Page 25 of Paris and the Reaper

“If he doesn’t outlive me.”

“He can’t give it up?”

“He can. Our parents did. But he won’t.”

Paris wasn’t sure that was quite right. Not with the regret and duty that colored so much of Mac’s aura. “Or he doesn’t know how.”

Liam hummed in reply, contemplating it seemed. His silence stretched on so long that Paris assumed he’d fallen asleep, until the couch cushions squeaked again sometime later, Liam rising to stoke the fire. “Is he okay?”

“He’s exhausted—and exhausting,” Paris said with a smile as he tinkered with the almost leaf-like collection of freckles behind the giant’s ear. “But I don’t think he knows any other way to be.” Liam’s answering laugh was warm and affectionate. “Am I wrong?”

“You’re not, but he’s different with you. Since you.”

“If I can use that to make him sleep, then let’s count it a win.”

“It’s going to get tougher,” Liam said as he stood beside Paris in front of the wall. “Especially with the Rift anniversary in a few days. I need you—weneed you—to keep helping him. He letsyou, more than he lets any of us.” The urgency in his voice made Paris pause mid-brushstroke and glance in his direction. And was nearly blinded by the pure indigo aura that radiated out of him. “Keep making him sleep. Make him talk too, when he needs that. Too many people, too many souls depend on him.”

Paris nodded, for all their sakes and his own, because if the tugging in his chest today each time he dove into a vision, each time Mac came and went between the planes was any indication, Paris’s soul depended on Mac too.

FOURTEEN

Paris surrenderedhis brush at sunrise, every detail he could muster about the giant out of his head and onto the wall. Mind and body tired, all he wanted to do was shut his eyes and forget the world for a while. He stoked the fire, made sure Liam’s blankets were snug around him on the couch, then crawled into bed with a relieved sigh.

Only for worry to spike when Mac’s shivers rippled across the mattress. Not as severe as earlier, and for a good long while there, he’d slept peacefully, but Paris didn’t like that the tremors were back. He considered more covers, but all of them in the cabin were already in use, and he sure as hell wasn’t going for a walk in the morning cold to fetch one from the witches. Taking the only action left to him, Paris scooted closer and spooned the taller man from behind. Mac didn’t wake, didn’t even move but for the tremors that continued to ripple through his body. Paris held him close and distracted himself from the mounting worry by counting Liam’s snores from across the room. Fifty-six later, Mac’s shivers finally subsided, his breaths evening out again, and before Paris reached sixty, he nodded off himself, forehead pressed against the soft fabric between Mac’s shoulder blades.

When he woke sometime later, Paris detected no snores, no voices, and no keystrokes, just the sizzling crackle of a waning fire. Opening his eyes, Paris let them adjust to the dim lighting, the late afternoon sun cutting across the cabin. And catching the note on the pillow beside his. Unfolding it, he recognized Mac’s handwriting from his case files.Thank you, it read.We’re needed in YB. Coven is here for anything you need. Back soon. —M

Two days later, Paris was raring for an argument over the definition of soon, if soon ever came to pass. There’d been no sign of Mac or Liam, no word from any of Paris’s own contacts in YB, and no calls that the witches told him about during their lessons or over the dinner Paris made for them last night. While Paris appreciated Mac’s trust in leaving him out here alone, while he appreciated the peace and protection of this forest by the sea, not knowing what was going on outside it, not knowing if he could help like he had on the ridge, was driving him crazy. The only things that kept him sane, that kept him from hot-wiring one of the witch’s cars like Jason had taught him, were his paints and the unwavering connection he shared with Mac. Mac was out there, doing what his team needed, and the last thing he needed was Paris distracting him. He’d all but resigned himself to not seeing Mac or Liam until after the Rift anniversary tomorrow, so when tires crunched over the gravel outside, he nearly dropped his paintbrush.

Righting his grip on the brush, he flipped it so the pointy end was at the ready. Mac had told him only friendlies could get through the witches’ protections and the crows in the trees. He wasn’t expecting any witchy visitors, so... He moved to peek out the window, but before he reached it, the door swung open, Mac’s tall, rangy frame stepping through, his face shadowed by the setting sun outside.

Paris opened his mouth to have that argument aboutsoon, but then the light shifted and Mac’s face came into full view. His tan skin was pale, dark circles underlined his eyes, and his hair was a tousled mess. Add the slumped shoulders under his wrinkled shirt and the tie hanging loose around his neck, and Paris didn’t want to know the last time Mac had slept. In his arms two days ago, if Paris had to guess. At least he wasn’t shivering this time. In any event, he was here now, and Paris needed to get him fed and to bed.

“How about some potato fennel soup and cheese sandwiches?”

“That sounds great.”

“Go take a shower while I get it ready.”

Mac didn’t argue, just grabbed fresh clothes from the pile Paris had cleaned and headed for the bathroom. By the time he reappeared, Paris had bowls of soup on the table and was cutting the hearth-grilled sandwiches in half.

And nearly sawed his finger in half too.

Barefoot and hair wet, Mac crossed the room in his low-slung pants and unbuttoned dress shirt, more of that long, lean body on display than Paris had ever seen. And more striking than he’d ever dreamed. He took a moment to appreciate the rosy warmth the shower had returned to his skin, then took a longer few moments to appreciate Mac’s broad shoulders and solid chest, abs that were toned but not overly ripped, the sprinkling of dark curls on his torso and the thicker line of dark hairs that trailed beneath his waistband.

Paris’s mouth went dry, the inevitable supernova finally crashing into him and his dick responding in kind, hardening inside his sweats. Thank fuck he was standing behind a counter where Mac couldn’t see.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t send word,” the raven said, and Paris struggled to focus on his words and not the tempting figure hecut in the firelight. “I meant to make it back last night, but then one of the names on your list flipped, and he led us to one of your father’s stash houses.”

Mention of Vincent quelled Paris’s libido, for now. He finished slicing the sandwiches without injury and carried the plates to the table. “What does that mean?” he asked as he and Mac took their seats.

“Money, weapons, magical beings he used as power sources.”

“Alive?”

He stirred his soup, a faraway look flitting across his dark eyes. “Some.”

“But not as bad as the ridge?” Paris said, if he was reading the reaper’s vitals correctly. “You weren’t shivering when you came in.”

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