Chapter Thirteen

 

“Where have you been?” John asked.

His voice was even—and dangerously quiet. Not many guys look intimidating in their underwear, but John did. Wearing nothing but a pair of blue-and-red plaid boxers, hair sleep-ruffled, he still looked imposing.

“You startled me.” I smiled. “I went down to the white garden. To see the flowers in the moonlight.”

He gave a small nod as though this confirmed his suspicions, and I relaxed. But what he said was, “No, you didn’t. Because I thought of that too, and I went down to the garden to check.”

Awkward. And unexpected.

I offered another quick, rueful smile. “Oops. Okay. You got me. The truth is, I went for a walk. I needed to clear my head, and I thought the night air would help. I knew you wouldn’t like the idea of me wandering around alone in the dark—”

“Don’t lie.” Again that flat, controlled, and increasingly ominous voice. “I hate liars.”

“I—”

“And I hate that you are a very good liar. Very natural. Very believable.”

“It seems not.”

He smiled, and speaking of the Spanish Inquisition, that had to be an expression many a witch before me had seen on the face on the other side of the fire.

John said, “Pathological liar would be a deal breaker for me.”

“Doesn’t trust me would be a deal breaker for me.”

He continued to smile. Not angry. Not losing control. And, unlike me, not bluffing. “So fair warning, Cosmo. Don’t ever lie to me again.”

Anything out of my mouth would have been untrue, so I said nothing.

John studied me, interpreted my silence perfectly, because he said, “Exactly. You can decline to answer. But don’t lie.”

“All right. Then I’m pleading the fifth. With the rider that I had nothing—nothing—to do with Seamus’s murder. Also, I’m not having an affair.”

Why the hell hadn’t I said I’d been doing something related to another wedding gift for him? Something he couldn’t possibly verify. Something he might even believe? Something I could make true.

John considered, nodded. “All right. I’ll accept that for now.”

This was even worse than I thought. If at some point my actions this night became relevant, John was not going to be able—or willing—to lie for me. Feeling as he did, I did not want him to have to lie for me.

I was potentially putting him—and myself—in a terrible position.

That wasn’t the real worst, though. Even more painful was the obvious recalculation John’s emotions had gone through over the past ninety minutes. I could see it in his eyes. He did not see me the same way he had when we had retired for the night. He did not trust me. In fact, he viewed me as…not an enemy, exactly. No. An adversary. We were on opposing sides.

He was smiling, his gaze assessing, curious, but there was no kindness in him, no gentleness in him now. I still had his interest, so that was something.

What this last shank of the night needed was a redo. Failing that, John’s memory of the past few hours needed to be wiped. For both our sakes. For the sake of our marriage. He would be happier, and I would be happier.

And it would only be this one last time.

Truly, this would be the final time.

“Good.” I walked toward him. “Then can we please go back to bed? I’m beat.” I reached up, and he took me into his arms, kissing me with an unexpected, rough hunger.

Did he suspect I was having an affair? Not knowing the truth left him with a limited number of possible scenarios—and international jewel thief was probably not one of them.

I moaned, kissing him back—almost forgetting my true purpose for a second or two—my fingers sliding through his hair, thumbs coming to rest on his temples.

John raised his head, gazing darkly into my eyes, his lips moist from my kisses.

My mouth still tingled as I began the spell, “Forget what was, let’s start anew—”

“Nn-uh.” John grabbed my wrists, pushing me back a step. “No, you don’t. Not this time.”

What in the nine gates of hell…?

I was startled at this resistance—was I so out of practice, I was losing my powers? No way. When I’d needed them tonight, I’d been able to draw on them. I laughed, reached for him again, murmuring, “The recent past’s no good for you—”

I broke off in a yelp as he grabbed my left wrist, twisting my arm behind my back and momentarily immobilizing me in an excruciatingly painful wrist lock. Fast and efficient. I had no time to resist—had not even thought of resisting—before I was off-balance, gasping in pain, and in imminent risk of having my arm dislocated from my shoulder socket.

“Down boy,” John said.

“John.” I wheezed, “Let me go!”

