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No matter what metaphors Marianne used, this was not the same thing as caring for an infant. Nathaniel was young, but he was definitely not a child. At least not childlike in the way that would have made this comfortable.
I slipped off the short-sleeved shirt. There was no one to see the shoulder holster, and it would be cooler. Of course, it would really be cooler if I took off all the guns and the spine sheath, but I wasn't that hot. I did lay the Firestar under the pillow. It had a short enough barrel to sit or lie down with it, but there is no such thing as a truly comfortable gun to wear if you're lounging around. Guns aren't designed for comfort. It's one of the few things that are worn, mostly by men, that are as uncomfortable as a pair of high heels.
I crawled onto the bed, kneeling, still not within touching distance. He was so easily hurt that I had to say it out loud. "I'm not upset with you, Nathaniel. I just don't like playing student."
"You like Marianne, but you resent her," he said.
That made me blink a couple of times and stare at him. He was right, and it was more perceptive than I'd ever expected from Nathaniel. Hearing him say something that smart made me feel better. If there was a brain in that body, then he wasn't just a submissive mess. And maybe, just maybe, he was salvageable, saveable. It was the most positive thought I'd had all day.
I crawled to Nathaniel's side, brush in hand. I stared down at him stretched across the bed, eyes watching me. The look in his eyes stopped me. It was too intense.
Maybe he sensed it, because he turned his head back so that I couldn't see his face. All I could see was all that long, auburn hair. Even in the dim light, it was an incredibly rich color. The darkest auburn I'd ever seen that was still truly auburn and not brown.
I smoothed my hand through his hair. It was like heavy silk, warm to the touch. Of course, that could have just been the room. The fan swept over the bed, ruffling the sheets, passing like a cool hand over my back. Nathaniel's long hair stirred in the fan's caress, the sheet over his thighs blowing like a hand had moved them. He shifted as the fan passed over his bare body. Then stillness. His hair, the sheet, everything utterly still while the fan made its circuit. It swept back, spilling over everything in reverse; the pink sheets, Nathaniel's hair, my chest this time, blowing my own hair back from my face, then past us, and the heat wrapped around us like a suffocating hand.
The breeze from the window had died. The white curtains lay like a painting until the small fan spilled over them. I knelt in the hot room with the only sound the whir of the fan and the small tick it made every time it came to the end of its cycle.
I stroked the hairbrush through his hair, and the stroke ended long before I got to the end of the hair. I'd had hair down to my butt once upon a time when I was about fourteen. But Nathaniel's hair was knee length. If he'd been a woman, I'd have said his hair fell like a dress around him. The hair lay in a soft, silken pile beside his body so it wouldn't brush the wound. I lifted the hair in my arms, and it was like holding something alive. The hair poured through my hands with a sound like dry water, a rushing noise.
I had enough trouble taking care of shoulder-length hair. I couldn't imagine the amount of effort that just washing it must take. I was either going to have to divide the hair to either side and actually get up and move from side to side, or sweep the hair back behind his head so it spilled across the bed. I voted for that.
I pulled his hair behind his back and spilled it behind his head. He moved his head as if snuggling into the pillow, but other than that made no movement and said nothing.
"How you doing?" I asked.
"I'm fine," he said. His voice was soft, neutral, almost empty.
"Talk to me, Nathaniel," I said.
"You don't like it when I talk to you."
I leaned over him, smoothing the hair back so I had a clear view of his face. "That's not true."
He turned his face enough to look up at me. "Isn't it?"
I leaned back from that direct gaze. "It's not you talking I mind, Nathaniel. It's your choice of topics."
"Tell me what you want me to say, and I'll say it."
"I can tell you what not to say," I said.
"What?" he asked.
"Don't talk about p**n ographic movies, sadomasochism, sex in general." I thought about it for a second or two. "That hits the usual things you say to piss me off."
He laughed. "I don't know what else to talk about."
I started combing his hair across the bed. The stroke was firm and flowing, then I actually had to pick the hair up to finish the stroke. The fan hit me with an armful of hair, and the hair spilled around my face in a vanilla-scented cloud that tickled my face and neck.
"Talk about anything, Nathaniel. Talk about yourself."
"I don't like to talk about myself."
"Why not?" I asked.
He raised up enough to look at me. "You talk about yourself."
"Okay." Then I didn't know what to say. I just suddenly couldn't think of where to start. I smiled. "Good point, forget I said it."
The phone rang, and I gave a little yip. Nervous? Who me? It was Dolph. "Anita?"
"Yeah, it's me."
"Franklin Niley, unless it's a different guy with the same name, is an art dealer. He specializes in mystical artifacts. He's not picky about how he gets them, either."
"How not picky?" I asked.
"He's based out of Miami. The cops there would like to tie him to at least half a dozen homicides but don't have enough proof. Every town he visits on business, people disappear or turn up dead. Chicago P.D. nearly got him on the death of a wiccan high priestess last year, but the witness went into a mysterious coma and hasn't come out yet."
"Mysterious coma?" I made it a question.
"The doctors think it was magic of some kind, but you know how hard that is to prove."
"What do you have on his associates?"
"One hasn't been with him long, a psychic named Howard Grant, young, no criminal record. There's a black bodyguard, Milo Hart. He's got a second-degree black belt in karate and has been in the pen once for attempted murder. He's been beating people up for Niley since he got out of prison five years ago. The third is Linus Beck. He's been in twice. Once for assault with a deadly, second time for murder."
"Lovely," I said.
"It gets better," Dolph said.
"Better?" I asked. "How much better can it get?"
"Beck's murder conviction was a human sacrifice."
I let that sink in for a second or two. "How was the victim killed?"
"Knife wound," Dolph said.
I told him about the body I'd just finished seeing.
"Direct attack by demons went out with the middle ages, Anita."
"They wanted to make it look like a troll attack."
"You've talked to them," he said.
"Yeah."
"Why?"
"They wanted to threaten me," I said.
I heard papers rustling on the other end. "Why did they want to threaten you?"
I told Dolph almost everything. I also told him I couldn't prove a damn thing.
"I talked to a cop in Miami. He said that Niley admitted two murders to him, told him details, but not under Miranda and not useable in court. He likes to taunt."
"He thinks he's untouchable," I said.
"But the spirits say you're going to kill him."
"So his pet psychic says."
"When I put out the name and asked for info, police all over the country and out of it are willing to give me anything they got, if we can just nail this guy," Dolph said.
"A bad guy's, bad guy," I said.
"He's not above doing his own killing, Anita. At least two of the dead men down in Miami, they think were Frank's personal kills. You watch your ass like a son of a bitch. If you have anything that even looks like proof of a crime, call me."
"You don't have any jurisdiction here," I said.
"Trust me on this, Anita. You come up with some proof, and I can get you somebody down there with jurisdiction, ready and willing to put this guy away."
"He on the blue hit parade?"
"He's made a career out of breaking the law and has never seen the inside of a jail cell for more than twenty-four hours. A lot of people in a lot of states would like to see him gone."
"I'll see what I can do," I said.
