Page 13 of Paris and the Reaper

A place that smelled of wildflowers, wood, and fresh-baked bread—as far away from home as Portola had been.

Tearing his gaze from Mac’s, he planted a hand in the cushions and levered up to look around. A quilt-covered bed on the far wall, a half-eaten loaf on the kitchen table, a corner hearth blazing bright, a dusky green hue outside the windows. “We’re still in Calera?” he asked, swinging his gaze back to Mac. “At the cabin?”

Mac nodded. “About ten hours later, but yeah, still here.” He rocked onto his haunches beside the couch. “Where were you?”

“Portola.” Paris hauled himself the rest of the way up and raked a hand through his hair, pushing it back off his forehead. “I can’t believe I passed out like that. I’m sorry.”

He gently patted his biceps, bandaged beneath the hoodie’s sleeves. “You’re still recovering.”

Paris had removed the bandages on his forearms last night. Those wounds had mostly healed, but the deeper cuts in his biceps and thighs, the witches had warned, would take longer.

“And you got some big news this morning,” Mac added.

“That you delivered, after I don’t even want to know how long a night.”

“It’s not a competition, Paris.” He stood and made his way to the kitchen. Out of the jeans and sweater and dressed in slacks and a dress shirt, barefoot and with his sleeves rolled up, he looked a hundred times more comfortable than he had in more casual clothes. “Coffee or tea?”

“Tea,” Paris answered. “The olallieberry one, please.” Mac threw a dark-eyed glare over his shoulder, and it took everythingin Paris not to flip him the bird. Bird, heh. He settled for sass instead. “Don’t judge. Andyouoffered it.”

“Only to be polite.” One corner of his mouth twitched, fighting a smile, before he turned back to the kettle. “I’ll let it slide since you make good bread.”

Paris’s insides warmed at the compliment, at the idea he’d been able to give Mac some comfort too. But it wasn’t all his doing. “The starter for it was the witches’, and your brother kneaded it, then babysat it while I slept,” Paris said, as he pushed off the couch and headed toward the bathroom. “They deserve some of the credit.”

A quick leak and bandage check later, Paris reemerged to two steaming mugs, bread and butter, and Mac waiting for him at the table. Also on the table was a stack of file folders Paris didn’t remember from that morning. And come to think of it, those slacks and shirt Mac was wearing had not been in the stack Liam had put in the bin outside. “Did you go out when I was asleep?”

“Briefly. I met an associate at the motel down by the coast. She had some wheels and other supplies for us and the coven.”

Paris peeked out the front window, to check out said wheels—a nondescript sedan—and to hide his grin that threatened, more of that earlier warmth intensifying and spreading out to his limbs. Mac had trusted him not to run.

“Where were you in Portola, in your dream?”

His grin died as he turned back to the table and slid into the other chair. “You don’t need to worry about those.” The last thing he wanted was to burden Mac with more concerns—he had enough on his plate already—and especially for what would amount to nothing. “Like I said before, it’s just me processing.”

“I’m not sure it is.” Coffee in hand, Mac leaned back in his chair, legs crossed, and repeated his earlier question. “Where were you in Portola?”

“The university.”

And straightened in his seat.

“That’s relevant?” Paris asked.

“Maybe. The monster from last week was there?”

Paris fought off his shiver with another sip of hot tea. “He was after a vampire.”

“Icarus?”

Paris shook his head. “It wasn’t him or any of my other clients. I didn’t recognize him.”

“Can you describe him for me?”

Knowing Mac was a cop, Paris recognized the interrogation for what it was, but if he hadn’t known, he might not have made the connection, Mac gently drawing the answers out of him. More like a conversation between friends, but the raven never let a question go, circling back for the answer he needed. Paris would bet he was good with suspects and also with families of missing victims.

“He’d been turned at about my age. Midtwenties. Average height, slimmer build, dark brown skin, short, clipped hair, blue eyes, freckles over the bridge of his nose.” Paris’s gaze drifted out the window, summoning up the dream for anything else he’d noticed. “He knew he was being watched. And he didn’t care. He was more concerned with getting out of there.”

“Why do you say that?”

“He wasn’t hiding what he was as he crossed the oval. It was full of people, and he was gliding too smoothly and not breathing.”

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