Damn it, damn it, damn it.

Ted tromped up the stairs, holding his pants up around his waist. What the hell is Quentin’s problem? He stalked over to his shelves and dug around until he found another pair of his “spring” pants, then switched the current pair for them. He had a strong urge to flop down on his bed and brood, because weren’t the two of them going to be separated soon enough? For eternity, for fuck’s sake?

But if Quentin insisted that Ted leave, then fine. He’d leave. Not just the room, but the whole fucking cabin, no matter how much his body—and, let’s face it, his heart—screamed for him to go back down and take Quentin in his arms again, find out what was upsetting him, soothe him, kiss him, lick him—

No!

Ted knew way too much about the awkward consequences of overstaying his welcome. It was the story of his fucking life—not to mention the story of his life fucking. Damn isolationist bear shifters. That was one of the upsides of Supernatural Selection—his perfect match was guaranteed to want him, at least enough to commit.

Well, Quentin isn’t my perfect match, is he? He’d made that super clear just now. Man, nothing killed afterglow like a guy kicking you out of the bedroom.

He pulled on a tee, a flannel shirt, and a clean pair of socks and stomped downstairs, then stared at his stockinged feet. Shit. His boots were in the bedroom with Quentin. No way was he going back in there to face that look of horror on Quentin’s face. He kept a battered pair of cross-trainers in the hall closet, so he shoved his feet into them and grabbed his coat off the hook. He paused with his hand on the door, straining his ears for any sounds of distress coming from the bedroom, but the place was silent except for the crackle of the fire and his own heart pounding in his ears.

He stepped outside into the afternoon sun. A distant laugh and the slam of a car door made him jerk his head toward the lodge. Apparently the crew hadn’t all knocked off early, which meant Ted couldn’t shift to get away, damn it. Even if he stripped off inside the woods, he couldn’t swear he’d be completely out of sight, and the last thing he needed right now was the council on his ass about Secrecy Pact violations.

But he wanted nothing more than to escape, maybe hole up in his cave until it was time to head into town and end this whole fricking farce, but he couldn’t get there and back in time without shifting. Instead, he shoved his hands in his pockets and took off down the trail behind the cabin, the one that led to his favorite fishing spot. He’d sit on the outcropping overlooking the stream that fed into the lake and . . . and what? Mope? Brood? Mourn?

Yeah, that’s what it feels like. Mourning something that he wouldn’t have again, that apparently he’d never had, even though for a while this afternoon, gazing into Quentin’s eyes, he thought he’d finally found home. Stupid. I knew it had to be temporary. What part of “no face-to-face contact for all eternity” didn’t I get?

He smacked a fir branch out of his way and glared at a squirrel that stood on its haunches at the side of the path. “What are you looking at? Get out of here!” He broke out of the trees next to the creek and scooped up a small stone, winding up to send it into the water.

“Ted?”

He dropped the pebble and whirled. Matt was sitting on the flat rock, fishing pole in his hand, staring at Ted with wide, startled eyes from under the brim of his Mariners ball cap. “Matt. Sorry. Didn’t know anyone was here.”

Matt pretended to wipe sweat off his brow. “Whew! For a minute I thought you were yelling at me to scram.”

“What? Oh that. No, I was just talking to a squirrel.” That didn’t sound crazy or pathetic at all. “Didn’t mean to disturb you. I’ll just . . .” What? Go somewhere else where he wasn’t wanted?

“Hey, it’s your property. I’m just an invited squatter.”

“Doesn’t mean you don’t have the right to your privacy.” Wait. Quentin has a right to privacy too. It wasn’t like he had anywhere else to go. Maybe I should stop acting like a big baby and get over myself. Ted sighed. “Mind if I join you?”

Matt patted a spot next to him. “Like I said, it’s your property. I’ve got an extra pole if you want to try your luck.”

Ted stepped up and sat down next to Matt, his legs dangling over the water. “Catch anything?”

“Nah. But that’s not always the point, is it? Fishing is more a process than a product-driven activity.”

Ted huffed a laugh. “Yeah. Going by my success rate, anyway.” He frowned down at the water. Maybe that was true of relationships too. He’d been looking at his marriage as a thing, like a machine that would be whole and perfect and functional right off the bat, as soon as he said “I do.” But if his temporary marriage was any example, it wasn’t like that at all. It was two people working things out every day, some good, some bad. It wasn’t something you could have. It was something you did. Something you continued to do, if you expected the machine to keep running. It was never going to be done. Unless your husband kicks you out. Or unless you had the wrong husband to begin with. He sighed.

“Thinking deep thoughts?” Matt held out his spare pole.

“Yeah, I guess.” Ted took the pole and cast into the stream.

“Care to share?”

“I dunno. Love. Life. The universe and everything. I have no fucking clue what I’m doing.”

Matt cast his line into the water again. “Join the crowd, bro. Join the crowd.”

