MULLINS AWOKE to the smell of breakfast—bacon, toast, and fruit—and stretched, yawning.
Somehow, he and Edward had managed to make love when they should have been eating the night before, and his stomach rumbled fiercely—but his body?
His body felt newly made.
He rolled out of bed, naked, and reached quickly for a pair of boxers from the chest of drawers near the bed. His old sulfur-infused eighteenth century clothing wasn’t practical, now that he wore a man’s shape and was no longer subject to being summoned back to hell. He was rather looking forward to dressing as the boys did—jeans and T-shirts and hooded sweatshirts—all worn and comfortable and casual.
“Suriel wears a leather jacket,” he pondered, sliding on a pair of jeans that could have fit any one of the Youngblood boys except Bel.
“I wake you up with breakfast and you’re wondering about Suriel?” Edward asked from the kitchen side of the cabin.
Mullins found his grin came easier and easier with practice.
“He wears a leather jacket. Why is that? Even Beltane wears sweatshirts.”
Edward rolled his eyes. “Pure vanity,” he responded. “Harry once told him he liked James Dean, the actor, and Suriel showed up for the next fifty years wearing a leather jacket and jeans.”
Oh! Mullins slid the sweatshirt he’d claimed from the drawer over his head, then held his hand to his chest, suddenly conscious of the softer emotions and how much he treasured each one.
“They’re very dear,” he said, and Edward’s sardonic expression softened.
“They are. I popped into Harry’s head today—he’s miffed because Suriel’s serious about bed rest being actual rest, but he says he feels much better.”
Mullins’s mouth twisted. “You don’t believe him?”
Edward held out a hand and tilted it both ways. “Maybe yes maybe no? He’s a really excellent liar when it comes to his own health. By the way, that was cleverly done.”
“What?” But Mullins never could lie worth a damn. It was why he’d chosen to tell the truth to Jonathan rather than mislead him about his time with the red man.
“You hid your tail. We made love four times by my count last night, and not once did I get to see your ass.”
Oh damn. Mullins couldn’t fight the flush taking over his body, so he gave up trying.
“Is it because you don’t like to be penetrated,” Edward asked, raising his eyebrows mockingly, “or because—”
“Not when you can see my tail,” Mullins bit out, not wanting to be this cranky, but… tail!
“Mm….” Edward took the few paces to cross from the kitchen to the sleeping area and stopped in front of him. “I think tails are cool,” he proclaimed, and it was Mullins’s turn to roll his eyes.
“I think mine means I might still end up in hell,” he responded shortly, and then his irritation faded. “And I’d rather you not think of me like that.”
“We won’t let that happen.” Edward wrapped his arms around Mullins’s shoulders and kissed him.
Oh, Mullins wanted to believe him. With every fiber in his being—except, presumably, the flesh invested in the damned tail—he wanted to believe in Edward’s power to overcome every obstacle in his path.
But he’d spent 400 years watching the young and innocent being deceived and watching the older and wiser succumb to the need for power. He’d seen people corrupted by greed, corrupted by lust, by addiction, by despair.
He’d seen people with the same hope Edward had, that of overcoming old power. He’d seen them ground into the dust.
“You’re so young,” he whispered. Then, before Edward could repeat that he was over 150 years old, because that didn’t seem to matter in the youth and naivety of the Youngbloods, he kissed him to stave off the argument. They all just had such a dreadfully strong belief in themselves, in their lovers, in the power of love to change the world.
Edward grinned cheekily and turned toward the kitchen, dragging Mullins along with him.
“That reminds me. Harry and I talked about when you transform completely—we’re going to need to do some spellcasting, you realize.”
Mullins frowned. “Why? What do you mean?”
“Well, Emma stored a great deal of her power in us, and then spilled the balance into Leonard and back into herself. She took what was probably a two or three millennium lifespan and spread it out among the five of us, you understand?”
Oh. “I knew that,” Mullins said, nodding. “I wasn’t there, but yes. She told me.”
