Forbidden (28 page)

“Who is this Leo?” he demanded, his whole body bristling. “Is it a boyfriend? Unfortunately, I must tell you that most preexisting relationships deteriorate under the stress of the Blending.”

She blinked at him. “Leo helped raise me as a child,” she said softly.

“Oh.” He exhaled, seemingly a little easier. “So he’s … old.”

She smiled, unable to keep from filling the expression with mischief. “Old
er
. Not necessarily old. I love Leo very much. And he loves me. I could turn into Regan from
The Exorcist
and neither he nor my brother would ever stop loving me, so I am not worried about that in the least.”

“You say that,” he said a bit darkly, “and for your sake I hope it’s true, but I know human beings. We are not known for our flexibility.” He met her eyes steadily, and there it was. That splendid golden warmth. It was so beautiful, so otherworldly almost. Like a pair of fabulous little suns that had been captured and set there to burn her up with their heat. “So, when I touch you … if Ram isn’t present, you feel nothing?” he asked, trying to spin it off as idle curiosity.

“What does it matter? The odds you’ll ever be separate like this again are almost nil,” she pointed out, trying not to flush over the direct conversational topic. Not that she was a prude. Far from it. But with him, it just seemed deliciously naughty talking about it, and that sent a wriggle of awareness down her spine. “And it appeared to me that you and Ram have no interest in pursuing an attraction … so …” She shrugged.

“Just answer my question,” he said, leaning in closer
to her until their foreheads were just about touching. “You feel nothing when it’s just me in here?”

Unable to resist the impulse, Docia reached up and touched his jawline, running the tips of her fingers along the crispy start of whiskers. It made him appear a little more rugged, a little more Vincent, as opposed to the clean-cut handsomeness of Ram. It was the same face either way, but the attitude behind it, the aura of presence, made it seem like two different men. Just as it was. Although, in truth, she had never seen just Ram without Vincent, as she was seeing Vincent without Ram. She found herself curious to know what Ram would be like in such circumstances.

“I never said that,” she murmured. “Isn’t it a silly kind of question? Doesn’t that put you in competition with yourself? You’re both the same person in the end.”

“And yet you just said there’s a difference.”

“The difference is—”

“Food!”

SingSing plopped a tray of food on the coffee table just behind Vincent, the smack of it making Docia jump. She had just about forgotten the Djynn was there, though she couldn’t imagine why. SingSing had been bustling noisily about the kitchen the whole time.

Vincent moved back from Docia, turning to look at the tray. Truth was, there was no telling when either of them had last eaten, no knowing just how long they had been hanging there in the Templars’ Spanish church. It didn’t feel all that long … but the sudden leap of hunger overcoming her weariness made her feel as though she hadn’t eaten in days. And technically, that was very likely true. She had barely eaten at the hospital; the stress of the whole business of dying had put off her appetite. So now even a tray of cold meats and cheeses seemed like gourmet fare, and admittedly, SingSing had laid out the tray with an impressive flair for variety and
detail. She’d even cut a fanned-out strawberry for every glass of chocolate milk sitting there. SingSing scooped up a glass, flopped onto the couch next to Docia, and took a loud slurp of the milk.

“Ahh!” She smacked her lips for emphasis. “I suppose I ought to have made cocoa, with it being so cold and all. But I do so love cold chocolate milk, don’t you? It’s sweet and refreshing at the same time. Isn’t that great? And yet it looks like liquid poo. Go figure.”

Docia had been midsip from her own glass when that observation came out, and she immediately spit and sprayed the would-be swallow as a laugh bolted out of her. Unfortunately, Vincent was still kneeling in front of her.

“Oh! I’m so sorry!” she cried.

SingSing handed over a cloth napkin to Docia, then, humming happily, she reached for some cheese while Docia frantically blotted Vincent’s face. He eventually caught her hands together, took the napkin from her, and finished the job himself. His sigh seemed more pained than angry, but Docia was biting her lip anxiously.

“A word about Djynn,” he said dryly. “They don’t have much in the way of filters.”

“What for?” SingSing demanded. “It’s too much work tiptoeing around other people’s sensibilities.”

“Anything else you’d like to warn me about?” Docia asked him, touching the damp hair at his forehead, trying to arrange it in a way that made it look less as though he’d been spit on.

