Storm in a Teacup (36 page)

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Getting ready for bed takes up too little time.

Mason's still not home when I crawl beneath the cool sheets and tug the duvet up to my chin. His side of the bed draws my attention, and I roll on my side, cuddling an extra pillow against my chest. My raw silk pajamas feel good against my skin. The tiny nubs of uneven fabric are a nice reminder that even silk isn't always soft.

Fuck. What am I going to do?

For a suspended moment that hovers in my mind like a bubble about to burst, I don't know what I mean. About Mason, about the Mediators, about Gryfflet, about Alice — I don't know which problems I can tackle.
 

I feel tired. My fingers grasp the edge of the pillow, and I try to close my eyes.
 

It's not a matter of being worn out. I'm worn down. Weary.

Three days, Ben and Ripper said. Three days until something happens. Until the Mediators decide to try and kill every hybrid creature in Nashville? Until the shades wipe out an entire branch of the Summit? Until the only group I've ever identified with turns its back on me forever?

The chill that sweeps over me has nothing to do with the blast of air conditioning or coolness of the sheets that's slowly warming to the heat of my body. If I'm not a Mediator, what am I?

Dead, a helpful part of my brain supplies.

It's right. Stupid brain.

Only the sudden weight on the mattress tells me I've fallen asleep. Mason.

I feel his warmth before I even hear his breathing. "Mason?"

His hand finds mine. "I'm here."

"What time is it?"

"Just after four."

It will be getting light soon, though you wouldn't know it. My room has no windows.
 

My life is a continual circus of "I don't knows" lately. There's just one thing warm and solid that I do know, and he's right beside me.
 

I roll closer to Mason, listening to the even rise and fall of his breathing. I could tell him about what I learned tonight, about Gryfflet's visit, about how his people and mine are set to collide in three days time.

Instead I wiggle under his arm and lay my cheek against his collarbone. The flutter of his pulse in his throat grows minutely faster, like a hummingbird about to go from hover to flight.

He holds his right hand just above my shoulder for several seconds, as if he's making a decision. Maybe he is. When his palm touches my bare shoulder, I realize it's one of the first times he's intentionally touched any part of me aside from my hand.

His fingers are dry and hot in the artificially cold air. They trace fiery lines down the strap of my camisole and back up, never moving outside of a hand's width radius.

My breathing matches his.
 

Moments pass with the rise and fall of his chest and mine, the soft movement of his hand on my shoulder.

I reach out and place my hand on his chest.

His breathing halts, then begins again after two heartbeats. He rolls toward me, his hand tracing the line of my neck up to my cheek. Even in the darkness, I can see the outline of his face. I mirror his movement, placing my hand on his cheek. He never has stubble, never shaves. I always thought I preferred beards.

I lift my chin and find his lips.

A little jolt goes through me when I kiss him. His lips are full and smooth, but for one long, aching moment, they don't respond.

Only for a moment.

His fingers tangle in my hair, pushing it back from my face. He kisses me back, his thumb caressing my cheekbone.

Again I follow his lead, stroking his hair. It's thick and wavy, soft without being downy. Mason pulls me up against him. He's warm and hard against my hip. I feel him through the shorts he's wearing and the thin silk of my pajamas. I want to touch him, explore this body that has lain next to me for so many nights.

My fingers dance down his ribcage, seeking a path lower. I slip my hand under the hem of his shorts and pause. It's a question, and he answers by sliding his own hand under my camisole.

The silk skims over my skin as he lifts me from the bed with one hand to pull it over my head. The air in my room chills my flesh, but his hands follow in the fabric's absence, brushing over my shoulders.

Mason lowers his mouth to mine once more, and his tongue touches my lips. I kiss him back. The sensation of him deepening the kiss sends warmth through me. I press my body closer to him.

My bared breasts touch his chest. I want to be closer still.

He does too. He pulls back, and I immediately regret the lack of him, of his heat, his body. The hushed slide of cotton greets my ears before his fingers return to my body.

They start at my breasts, cupping them in his palms and lingering as if making a promise to return. His hands roam down the sides of my stomach, and his fingertips tug lightly at the hem of my pants. Just once, asking the same question I asked of him.

I reach out and touch his face.

I say one word.

"Yes."

I lie in the cradle of Mason's arms.
 

Perspiration dries in the breeze of the air conditioning, and I pull myself closer into his chest.

His lips touch the center of my forehead.

"I've never felt that before." His voice is hushed in the early morning dimness.

I crane my head to look up at him. I hadn't thought he'd had any...experience. Though he could have fooled me. Gentle, tender, but assertive.

"What do you mean?" I'm probably stupid to ask for clarification on that one.

"Intimacy."

Clear as mud. "You mean sex?"

"I mean intimacy." He smiles against my hair, then goes still. "Unless that was just sex to you."

We've each had each other's lives hanging around our necks since we met. I don't know how much more intimate people can get. "That was far beyond 'just sex.'"
 