Quentin huddled in the corner, rocking back and forth, while Ted stomped around the cabin. At least he’s ambulatory. I haven’t sucked all the life out of him. Because despite Ted’s confidence that Quentin could control himself, monitor his own behavior, corral his incubus instincts, Quentin hadn’t thought of that at all while they were making love. His entire focus had been on the way they fit together, the way the energy flowed between them, how it made him feel alive and vital and strong for the first time since before Rory.

Of course I felt strong—I was stealing his strength.

He didn’t know how long the cabin had been silent when he raised his head, but gooseflesh crept along his arms in the chill. The fire must be dying. But when he staggered into the living area, pulling his thermal shirt over his head, the fire was still crackling merrily in the woodstove, oblivious to the fact that Quentin’s whole life had upended in the space of an hour.

Wait. If the fire isn’t dead, if the cabin is still warm, why am I chilled? His belly tumbled to his feet. The rush from sex is dissipating. I’m coming down, crashing.

And if Quentin was crashing, Ted must be too. What if his vigor as he left was nothing but the artificial high that any ’cubi’s partner felt in the afterglow? Quentin should have prepared a hot drink, a protein-rich snack, made Ted take a nap. Something to replenish his energy. But he’d sent him away because Quentin was a coward, afraid he’d lose control, afraid his desire for another round of sex to feed his incubus appetites would overwhelm his concern for Ted’s welfare.

Where the fuck is my phone? Ted was out there somewhere with no idea what the aftermath of incubus sex was like. What if he lost consciousness? What if he fell into the lake? Or hit his head? Or passed out somewhere and got attacked by a mountain lion? Anything could happen!

He found the phone exactly where he’d left it—in his messenger bag, charged and ready for the trip to Portland. He pulled up the fae communications app that Alun had installed, and closed his eyes with a brief and heartfelt thank you when Alun’s number was already registered. He chose the audio option—he wasn’t ready for Alun to see him right now. He was certainly thinking like a maniac, so he probably looked like one too. ’Cubi—any demons, really—could turn damn scary when under severe emotional stress.

He recited the invocation and pushed Connect. “Come on, come on. Please be there. Please—”

“Dr. Kendrick’s office. This is David. How may I help you?”

“David, this is Quentin Bertrand-Harrington. Is Alun available?”

“Oh, hello, Mr. Bertrand-Harrington. No, I’m afraid not. He’s at a council meeting. Is there anything I can do? If you don’t mind my saying so, you sound a bit flustered.”

Quentin clutched his hair, pacing back and forth across the room. “No. I really need—” Wait. David was an achubydd. If Ted was ill, suffering from incubus energy drain, maybe David could cure him. “Actually, yes. I’m afraid there’s something wrong with Ted. Could you come out here and check on him, please?”

“Mr. Farnsworth is ill?” David’s cheerful voice took a turn for the pragmatic. “What are his symptoms?”

“I don’t know what they are right this minute.”

“Can you check on him? I’ll hold.”

“No. He’s not here. That’s the problem. He left. Well, I kicked him out really, but that was because I didn’t want to kill him.”

“I . . . see. Is there a particular reason why you wanted to murder Mr. Farnsworth?”

Quentin ground his molars together. “I didn’t want to kill him, but I’m afraid I might have. Inadvertently. From . . . from . . . gah!”

“Oh. Was there perhaps hot incubus sex involved?”

“Yes!” Quentin wailed.

“What happened? And no, I don’t want those details. I mean what makes you think Mr. Farnsworth was adversely affected?”

“He’s lost flesh.”

“So he was emaciated? Shriveled?”

“No. Actually, he had a six-pack instead of his—” Quentin rested his hand on his middle “—hibernation belly.”

“Well, from what I’ve learned since we met, ’cubi thrall desiccation can’t occur from a single encounter. The worst effects are caused by prolonged exposure. I know bear shifters start sleeping more at this time of year, but has he been sleeping longer than you consider normal? Had difficulty rousing in the morning? Seemed to be losing stamina?”

“N-n-no. In fact, he’s been getting up earlier than usual to help the construction crews. He’s been eating a lot, of course. We both have. But that’s normal for this time of year, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Quentin heard a rhythmic tapping, as if David were drumming a pencil against his desk. “Forgive me for questioning your concerns, but it doesn’t sound as if he’s suffering at all.”

“You don’t understand. I’ve been in this situation before. I can’t— If something happened to Ted because of me, I’d never forgive myself. Can’t you come out here? Check him out yourself?”

“I would if I could, but I can’t gate through Faerie on my own. I need Alun to take me.”

“Please. He’s out in the woods. What if he’s incapacitated? Even if the sex aftermath doesn’t kill him, he might become disoriented and injure himself.”

“Hmmm.” More tapping. “Let me call my brother-in-law. I expect I can talk him into bringing me.”