“Well of course. So, Francis, Harry, and I have all been building power back, and Emma and Leonard have been building their own. We are, in fact, significantly stronger now as a family than Emma was by herself all those years ago—and we have Beltane and Suriel as well. Suriel came with his own power—shapeshifting, healing, telepathy. Harry’s been teaching him spellcasting, like we do, and he’s been getting pretty good. And of course Bel’s supposed to learn more at Oxford—”
“It’s not Hogwarts, you know.” Because they spoke of Bel’s time away like it would send him back a completely different person.
“Well, it is the way Bel’s doing it. So anyway, I asked Harry, and Harry and the others agreed. When we do the spell—the one that breaks you completely free—we’ll all pour some of our power into you. Enough to lengthen your lifespan, you understand? We haven’t asked Emma and Leonard—they’ve given plenty. But Suriel, Beltane, me, Francis, Harry—that should be enough.”
Mullins blinked, discomfited by such practical discussion of power, as though it were food or water or electricity or something else mundane and replenishable.
“So you’ll be bringing me to your world as your lover—”
“For as long as we both shall live.” Edward’s smile suddenly reminded Mullins that he wasn’t young. That his optimism was hard won and defended by the formidable strength in his heart. “I wasn’t kidding about not being able to lose another lover, Mullins.” He held up his hand, and Mullins answered him, lacing their fingers together. “You and I are going to be bound for many, many years. Are you ready for that?”
Mullins had to laugh. “I assure you, Edward, if I didn’t love you enough for that to sound like a perfectly wonderful arrangement, I would have told you.” His laughter faded. “I would have told you from the very beginning not to try for me. Watching you and your brothers labor, watching you working with all your heart to bring me back to your side—only a truly evil person would have let you do all of that with no intention of loving you for eternity.”
With his other hand, Edward traced Mullins’s lower lip with his thumb.
“Not evil, beloved. Desperate. Tired and sick and terrified of hell. You’ve proved to us again and again that you are more than just a task. I have faith. Are you ready to walk by my side forever?”
“It’s the hope that fed me,” Mullins confessed brokenly. “For the past hundred and forty years, it’s the hope that kept me sane.”
Edward smiled slightly and pulled Mullins in for a long, heated kiss of avowal. The kiss was about to become so much more when Edward yanked back sharply. “Bacon,” he said, pulling away and running to the stove. “Almost overdone.”
Mullins laughed softly, somehow feeling lighter now that they’d had that conversation. As he sat down at the table—already set with flowers and place mats in an absolutely charming fashion—he had a thought.
“Will I be a cat too?” he asked. “A familiar bound to you as you were to Emma?”
Edward grinned at him over his shoulder. “Do you want to be a cat?”
Mullins scratched his nose. “I’m rather fond of Beltane’s dog,” he confessed shyly. “I… I mean, I don’t have to have a shape, it’s just, you know, watching you all fall asleep in the minivan over these weeks… a dog or a cat would be—”
“Convenient,” Edward told him archly. He sobered. “And damned helpful if we’re to resume the family business.”
Mullins felt something more than hope bubbling up in his chest. He felt purpose. “Freeing the enslaved?” Oh yes. “Yes, Edward—this is a thing I would love to assist with.”
Edward smiled reassuringly. “Then we shall come up with a way. I’ll tell Harry after breakfast.” He finished plating up their food and served Mullins with a flourish. “Here. Breakfast. Most important meal of the day.”
Bacon, scrambled eggs with cheese, toast, and fruit. Simple and perfect.
Mullins paused in front of it, inhaling.
“What?” Edward asked anxiously.
“Food. I… I’m hungry. I haven’t eaten in 450 years.”
Edward grinned again. “Suriel hadn’t eaten ever. I swear, Harry learned the boomerang just so he could go to the market and get him fresh whatever, because he lights up like a little kid.”
