He wasn’t going to offer her comfort, and she wasn’t sure she wanted it. She wasn’t sure she’d let him come near her.
She wasn’t sure she wouldn’t.
She did not get the opportunity to find out, because he nodded, then disappeared like smoke.
Mae walked a few unsteady steps and collapsed on her bed, her shaking hand going up and finding the spot on her collarbone where his mouth had been, where his mark was now. She could feel something there, a difference in the quality of her skin, as if it was newly healed from a wound or the lingering scar from a burn.
She couldn’t look in the mirror, didn’t want to see either the mark or her own face. She wondered what in God’s name she had done.
17
Playing and Losing
The next morning Mae was still not sure what she had done, but she was sure she couldn’t change it. She settled on being intensely thankful it was Saturday and went down to the kitchen for a pot of coffee. One cup wasn’t going to cut it.
She met Jamie on the stairs, looking pale and woebegone, and she clutched the neck of her robe closed instead of reaching for him.
He reached for her instead, his hand cupping her elbow.
“You’re right, I’m an idiot,” he said against her cheek.
“I’m always right,” Mae told him, instead of telling him that the idiocy seemed to be genetic. She gave him a kiss, lips barely brushing the edge of his jaw, and said, “How are you feeling?”
“So, so bad,” Jamie confessed, and then the doorbell rang.
Mae opened the door and found Seb on the doorstep.
“So, so much worse,” Jamie said, his voice floating down from the top of the stairs.
“Hey,” said Mae, ignoring her drunkard brother and hoping that Seb liked the just-rolled-out-of-bed look, since she was more concerned with finding coffee than a hairbrush.
“Hey,” said Seb. “How’s Jamie doing?”
“How are you doing, Jamie?” Mae asked in pointed tones, which subtly indicated that Seb was being very polite and Jamie had better acknowledge that or face sisterly retribution.
“Oh God, Mae,” Jamie said in a hollow voice, descending the stairs. “I will never drink again. I’m only seeing in black and white. My arms feel all floppy, like flightless wings. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and I looked like a very sad penguin.”
Seb made a sound that was almost a laugh.
“You know what,” Jamie said to him. “I’m having a bad day. So if you don’t mind, I was thinking that today I would pretend you don’t exist.”
“There is no use even trying to have a civil conversation with you!” Seb said, his voice rising.
Jamie winced. “You’re very loud for someone who doesn’t exist.”
Mae gave him a look. “You’re very rude to guests in our home, Jamie. I suggest you try being nicer, and as you may recall, I’m always right.”
The bargain was pretty much laid on the table. Give Seb a chance, and Mae would forget about Jamie doubting her. Jamie’s mouth quirked appreciatively, and he shrugged.
“I’ll do a deal with you, McFarlane,” he said. “You can exist. And you can even have coffee. But if you raise your voice or make any sudden movements, I shall die. And that’ll show you.”
Seb shrugged in return, hiding how pleased he was pretty badly. “Fair enough.”
Mae turned away and toward coffee, hiding a smile. She’d been pretty sure her bargain would work. She’d told Seb as much last night: Jamie just wasn’t very good at being angry. He lost his grip on it somehow.
That definitely wasn’t genetic.
“You again?” Seb asked, his voice suddenly harsh.
Mae spun on the kitchen steps, hand going involuntarily up to the neck of her robe again, as if she was some shamed Victorian maiden. Nick was on the step, not looking at her or even bothering to acknowledge Seb’s existence.
“You ready?” he asked Jamie.
“Ready?” Jamie echoed. “Yes, yes, I am ready. I am ready to drink a lot of liquids and lie on the sofa moaning faintly all day long. That is what I am ready for. I cannot engage in physical activity of any sort or my head will fall right off. Is that what you want, Nick? Because if so, I find that hurtful.”
“You’ll feel better when you start running.”
Nick looked wound too tight. Mae wondered why he had even come here, and then it occurred to her that it was just possible he wanted Jamie—that he was disturbed by what had happened last night, and in search of company and comfort. Demons weren’t supposed to need those things, but Nick had been wrapped in watchful love for fifteen years, been the audience to what Daniel Ryves had described as Alan’s “years-long one-way conversation” until he had finally started talking back.
Now there was something badly wrong between him and his brother, and he’d chosen Jamie, with the same warmth and the same ridiculous sense of humor and capacity to talk for hours, and he was coming to get him.
Or possibly torturing Jamie cheered Nick up.