“Never. Ever. No matter what. Make a wish.” He nailed her with a serious expression. “Djynn are con artists. Wishes are only a way of getting them what they want. And it never turns out well for the wisher.”

“He has a point there,” SingSing agreed. “But decent Djynn, such as myself, won’t lure you with wishes or
any such nonsense. I’ve gone straight. Yep. That’s me. Straight and narrow. Up-and-up, for the most part.” She grinned. “A girl has to have some secrets.” SingSing sat up. “Say, you look beat. So am I. Nosh up, I’ll get some bedding and you both can camp out down here. Don’t have much in the way of blankets and pillows, so you’ll have to share. House is a little drafty, so snuggle up near the fireplace. Mattress!”

The Djynn snapped her fingers and a thick feather mattress plopped out of the rafters and onto the floor, unrolling itself in front of the fire and startling the heck out of Docia.

“Jeez!” She instinctively jumped toward Vincent, grabbing on to the yoke of his shoulders and practically sitting in his lap as she came off the couch. She was nearly strangling him by the time the pillows and blankets fell out of the sky and onto the bed.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you. Don’t worry, the other stuff stays up there unless I call for it.” SingSing yawned, oblivious to the two sets of eyes cautiously looking up at the rafters. There was nothing to be seen, just as there had been no mattress or blankets up there earlier. Wherever SingSing’s storage space was, it was invisible to their eyes.

“Other stuff?” Docia had to ask.

“Oh, you know … warm-weather clothing, holiday decorations, spare furniture …”

“Furniture?” Docia squeaked.

“A Jet Ski. Waterslide. A Bouncy Kingdom, you know, for when the kids visit. Trampoline, also for the kids. A camel. Coupla gondolas. I know, I know. Who needs two gondolas, right? It’s a long story … one was a gift from someone who
clearly
didn’t know me as well as they thought they did.” She rolled her eyes. “Anyway, buncha other stuff.” She stood up and yawned again, stretching with a limberness that would make a yogi
proud. “I’ll leave the tray, but I’m taking my milk.” She said it warningly, as if they might steal it from her given half a chance.

“Where are … ?”

“The dragonlets? In my hair, silly.” And right on cue, a lizard head popped out from betwixt her blond curls and stuck out a forked tongue, blowing a raspberry at them. “SutSut, be nice!” SingSing warned, putting two fingers on its head and stuffing it back into her hair.

“But there’s not enough room for all four of them to be— ,” she whispered to Vincent.

“Djynn have the power to alter spatial relations. She could fit a whole zoo in her hair if she wanted to.”

SingSing giggled. “Now that would be a little ridiculous.” She yawned again. “Welp. G’day, guys. Stay warm. Help yourself to the fridge. And … uh …” She pointed to Vincent sternly. “Make sure you tell her the part about never waking a Djynn. I won’t be held responsible for my actions.” She pointed back and forth between them, eyeballing each until she was satisfied they were taking her seriously. Then she was off with a flounce toward the loft. For the first time, Docia noticed there was no ladder … no stairs. But apparently that didn’t matter, as the Djynn turned into sparkly blue smoke midstep and rose into the loft area, disappearing into the darkness.

They both sat there, staring after her for a moment.

“Never wake a Djynn?” Docia whispered.

“Yeah. Pisses them off,” Vincent whispered back.

“I gathered.” Docia bit her lip. “So … there is such a thing as rubbing the lamp the wrong way?”

“Really? You had to go there?” he asked.

“I’m just saying.” She giggled.

Vincent was determined to make some headway with this whole “Ram makes me feel things you don’t” busi
ness. Well, okay, maybe she hadn’t actually said that, but she’d been on the verge of implying it. How was it different? How was it … less?

Oh hell, no. There was nothing that Ram had that Vincent didn’t have. Literally. And before Ram came raging back into the picture, Vincent was intent on proving that. He knew she was tired. He wanted her to rest, he really did. But time was of the essence in this particular case. He couldn’t exactly wait until dusk to gather empirical evidence that he was just as stimulating as Ram.

Luckily, SingSing had unwittingly provided means and opportunity. One mattress. One quilt. Two pillows. It was really very cozy. Very conducive to the matter at hand.

