a-mole. Or patching leaks in a dam that was about to burst.
By now, I should have had the grimoire memorized and been ready to toss it into the backyard firepit. But it was a tricksy old book. A sentient one too. It kept hiding the chapters on Colby, on loinnir, and producing new material relevant to my past interests.
Melissa Rivers, Clay’s ex-lover turned pile of ash, had been right when she claimed I couldn’t read the book. But it wasn’t about lack of power, as she had implied. It was the will of the book that I absorb it, that I covet it, that I begin to care more about it than my mission to protect Colby.
As much as I hated the idea of dispatching knowledge that might help me protect her, I was close to saying the heck with it and roasting s’mores over the book’s smoldering pages.
Clay, unable to fit in the copilot seat even if he wanted to, climbed in the back to hold Asa.
“He’s trying to kill me.” I stomped on the gas. “Death by heart attack.”
“The daemon thinks with his fists,” Clay joked. “When it comes to you, he doesn’t think period.”
Hands tight on the wheel, I gripped harder. “I don’t like this feeling.”
“Love,” he said, meeting my gaze in the rearview mirror, “is practically the same thing as terror.”
From life with Colby, I knew what he was telling me to be true, but Asa was twice as killable, in a way.
“He can’t keep throwing himself between me and danger.”
“Hey, you don’t fuss when I play shield for you.”
“You’re indestructible.” I shot Asa a glare over my shoulder. “He’s not.”
“He could heal this on his own, Rue. It would take a while, and it would hurt, but it’s hard to kill him.”
After our last case, I had two words for him. “Cold iron.”
A deformed bullet, one of many Colby and I forced out of Asa, sat heavy in my pants pocket. I had been carrying it around since that night, and I couldn’t let go of the reminder of the fragility of happiness.
“He has the weaknesses—relatively few I might add—of his mother’s people, but so do you.”
“It’s not the same,” I protested. “I’m not…”
“You’re not what?” Clay loomed behind me. “Careful how you talk about my best friend.”
“He’s good,” I said softly. “He doesn’t have to stop and think before he does the right thing.”
“His upbringing was vastly different from yours. Neither of you had it easy, but half his childhood was as idyllic as it gets for fae.” He didn’t go into detail, in case Asa could hear. “Not to take anything away from him, but he was taught knee-jerk responses for right and wrong. He acts on those, without thought, in an established pattern. He uses his mother as his own moral barometer. You don’t have that.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“What I’m saying is, you work hard to be good. Your own version of it, anyway. Your actions aren’t automated, they’re deliberate. You make a choice, every day, every time, to make the right call.” He patted me on the head with his wide palm. “That makes you pretty remarkable in my book.”
“You’re just saying that because you hope I’ll stress bake during his convalescence.”
“Two things can both be true at once.” He hesitated. “I was considering brookies.”
“Double the batter, double the fun.”
“What’s not to love about brownies and cookies stacked together in nature’s perfect square?”