“Stop struggling.”

“You’re hurting me.”

“And I’ll hurt you worse the next time you try the Vulcan Mind Meld on me. Or whatever that was supposed to be.”

I whimpered, let myself stumble against him, his grip eased a fraction, and I drove my right shoulder into his chest. The follow-through part of that move required that I knee him in his crotch, but I couldn’t bring myself to really hurt him, and anyway, he let go. I think that was his equal unwillingness to break my wrist as much as surprise at my resistance.

He was surprised, though, and I took advantage of it to jump out of reach.

I protested, “I wasn’t—”

“Don’t lie to me.”

I saw that he was not quite as controlled as I’d thought. Or as he wished.

“I wasn’t going to hurt you,” I cried. “I just wanted you to stop looking at me that way. Like you don’t—like I’m the enemy.” Things had gone from bad to incredibly worse in the space of seconds. How, how was he resisting my spells? I scrambled for an alternative anything I could use to fix this, in my desperation resorting to old magic from my collection of antique grimoires.

I pointed at him, reciting, “Irresistable ego ad te, nolo te resistentibus, id velim facias…”

Not elegant. Not subtle. But surely fail-safe.

I am irresistible to you, you have no wish to resist me, you will do whatever I wish.

John snorted. “Hard to resist, sure. Nobody is irresistible.”

That shut me up.

“You…speak Latin.”

“I spent twelve years in a Catholic boys’ school. I was an altar boy for three years. Yes, I have a rudimentary understanding of Latin.”

“I didn’t realize.”

He made an unamused sound. “I can see that.” He was cool again, watchful. “What is it? Some kind of hypnotism?”

Magic, spell-casting, witchcraft, none of these even occurred to him.

That was the good news, right?

I rubbed my wrist—there would be bruises there for sure—and tried to think.

It would be impossible to obey him regarding telling lies. The ability to lie well was as much a part of practicing the Craft as spell casting. It was a matter of safety. Of survival. Even if I wasn’t practicing myself, the secret of the Craft was not mine to share.

Which meant if John and I were going to stay together—a big if at this point—our life would be one lie after another. Suddenly I had no heart for that battle. Not because I had stopped loving him, stopped wanting to be with him, but because I loved him too much to keep up the fight.

I said calmly, “Probably. Equal parts suggestion and manipulating selective attention.”

“Why Latin?”

“English didn’t seem to be working.”

“Where did you learn it—the hypnotism?”

“My mother taught me.” No lie. The Duchess had taught me all my first and probably all the most essential spells in my arsenal.

I watched him process, both of us breathing fast, taking care to stay out of reach. He was silent and severe as he considered what to do. I was quite sure it would be unpleasant. I tried to remind myself: that which doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. It’s not one of the Ten Precepts. Just something I got off a Scholastic Book Club poster. It’s quite true, though.

John said finally, “That’s another no-no. No more tries at mind control.”

My mouth fell open. “Wait. You…”

“I?”

“Are you not… You’re not ending our engagement?”

“Do you want me to?”

Wordless, I shook my head.

“You’ve got some alarming bad habits, but assuming you’re not convicted of murder, my reasons for wanting to marry you hold. Like I said, I don’t think life with you will ever get boring.”

I could think of nothing to say.

John gave me a moment, and when it was obvious I had nothing useful to offer, said, “We’ve got a long day tomorrow. We both need to sleep. You won’t mind if I take the other guestroom tonight?”

I swallowed, said in a whisper, “No.”

He scrutinized me for another second, then turned and went upstairs.

I stood there, motionless, for a long time. Until the night began to lose color and Pye slunk through the kitchen pet door. He padded over to me, and I picked him up and cuddled him. He was purring, his earlier bad humor forgotten.

“Good hunting?”

I listened absently, watching the empty staircase, wondering, until Pye batted my face with his paw.

“Difficult to say. John thinks I’m either psychotic or a space alien. Possibly both. Someone has tried twice to kill me. I can’t find the grimoire. And tomorrow the movers are coming, and I have almost nothing packed.”

He meowed.