I think back to that first night, me terrified and him no less so, holding hands in the dark and hoping to wake up when the light returned to the world. In some ways, I've never trusted anyone as much as I trust Mason. Either of us could have killed the other. We feared one another. And put our trust in the right place.

Bully for us.

"I won't let anything happen to you." The words leave my mouth with a quiet finality.
 

If the Mediators can't understand that shades have free will, they'll sure as hells never understand why I'd be sleeping with one of them. Not only is he a half-human, half-demon hybrid, but he's technically only a few months old.

And that condom better have worked.
 

I don't even know if I can get pregnant — a lot of Mediators can't — but I don't want to find out by busting a button two weeks from now because a quarter-demon munchkin is growing so fast.

"You won't get pregnant."

My hand's settled on my own belly, a subconscious gesture. Mason places his on top of mine and moves it upward.
 

"How do you know?"

"Demons are like donkeys. Norms are like horses. Different species. They can procreate, but their offspring..."

"Are you saying you're a mule?" I hope he's right. Gods, please let him be right.
 

Mason chuckles. "For this purpose, yes."

I ponder that. "In that case, I still have a couple hours before I have to be at work."

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

I get to work to find Laura sitting at Alice's desk, staring at the black of the computer screen she hasn't bothered to turn on.

She looks up when I push open the office door.
 

"You never called yesterday. Did you find Alice?"

"Only her phone."

Laura pushes the rolling chair back from the desk. "You didn't call the police? You just went home and did whatever you people do?"

"I couldn't call the police. They wouldn't be of any help." I hate the cryptic words the second they're out of my mouth. Laura's just concerned, and I'm not helping.

"Why?"

"Think hard if you really want to hear the answer to that." Demon's spawning hybrids off human volunteers — not something you want to hear standing up. Or sitting down, in Laura's case. Not something you want to hear at all.

Laura knows what I do. She knows what Mediators do. It's why they can call her and put her in her place when she threatens to fire me. There's a fear that runs through the human populace — and extends to the witches and morphs — that's like an underground river. You can't see it from the surface, but moments like now when I'm watching Laura's face as she tries to make a decision, you see a glimmer of anxious water.

It's an ancient fear. The fear of being eaten. The fear of monsters that can get you. And in our world, they're real.

I'm the one who keeps them at bay.

In some ways, the next thing to come out of her mouth is the bravest thing I've seen a human do.

"Tell me."

So I do.

I don't sugarcoat anything or leave anything unsaid. If Laura wants to know the truth, she's going to get the truth. I show her the photos and tell her about the shades.
 

"They can walk in the sunlight?" Raised hairs run up and down Laura's arms. I can see them from where I stand five feet away. "Why aren't you hunting them?"

I think of Mason's arms around me in the morning sunshine.

"It's not that simple." What I'm about to tell her would get me in trouble with the Mediators even if they weren't already about to censure me. "They may be half demon, but they retain parts of their human sides as well."

"Like the way they look?"

I nod. "And free will."

"Demons don't have free will?"

It's easy to forget that norms don't get the same education we do. When I consider the eighty-three full cubbies at Hazel Lottie's house, I wonder if that ought to change. Maybe it wouldn't be so easy to find willing rent-a-hosts (well, rent-to-own) if humans were taught like we are that demons are just evil.

"Demons are creatures of the hells. When the sun sets, they have access to our world. The mini-demons, imps and such, can come out in the sun sometimes, but they don't like to, and you almost never see them. I think by creating the shades, they were trying to gain access to our world during the day."

"Then their plan worked." Laura's face is tight, her brown skin stretched across her skull like my words have taken the sides of her cheeks and pulled them taut.
 

"Not really. They didn't count on their offspring having a choice."

"A choice of what?"

"Whether to be evil or not."

"But they're still dangerous."

"Yes." They are definitely that. "The shades didn't have a choice in this. They didn't ask to be born. They can feel guilt. Shame. Pain. I may not want any more to come into being, but the ones who are here deserve to make that choice for themselves. If they choose the bad route, they can deal with the pointy end of my sword, but I'm not going to kill creatures who don't want to harm anyone."

"Do you think Alice is dead?"

"Not yet. But she will be soon if she really was used for this."

"How are you going to find her?"

"I don't know."

The door to the office opens, and both of us turn to look. It's the postman. He hands me two packages and a stack of envelopes.
 

I flip through the envelopes and hand them to Laura, who sniffs and tosses them on the desk. I can't blame her. The first package is printable mailing labels.

The second is from Hazel Lottie.

My fingers dent the cardboard.

It's a standard mailer, a flat rate box. Innocuous.

I know what's in it without opening it. The cardboard tab feels stale between my thumb and forefinger. I pull it across the box. A bubble wrapped packet falls to the floor.
 

The metal of the disc glints in the fluorescents of the office.

"What is that?"

Alice's death certificate. Or mine. Something that invites demons to an all-you-can-splat buffet. A ticking time bomb. An unholy hand grenade. Pick one.

I can't tell Laura any of those things, but she looks at the disc and bends down to pick it up.