“My number’s in there. Maeve’s too, I think, and Shamus’.” He yawned.
I could feel his exhaustion wash through me. Okay, maybe there was a downside to this Soul Complement thing.
“How about coffee?” I said.
He rolled his shoulders, nodded, then wandered into the living room. I poured coffee for both of us and took a second to assess myself. I still felt like me, just me. But with Zayvion so near, I did have an awareness of him, of his exhaustion. Maybe with practice I’d be able to have a stronger awareness, feel his emotions and mental state like when we were wearing those cuffs during the hunt.
Or maybe he would always be just a faint echo in me. Maybe that’s all a Soul Complement added up to.
Yeah, I doubted that.
The water in the bathroom had stopped turning on and off.
I found Zayvion slouched on the couch. He had kicked off his shoes and stretched his legs out, propping them up, but not on the coffee table. I walked around the couch and saw Zay’s stockinged feet resting on Stone. Zayvion rubbed his feet over Stone’s back. Stone looked up at me and crooned contentedly, stretching to angle his shoulder for a better scratch.
I sat next to Zay, handed him the coffee.
“Want a pet rock? Give him to you cheap.”
Zayvion smiled. “Oh, no. He’s all yours.” He stopped rubbing Stone and took a drink.
Stone belly crawled so that he was positioned on the floor between both Zay and me, and looked up at me expectantly. I kicked off my shoes and propped my feet on his shoulder, scuffing my toes against him.
Stone clacked and crooned, a happy little rock.
Zayvion exhaled and closed his eyes. He pressed the coffee cup against his chest. Hells, he was tired.
I drank my coffee, savoring the moment. Yes, there was a gargoyle at my feet, and yes, my boyfriend was mixed up with magic and people who were more dangerous than I’d ever known, and now I was mixed up in it too. And yes, my dead father was still in my head, growing stronger. Even with all that, this was the most normal and right my life had felt in a long, long time.
“They haven’t found out what Greyson knows yet,” he said softly. Zay had been quiet so long, I thought he had fallen asleep.
“Why?”
“He won’t talk, and we can’t make sense of what’s going on in his head. Yet. He’ll come around. We’ll get it out of him. Jingo Jingo has taken over, and he’s good at this kind of thing.”
Yeah, so good that he told me my dead dad was not in my head.
“I don’t trust Jingo Jingo,” I said.
Zay nodded. “I know. You don’t trust anyone. That’s why I like you.”
“Is that the only reason?”
“Not at all.” He still had his eyes closed, but he smiled.
“How’s Chase?” I asked. Even though I should be angry as hell at her, I mostly just felt sorry for her. For the chance she and Greyson never got.
“Looking.” He opened his eyes, took another drink of coffee. “For clues of who did this to him. She’s pretty sure your dad was behind it.”
“So she and I are like this?” I crossed my fingers.
“More like just the middle finger,” he said.
“This becoming a part of the Authority thing,” I said. “Pretty complicated stuff.”
“Smooth as glass here on out,” he said.
“Really? Gonna promise me that?”
He shifted his cup into his other hand, and turned so he could better face me, his right arm long enough to drape across the back of the couch.
“Maybe. What will it cost me if I’m wrong?” He smiled, and those warm brown eyes didn’t look quite as tired as they had a minute before.
He was a beautiful man. Not just on the outside. There was a strength in him that drew me in like a cat to sunlight, a calm in him that made me believe things might somehow work out if we both kept working on it. I mean, we’d done some good already. Gone on a real date, caught a Necromorph, gotten most of Cody safely into Nola’s care, helped a Hound who was being used, and oh yes, closed down the gates of death and made me an official member of the Authority. Not bad for a couple days’ work together.
“You have to admit I beat you,” I said. “Knocked you to the mat with magic.”
Zayvion sparked at the challenge in my voice. He grinned. “And if I see it differently?”
Instead of answering, I leaned forward and kissed him. I took my time, lingered over the reality of him, here, warm, alive. He tasted of coffee, smelled of pine. And felt like home.
“How about we negotiate the price later?”
“Think we’ll have time?” he asked.
“I think we’ll make the time.”
He smiled, took my hand. And I walked him into my bedroom, intending to make it very clear to him that we had all the time we needed.
Read on for an exciting excerpt from
Devon Monk’s next Allie Beckstrom novel,
MAGIC ON THE STORM
Coming in May 2010 from Roc
T
wo months of self-defense, mixed martial arts, and weapons training did not make it hurt any less when I was thrown over my opponent’s shoulder and slammed into the ground.
Yes, I should have tucked and rolled. Would have too if he hadn’t kept hold of my arm and twisted at just the right instant to knock me off balance and make me sprawl like a dead jumper waiting for my chalk outline.
“Give up?” he asked.
My right wrist still locked in his grip, I stretched out my left hand and grabbed his ankle, used the leverage to pull my right arm down, and twisted. I broke his hold on my wrist, rolled up onto my feet. I got off the mat and out of arm’s reach quickly.
“I’ll take that as a no, then?” Zayvion Jones asked. He was a little sweaty, a lot relaxed, standing halfway across the mat from me. Barefoot, he had on a pair of jeans that, if there were any justice in the world, would not let him flex and move and stretch the way he did in a fight, and a nice black T-shirt that defined the muscles of his chest, his thick, powerful arms, and flat, hard stomach.
He was every kind of good-looking in the dictionary.
“Take it as a hell no,” I said sweetly.
That got a grin out of him, his teeth a flash of white against his dark skin, his thick lips open enough that I suddenly wanted to drop this whole I-kill-you/you-kill-me act and kiss the man.
