He sighed, took his feet down from the sill, and rose fluidly. He shed his wet jacket, hanging it over the back of the cheap orange chair, and stepped over to the bed.
Sophie flinched, but he was faster, catching her face in his hands. His fingers were gentle, but she froze, feeling the strength running through them.
And the claws. She’d seen the claws. Her brain stuttered, turned this over, and gave up, shoving the memory away as an Unpleasant Thing.
He tilted her face up, examined it in the light of the bedside lamp. His eyes were so dark, and he looked worried—for once, his mouth drawn tight and the shadow of stubble on his cheeks contributing, the line between his eyebrows having the final say.
“You’re triggered. It means your potential’s been actualized, and you’ve been set as a Carcajou shaman. As our shaman.” He said it gently, though it didn’t mean a damn thing to her. “Right now you’re seeing the spirits. The food will help, but you need to sleep. Your body’ll finish changing while you sleep. I’ll stand guard, make sure nothing gets to you. You just rest, and everything will be fine. Trust me. If you can.”
Jesus. He’s serious. She tried to pull away, but his hands were far too strong. “Let go.” She sounded very tired, even to herself. “Why are you doing this to me?”
She expected him to be angry, but no hint of it crossed his face. Instead, he grinned, and the expression did wonders for his eyes. When he softened, he was handsomer. “What, saving your life? Maybe I like you.”
What? She stared blankly at him.
“Maybe I like you a whole lot. Maybe I bumped into you and thought you smelled really good.” A small shrug, his smile turning one-sided, a corner of his mouth lifting even further. “Maybe I like the way you walk, and I like your cute little librarian look. And maybe, just maybe, I like you, not just the fact that you’re a shaman. How ’bout that for reasons?”
Vast, numbing incomprehension settled over her. None of this made any sense.
“For right now,” he continued, “you need to rest. Not just any sleep, but shaman-sleep. I’ll keep watch. When you wake up we’ll feed you again, and we’ll figure out what to do next. I’m all for finding out why the upir are so hot to put you six feet under, if we can do it without you getting hurt.”
He let go of her face, but didn’t leave her be. Instead, he slid her jacket off her shoulders like she was a little kid, tossed it aside, and half pushed, half guided her down to lie on the bed. He eased her shoes off, and the feeling was so wonderful she could have cried. He even, carefully and awkwardly, slid her glasses off, folded them up, and put them on the rickety little table next to the twin bed. “I’ve been handling you all wrong.” The tone was soft, soothing. Like when Mark was in his rare happy moods, the ones that reminded her of why she’d married him in the first place. “I’m going to do better. But for right now, close your eyes and take a deep breath.”
She didn’t want to close her eyes. If she did, the gauzy faces might come closer, and if they touched her, she wasn’t sure what she’d do. Go mad, maybe, if she wasn’t already insane from all this. “There’re faces. In the mist.” I sound about five years old. Exhaustion weighed on her arms and legs.
He leaned down, brushed her hair back from her forehead, trailed his fingertips over her cheek. It was an oddly intimate touch, and should have made her blush. “They won’t hurt you. I promise. Just trust me, and close your eyes.”
I don’t trust you. You kidnapped me twice. But the thought was very far away. Her eyelids were heavy, and he kept stroking her forehead. Her eyes closed without any conscious direction on her part, and the last thing she felt before slipping into complete darkness was one fingertip, calloused and warm, trailing down her cheek to touch her half-parted lips.
“Just sleep, shaman,” he said. “I’ll take care of everything else. No more worries for you.”
“Let’s have a talk,” Mark said, pleasantly.
Sophie’s mouth went dry. She stood in the kitchen, sunlight pouring through the bay window with its neat collection of green herbs in pots. The dish towels on the rack were carefully folded, and she had dried every plate twice before putting it away. She frantically reviewed everything she’d done today—if she could anticipate and apologize, he might take it easy on her.
Mark ran his hand back through his blond hair, the shark-charming smile showing his pearly whites. Everything about him was expensive, from the blue button-down to the immaculately pressed designer jeans; he was barefoot, his pedicure resting against the granite tiles he’d had installed the summer he almost broke her wrist and did break her rib. The same summer he’d almost drowned her. The granite had been his grand gesture—as if she wanted stone growing around the room where she spent most her time.
“Are you listening, Sophie?”
“Yes.” She searched for the right answer, backing up in the angle between the corner sink and the counter to its left. The back door was eight feet away, and the kitchen island was between them. The copper-bottomed pans glowed, hung on a rack overhead.
Sometimes, even in the middle of the night, they would rattle and buzz, rubbing against one another like they were alive. Mark never heard them.
“I’m a little worried. Your friend Lucy called last night. She left a message on the voicemail.” He paused. The sun gilded him, turned him into a statue, and he was wearing that most dangerous of smiles, the friendly one. Other people thought Mark was charismatic, but that smile always chilled Sophie’s skin, sending a prickle of alarm down her back. His blue eyes were calm, thoughtful, and just a little bit amused. “She seemed to think you were having coffee with her on Wednesday.”
Of course she was, Wednesday was always her coffee day with Lucy. She was getting closer and closer to blurting something out, though; each time they met and the bruises twinged, she would tell herself to keep her mouth shut. It wasn’t that bad, she would repeat to herself, over and over. Millions of women dealt with worse. And the house was so beautiful, and Mark was so rich—what right did she have to complain?
She said nothing. It was the safest course right now.
“I think your time would probably be better spent volunteering. I’ve spoken to Delia Armitage at the Child Relief Fund, and she said they’d be glad to have you. You’ll start Wednesday, 3:00 to 5:00 p.m. I don’t think I need to tell you to dress appropriately, do I?”
“No.” The word escaped her, a breathless refusal.
“No, what?”
“No, Mark. Of course not.” But that wasn’t what she meant.
She meant, No, I’m not going to put up with one of your mother’s old-biddy friends who’s always checking my clothes and reminding me you married beneath you. She meant, No, Lucy is my friend, my last friend, and you’re not going to take her away from me.
Mark heard what he wanted to hear. “That’s settled, then. Good girl.” But his eyes were the same, bright and paralyzing. “I don’t think Lucy’s a proper friend, Sophie. She seems a little…déclassé, if you know what I mean. You’re flying with the eagles now, you shouldn’t spend time with the sparrows.”
Another one of his goddamn clichés. “Yes, Mark.”
He slid around the corner of the kitchen island, and the copper-bottomed pans rattled warningly. They were polished each week by the maid service, and the sound of them striking one another was a rattlesnake’s mouthless speaking.