Mullins took a bite of the bacon and closed his eyes, shuddering. “Oh… poor Suriel,” he mumbled through a mouthful of bacon. “Never? Because I remember this. Warm bread—” He took a bite of that and chewed blissfully. “Emma made this?” He’d seen modern breads. Most of them weren’t really… substantial. This was homemade, simple, wheat flour, water, yeast.
“I made it,” Edward told him, a delighted smile on his face. “Because I am Emma’s son.”
“You’re wonderful at it,” Mullins told him. “In my day, the baker could bake and the townspeople bought from him. Very few people had an oven that could make all of this.”
“Where are you from, originally?” Edward asked, frowning. “You have an accent, but….”
“So do you.” Mullins arched an eyebrow. “Actually, you six, talking mostly to yourselves for so much of your lives—it’s taken you all an appallingly long time to not sound like British immigrants from 1860. Even Bel.”
Edward’s cheeks pinkened, and he took a bite of his own bacon. “Well, that’s humbling, but you dodged the question.”
Mullins chewed thoughtfully. “Somewhere in England?” he hazarded. “When you’re a peasant in a small village, you don’t really get schooled in where you are. You just sort of live your life, you know?”
“Could you read and write?” Edward asked, all curiosity.
“No,” Mullins said promptly. “Not beyond my name. But Leonard saw my… my induction, as it were. He was… I think I shocked him out of his spiral. He grabbed me the moment I entered hell and put me to work as a scribe. He had to teach me then, how to read and write, how to reason. Having a friend there, having someone to give me purpose… that’s why I never really lost my soul.” He paused, his food suddenly less appetizing. “I hope. It’s not like we have it in a jar or anything to check to make sure it still lives.”
Edward’s look was all compassion. “It’s there,” he said kindly. “Your soul. You’re our friend, Mullins. You’re my lover. Nobody who touched me like you touched me last night can be soulless.”
Mullins nodded, still worried, but Edward cleared his throat.
“Eat,” he commanded. “After breakfast, I need to review our spell and look over some maps. As soon as Harry’s back online, we’ll need to be ready.”
Mullins gnawed on his bottom lip. “It’s odd, isn’t it?” he asked, before taking an ordered bite of eggs. “That Leonard noticed me—he said himself that he was a heartbeat away from giving up. That mentoring me, keeping me out of trouble, it’s what gave him back his heart.”
Edward twisted his mouth. “Honestly, it’s no more odd than three boys being in the underbrush when Emma needed three familiars to survive. It’s one of those random twists of fate—”
“That almost feel destined.” Mullins could feel what he was hinting at, but he couldn’t bring himself to say it. There seemed to be a blank place in his mind whenever he thought about it. He shook his head. The breakfast was lovely, and Edward was so full of plans. He’d been a young man before he went to hell, and he was feeling young again.
But Edward surprised him—as he often did. “If there was another hand—a kinder hand—in the things that happened to us, I certainly wouldn’t turn down any help now,” he said graciously. “Whoever tampered with the spell to get you here gave us last night. They gave us this breakfast and the things I plan to do to you afterward. They gave us many years of a friendship that sustained us. Perhaps not angelic—Suriel’s people don’t feel especially warm to me, although Suriel is a charming exception—but… but something important. I’m going to count my blessings and be grateful.”
Mullins smiled shyly at him. “You have plans for me afterward?” he asked, taking a bite of perfectly crispy bacon.
Edward nodded and took his own bite. “I do indeed.”
Oh. Mullins’s brain—always the part he’d relied on to keep him safe in hell—took a long deep breath and kicked back to enjoy the show.
He was warm and comfortable, clean and fed, and his skin still tingled from lovemaking of the kind he had never thought to have again.
And Edward—his boy—the boy he’d guarded and avenged, the boy he’d taught and loved—was there, across from him, a wicked gleam in his bright green eyes.
“I’ll enjoy that,” Mullins said simply. He took his cue from Edward and shook some sriracha sauce on his eggs. A little spicy, but some milk to wash it down? Perfect.
“Good.”
Mullins had seen many moods on Edward’s face over the years, but this one, this playful smugness? He shivered deliciously. This could be his favorite.