“Thank you.”

“Hold tight. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Quentin sank down on the sofa, letting the phone slide out of his hand onto the cushions. He felt as if he were suffocating, the collar of his thermal too tight around his throat. He tugged at it, but it didn’t help. Fuck it. He ripped the damn thing from collar to hem.

Wha— I can’t do things like that.

He stared at his hands—his claws were extended on all ten fingers. No wonder the damn shirt ripped. He glanced down at his bare chest. Holy mother of fire. His height wasn’t the only thing that had increased. His chest wasn’t as broad as Ted’s, but it was damned close.

No no no. I’ve stolen all this from him. What if his body, his big, beautiful body, is as frail and useless now as mine used to be?

“Please, David. Please get here quickly,” he murmured. Gah! Not exactly dressed to receive visitors. He ran down the hall and up the stairs to Ted’s room and took a long-sleeved T-shirt from a neatly folded pile. His momentary post-sex chill had passed, and now he felt too hot even in Ted’s cooler quarters, so he didn’t bother to borrow any flannel.

Before he could put on the shirt, he heard a knock at the door. He raced back downstairs, the shirt flapping in his hand, and flung the door open. David was standing there with a tall, dark-haired fae in motorcycle leathers behind him.

David’s eyes widened and his mouth dropped open. “Quentin?”

“Yes. Come in, come in.”

“Holy cats. The last time I saw you, you looked like Justin Long. How the heck have you morphed into Joe Manganiello?”

Quentin flung up his hands in exasperation. “That’s what I’m talking about. I’ve stolen this—” he gestured to his body “—from Ted. And you have to figure out how I can give it back.”

“It’s none of my business, mate,” David’s companion said, “but if I were Ted, I’d want you to keep it.” He flashed a grin, his dark-blue eyes twinkling. “Looking damn fine there.”

David elbowed him in the ribs, which didn’t seem to faze him at all. “This is my brother-in-law, Mal Kendrick.” He glared at Mal. “Maybe you could find somewhere else to wait, so Mr. Bertrand-Harrington and I can speak privately?”

“Privacy is irrelevant.” Quentin yanked the shirt over his head. “Ted is the priority.”

“I understand. But first, I’d like to check you out.”

Mal chuckled. “I’ll tell Alun you said that, boyo.”

David cast a sidelong glance at Mal. “You’re not helping, Mal.”

“Do what you need to do, but do it quickly.” Quentin thrust his hands out, his fingertips tingling with the urge to extend his claws. “We don’t have much time.”

Nodding, David took Quentin’s hands. His eyes lost focus as the now-familiar trickle of achubydd power threaded along Quentin’s nerves.

“Wow.”

“Is that a good wow or a bad wow?”

“It’s just a wow-wow. Your DNA is completely repaired.”

Quentin dropped David’s hands like they were nuclear. “I knew it. I stole his life essence for my own benefit. I can’t be here. I need the suppressant. I have to—”

“Calm down, Mr. Bert— May I call you Quentin? If I have to say your name every time, we’ll be here all night.” Quentin jerked a nod. “Now, simply because you’ve overcome the effects of the drugs and are the picture of health, it doesn’t necessarily mean that Mr. Farnsworth isn’t perfectly well. Given the way his energy signature is twined with your own—”

“Mother of fire, save me the empty consolation. I don’t care about my condition except as it’s the result of Ted’s damage.”

“Yes. That’s what—”

“We have to find him. Immediately.”

“Okay. Do you know where he went?” David’s tone was so reasonable that Quentin wanted to scream.

“If I knew,” Quentin said through clenched teeth, “then finding him wouldn’t be necessary.”

“Hold on, mate. Take this.” Mal took something out of his pocket and tossed it to Quentin, who caught it reflexively—another thing he wouldn’t have been able to do when he’d arrived. “That’s a druid-made locating spell.”

“A druid potion? Won’t that—”

“Hurt? Nah. My bloke doesn’t believe in that kind of shite.”

Quentin turned the little glass tube in his hand. “How do you happen to conveniently have this potion on you?”

“I always carry a couple. I use them in my work. This is left over from the last job. Just hold something that represents what you’re searching for, and it’ll let you find it in a hot-and-cold kind of searching way.”

“Hide the Thimble,” Quentin murmured. He shook off a pang at the memory. “This is his shirt. Will that suffice?”

Mal shot him a thumbs-up. “Aces.”

“Good.” Quentin unstopped the vial and tossed back the potion. It was tart, vaguely vinegary, but not as revolting as most druid potions he’d encountered in the past. “It’s not working— Oh.” He felt the pull, the awareness of Ted, someplace to the north of the cabin. He tore open the door and launched himself off the porch.

“Quentin!” David’s voice faded as Quentin crashed through the first line of trees. “Wait!”

Not likely. Quentin had no time to wait, because Ted might have even less.