She was nibbling sleepily on bits from the tray, clearly torn between sleep and starvation. He moved to the kitchen and washed what remained of the chocolate milk from his face and hair, anticipating the stickiness if he did not. He’d been in his dinner dress clothes throughout their whole ordeal, and he shrugged out of his jacket, pulled off his tie, and reached to unbutton his cuffs. The cuff links held a fastener along the inside of his left sleeve. The fastener held the invisible knife he always kept secured there. The knife had been one of Ram’s gifts and his way out of the Suspension bindings. He grabbed hold of the knife, which only he could see and feel, and set it on the countertop. He would hide it under his pillow or sleep some other way with it within reach. This wasn’t the first occasion it had saved his life, and he had no doubt it wouldn’t be the last.

He began unbuttoning his shirt and narrowed his eyes on his target of the moment. It was funny, but somehow he kept forgetting she was injured … half-damaged. Somehow, when he looked at her, he never noticed the fading bruises and the butchered hair, never
even saw the stitching that was probably already superfluous. He always seemed to see just the soft pretty contours of her face, the teasing turn of her lips, or the mink-colored depths of her eyes. She had these little lashes surrounding them, the curve of them only adding to the adorableness of her. She was cute. Apparently, he liked cute. He didn’t use to. Not before Ram. He’d liked them tall and leggy and so gorgeous that other men would cry with envy … but quietly, so as not to piss him off. Once upon a time, he’d reeked of badass. He’d been an elite SEAL team member. He’d thought nothing could touch him.

He cleared his throat, kicking back the emotions and self-recrimination that still welled up when he thought about the past and what he had once been. He liked himself better now. He had redefined himself side by side with Ram, who had taught him how to be a far better man. A far better being.

And apparently better beings liked cute.

A lot. And much to Ram’s dismay. Vincent’s sometimes better half had been blindsided by this attraction, and everything about it had gone against his sense of loyalty and purpose, something Vincent had agreed with at the time. Loyalty was everything, after all. But that loyalty was Ram’s, not necessarily his. Perhaps that was splitting hairs, but in the end, his only connection to Menes was through Ram’s knowledge of him, and anyone’s perspective was skewed to some degree when it came to something or someone they felt passionately about. Of course, he had all the faith in the world in Ram. It wasn’t as though he could deceive him outright. But there were a lot of variables to be considered here, first and foremost that both Menes and Docia had been gifted with free will. Menes could decide to put off leaving the Ether as long as he wanted to … two years, twenty … two hundred. Nothing said he was defini
tively going to show up anytime soon except Ram’s belief in him and Menes’s steady track record thus far.

Oh. And Cleo. Cleo the prophetess who had sent him and Ram to Saugerties N.Y. because she had seen visions of Menes’s and Hatshepsut’s return.

Anyway, Docia had as much say in whom she liked or disliked as her Bodywalker did. Free will. The same free will Odjit had been trying to exploit, unfortunately. But, he told himself, this was hardly the same thing. This was just … this was just here and now. Not some anticipated future that they were all just guessing at.

Vincent shrugged out of his shirt, snapping the tails free of his pants and drawing her attention with the sound. He pretended not to notice, leaned over the sink a little, and splashed water over his neck and chest.
To
remove the remaining chocolate,
he thought firmly, definitely not to use the water to accentuate the naked musculature of said chest.

Nope. Not one bit.

He felt awkward inside for a moment. He hadn’t gone after a woman without his internal wingman in such a long time. For some reason, he found himself afraid of fucking it up. Maybe it was better to just leave it be. He should. Ram was going to pitch a fit when he came back and realized Vincent had been toying with his precious untouchable queen.

But she wasn’t the precious untouchable queen. Not right then. No more than he was Ram right then … for the most part. Rounded vowels or otherwise, he knew what Ram felt like, and if he really was there, he’d be kicking up a superior fuss. Wouldn’t he?

Docia looked up when Vincent made some kind of noise— and instantly regretted doing so. Or not. Or … yes. Well … the man was built like a freaking god, and he’d gone and taken off his shirt. She understood why: he was covered in milk and spit.
Her
fault, as usual. She
decided to let herself stare at his shining pectorals and remarkably delineated abs for a moment in the hope that she wouldn’t fall back into the growing feeling that all of this was her fault. From the bridge incident until now, she’d been stepping in shit again and again, and she had been dragging him into it as well. Sure, Ram seemed content to follow her into doom time and again, but she got the feeling that Vincent was not so eager. She wondered if the only reason he was still there was that he knew Ram would be back very soon and there would be no escaping his wrath if he let her escape his protection.