“Agreed,” I said bitterly. “Fuck it.” I couldn’t help adding, “For one night at least.”

 

 

I had not expected to do more than rest my eyes, but the next thing I knew, someone shook my shoulder. John said, “It’s seven. Aloha is here with the car. I’ll see you this evening.”

My eyes flew open. I sat up. “Wait. You’re leaving?”

John had moved to the foot of the bed. He was wearing the same navy-blue suit from the day before, and despite the fact that he had showered and shaved, he did not look like he’d had much sleep. “Of course.”

“But it’s Saturday.”

“If I’m going to be gone on my honeymoon for two weeks, it’s important I don’t leave a lot of things undone at police headquarters.”

“Right. Of course.” I was relieved that he seemed to believe we were still going on a honeymoon. And afraid that the real reason he was leaving for the office was he didn’t want to be around me. I threw back the covers and looked around for my robe—which was at my townhouse. “When will you be home?”

He watched me continue to search for…even I was no longer sure what.

“When I’ve finished everything I need to do,” he answered.

In other words, I’ll see you when I see you.

I said tentatively, “I can’t believe I fell asleep.”

“You were exhausted.” Statement of fact, not sympathy.

“Yes.” This was awful. We were struggling to make conversation. “Do you want me to meet the movers at your place, or—”

“No. Pat will liaison with the movers. You focus on getting your things here.”

Pat Anderson was John’s executive assistant. She was smart, capable, and pleasant. Plus, she looked a bit like Samantha Stevens from Bewitched, Season One, which made me warm to her the minute I met her.

“Right.”

“And if you could interview this prospective housekeeper Mother found, that would be helpful.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

He hesitated.

I said, “Tonight’s my enterrement de vie de garçon.” He looked blank. I corrected, “Stag party. Well, our version.”

“Right.” He frowned.

“Is it going to be a problem if I attend?”

“Do you know what your friends have planned?”

“Dinner and dancing at Misdirections. It’s just us. Just my wedding attendants. And Jinx.”

The frown stayed firmly in place. “I’d prefer you kept a low profile. We’ve had enough bad publicity to last our entire married life.”

My heart sank. But, after all, it was unlikely Andi, Bree, V., or Rex really cared whether we went out tonight or not. The main thing was to not further antagonize John.

“I’ll call Andi and tell her to cancel.”

He nodded, turned away—then turned back to me. He sighed. “No. You’re not a prisoner. You haven’t been found guilty of anything. You have a right to go out and celebrate with your friends.”

I felt ridiculously grateful for this show of trust. “Are you sure, John? Because if you think I should cancel, I will.”

“I’m sure. But be prepared for media scrutiny. Professional and unprofessional.”

Keep an eye out for cell-phone-armed YouTubers in addition to members of the press. Brace for unkind and unfair public commentary. That’s what he meant. I nodded unhappily.

“You’ll probably have reporters hanging around the house today. I’ll see that there are a couple of officers on-scene to make sure no one harasses you or finds a way to get into the backyard.”

“Thank you.”

He hesitated, then stepped forward and kissed me.

It was intended to be a quick kiss, a businesslike buss, but I wrapped my arms around his neck and kissed him back with all my heart.

 

This much is true.

I love you, I love you,

I. Love. You.

 

As spells went? Meh. And as poetry, even worse. But the absolute truth.

His mouth lingered, and I opened to him, murmuring welcome as his tongue pressed in. He tasted of coffee and toothpaste, not the sexiest of flavors, and yet the hot, instinctive push of his tongue against mine had my cock up and raring to go. His own pressed against the outline of his trousers.

“Don’t go,” I whispered. I didn’t mean to say it. Of course he had to go, and anyway, I wasn’t talking about physical proximity. Not really.

He drew back. His eyes were dark and, I thought, unhappy.

“I’ll see you tonight,” he said with a hint of unsteadiness. “Try to stay out of trouble.”

I nodded, unable to trust my voice.

He strode from the room without a backward glance. I heard his brisk footsteps fade down the hall.

Pye, curled in the window seat, meowed at me.

For once, I agreed.