Instead, I rolled my shoulder to make sure my arm was still in its socket—Zayvion Jones played for keeps—and tried to come up with a game plan to tip the fight to my advantage.
My shoulder sore but still attached and functioning, I stepped back out onto the mat.
I could use magic on him. It might be worth ending up in bed with a fever just to take Mr. Superpowerful Guardian-of-the-Gates down a notch during a practice match.
“Is there a particular way you’d like to end up on the floor this time?” he asked as he shifted his stance and waited for me to attack. “Or do you just want me to surprise you?”
“Gee, if I get a choice, how about if I end up on top this time?” I gave him that slow blink-smile combination that always got him into bed.
He licked his lips, and a flash of uncertainty narrowed his eyes. “I thought you said you wanted to fight.”
I strolled up to him and paused—out of arm’s reach. I’m not dumb. “I thought you were asking me how I wanted this to end.”
Zay studied me, his brown eyes just brown, no hint of the gold that using magic always sparked there. As far as I could tell, he hadn’t been using magic for the past couple months. Ever since my test to see whether I could become a part of the Authority, and the craziness with the gate between life and death opening right in the middle of the test room, things had been quiet.
Things were actually pretty good. I liked that. Liked not having to worry whether I’d survive the day. And it wasn’t just my life that was better for the downtime. Over the last several weeks I’d watched Zayvion change from a somber, tightly controlled, dutiful man, to someone a little surprised he was enjoying life.
Time off from his duties with the Authority looked good on him. Sexy.
“I wasn’t talking about ending this,” he said, and it took me a minute to remember what we were talking about. Oh yeah, the fight. “But we can call it a day. Since you’re surrendering and admitting you lost. Again.”
Light poured in through the windows, casting warm coffee-colored shadows beneath his high cheekbones and jaw. His hair was always short, but he’d recently buzzed his dark curls, which somehow only enhanced his beautiful eyes and strong, wide nose. The look of worry that I only occasionally glimpsed through his Zen mask had been absent for weeks. He smiled more. Laughed more.
And it made me realize how hard I’d fallen for him. I didn’t want what we’d had for the last few weeks to change or disappear. But I’d lost too many people in my life—and too many memories along the way—for me to think things would always be this easy between us. The idea of losing him made it hard to breathe.
I tried to push that fear away, but it clung like a bad dream.
“Allie?” Zay was no longer smiling. “Are you hurt? Your shoulder?” He came closer and put his wide, warm palm on my shoulder.
That touch gave me the faintest hint at what he was feeling: concern that he’d torn my arm out on that last flip, which, yes, he could have, but no, he hadn’t. I wasn’t that fragile.
And that reminded me of what this little get-together was all about. Fighting. Training. Becoming strong enough to hold my own against anyone. Even the legendary Zayvion Jones.
I knew I shouldn’t have done it. But hey, a girl has to take what opportunities present themselves, right? I had my game plan.
I stepped into him and turned my hip, sweeping his foot out from under him. He went down, rolled, but I was there, got in close, getting his arm back, my arm through it, and the other over his throat.
“Give,” I said. We were in close contact, but I was too busy staying on the winning side of the tussle to have brain cells left to concentrate on what he might be thinking.
“No,” he grunted.
Even though I am a tall woman, Zay still had me on sheer muscle. He flexed and managed to break my hold, twisting over onto his back, his legs scissoring to catch mine.
No way I would’ve let him do that.
I followed him, using his momentum to roll over him, and then behind. I huffed out air, got to my knees, and tried to keep his arm pinned.
He shifted, rolled. I ended up kneeling with him beneath me. Boo-ya! I was on top.
I had one knee planted beside him and the opposite foot braced on the other side. I decided to forget about his arm; I wrapped my hands around his throat, knuckles at his windpipe.
He pressed his palms flat against my hip bones and tilted his hands inward so his fingers stroked upward beneath my T-shirt.
I raised an eyebrow.“You do notice I’m choking you. . . .” I squeezed a little harder in case he thought I was kidding around.
He grunted.
I most certainly was not kidding around.
He shifted his grip. Tried to pull me down and rolled one hip to throw me. No chance. I braced my heel to stay out of the roll and pressed harder.
“Mercy,” he whispered.
I relaxed my grip. “Say that I win.”
“I win,” he managed.
I tucked my thumbs against his windpipe. “What? You win? Is that what you said? I must not have heard you correctly.”
“Draw,” he whispered.
“Oh, sweet hells, Jones. You have got to be the most stubborn man I know. You lost.”
“I agree,” he said.
Huh. I hadn’t expected him to give in that easily. I pulled my hands away, rested them against his chest.
“I am the most stubborn man you know,” he rubbed at his throat with one hand. Grinned at me.
I smacked his other arm. “My honor’s at stake here. You lost. I won. If you can’t admit that, I’m not sure our relationship will survive.”
He snorted, grabbed my shirt, and pulled me full on top of him. His fist, in the valley between my breasts, was a hard pressure between us.
“Nothing’s going to get in the way of our relationship.” His gaze searched my own, and the slightest fleck of gold sparked there. “So long as we want this, nothing can stand in our way.”
Damn. Could the man get any more romantic?
I tipped my head down and caught his lips with my own, soft, thick, hungry. He instantly responded, then licked gently at my mouth until I opened for him. He tasted of deep, warm mint, and his pine scent, peppered by sweat, carried the memory of the countless times we had touched, loved.
It had been two months, and it still felt as if I couldn’t get enough of him.