Sam leaned against the counter and folded his arms. “Quinn’s sick.”
Marley halted halfway through stacking dishes on the counter. “Oh.”
Riley got the implication right away. “From the power she’s holding?”
“That’s what Nick says.” He abruptly unfolded his arms and turned to run water in the sink, squirting a stream of dish soap into it. “Anyway, whatever Anson’s up to, I want to get to the bottom of it before any of you get hurt.”
Marley handed Riley a towel and dumped a handful of silverware into the hot, soapy water. “We also need to bring you up to speed,” she told Riley. “The more you know about what you’re capable of, the better you can defend yourself. So let’s talk about your options.”
They discussed them while they did the dishes and cleaned the rest of the kitchen. There weren’t many. Most young goddesses had mothers and other relatives to help guide them, so their mentorship program was limited, and no other goddesses currently used metal. Classes on history and culture as well as safety and security weren’t scheduled for months, and Riley had her doubts they’d provide anything immediately helpful, anyway. But she found Marley’s stories interesting, and she was full of small details about the world Riley had just entered.
“I’m sorry,” Marley said after Sam had excused himself and carried his laptop into a bedroom. “This probably isn’t what Sam led you to expect.”
“Are you kidding? This is more than I’ve had in nearly three years. Knowing why goes a long way toward restoring my sanity.” She did a final swipe over the damp counter with a paper towel and nodded at Marley’s offer of coffee. “I really appreciate everything you’re doing.”
Marley stuck a single-serve cup into the coffeemaker and added water to the reservoir. “I should be thanking you. You listened to my story without judgment, and you haven’t made an excuse to run out of here. Why?”
“Why would I judge you?” Riley chose a hazelnut-flavored cup from the rotating stand on the counter. “It wasn’t like you were being malicious. You were in love.”
Marley laughed. “Maybe it’s because you’re so young. Most people think I should have known better.”
For the first time in a long time, Riley had a sense of friendship with someone. So she didn’t protest the “young” comment. It wasn’t like Marley, in her early thirties, was old by any means, but Riley didn’t feel what a normal twenty-three probably felt like. Even if she hadn’t gone goddess, losing her family forced her to grow up in a hurry. Being stalked, having all the important things in her life taken away from her, and struggling to survive on her own for the past six months also gave her a less superficial perspective on life.
Then again, none of that experience was in romance. Maybe she did have a more naïve viewpoint about being in love. At the thought, she couldn’t help but glance at the closed door hiding Sam from her.
They finished fixing their coffees and went back to the living room, where Marley talked as if she’d been alone for a decade. She asked Riley questions about her family and her life since they died, and in turn Riley learned all about the political structure of the Society, how much most people disliked Jeannine, the current president, and missed Barbara, the former president who’d all but disappeared into her townhouse, rumored to be in her last days.
“It’s sad, but she’s really old, so no one is really surprised.”
Marley also talked about the inn she owned in Maine as well as her family, about how her parents had Quinn too young and gave her up for adoption, and how they hadn’t met until Marley was thirty and even then only because Anson had targeted Quinn as his next victim. That was also how Marley met Sam, who was working for Quinn at the time, wink-wink-nudge-nudge, but Quinn was in love with her protector, Nick, and now they were together.
It was clear Marley was conflicted about her newfound family. She spoke about Quinn with respect, but Riley detected an undercurrent of a deeper despair or something equally painful, and she thought that was probably because of the power Quinn held, some of which used to be Marley’s.
Riley reeled from the bombardment of information and couldn’t help dwelling on the part about Quinn and Sam. The woman was apparently a hero, willing to make sacrifices for the people she cared about and even the greater community. Sometimes people like that were actually assholes, but what if she was as cool a person as she sounded? That was the last woman Sam had been involved with? Talk about a tough act to follow.
Marley cracked a yawn and uncurled herself from the sofa. “You’ve got to be wiped, after the long day you’ve had. Come on, I’ll show you where everything is.”
Once Riley was settled in bed a short time later, tired as she was, she couldn’t sleep. The caffeine could be a culprit, but that was minor compared to everything she’d learned today. And she kept thinking about Sam and how preoccupied he’d been since his meeting with John. He’d been especially uncomfortable whenever Marley talked about Quinn. How sick was she?
She rolled over and punched the pillow into a fluffier ball. Her eyes wouldn’t close, and her mind kept rolling things over in a big loop. The clock on the nightstand ticked over to midnight.
This was nuts. Lying here staring at glowing red numbers was not resting. She needed her mother’s vanilla milk. That always worked when she was a kid and fretting about a test or just off her normal sleep cycle. The memory made her wish she were back there, when her biggest worry was not getting an A in geometry and she had no clue what was in store for her.
Would there be any vanilla in the kitchen? It wasn’t a typical staple, and this apartment was meant for temporary living. But it did keep forever. Maybe someone had made cookies or something and left a bottle.
She threw off the covers and quietly opened her door. The place was dark except for a faint glow from a bathroom nightlight, and silence came from the other two bedrooms. Either Sam didn’t snore, or he wasn’t sleeping very deeply himself.
Three steps took her to the kitchen area. She snapped on the light over the stove and started checking cupboards, being careful not to the let the doors bang closed. Bingo! A small bottle of artificial vanilla extract sat next to a few spices and disposable salt and pepper shakers. Riley grinned and set it on the counter. “Please let there be milk,” she whispered as she opened the fridge. Yes. A half-full quart sat on the nearly empty top shelf. She grabbed it and turned.
And almost slammed into Sam’s chest. She gasped and leaped back, her free hand slapping to her chest in a classic gesture of shock.
“Jesus Christ, Sam!” she whispered fiercely. “What the hell?”
“Sorry.” His voice was a low rumble, perfect for the intimacy of late night and darkness. He took the milk from her and closed the fridge door. “Couldn’t sleep, huh?”
She made some kind of sound of agreement but couldn’t manage more than that because Sam was wearing those sweats again and nothing else. And he was close, the narrow space between the stove and the breakfast bar behind them seeming so much smaller than when the three of them were doing dishes. Probably because then he’d been wearing a shirt. With long sleeves. Now she could see every groove of every curving muscle in his arms, the wide, hard expanse of his chest, and when he turned away to get a saucepan from a bottom cupboard, the amazing strength in his back and shoulders. Just enough of his heat reached her to make her aware of the chill in the apartment and imagine him folding her into his long arms, warming her head to toe.