Page 50 of Sore Throat, Slight Fever

Effie lets out a puff of indistinct sound, shaking her head from side to side. Water flings off her, spraying Calliope in the face. She laughs, wiping at her eyes. “Do you remember what I told you about the location spell?”

Effie bumps Calliope’s shoulder with her nose and lowers her head, neck arched. Calliope plucks threestrands of hair from Effie’s mane, then leans her forehead against the solid mass of the horse. Rory’s grip is even tighter. “Thank you for trusting me,” she whispers.

Effie lowers herself back into the lake with a surprising amount of grace, her slip beneath the water nearly silent.

“That was…” Rory finally loosens his grip. He runs his hand through his hair.

“Beautiful?” supplies Calliope.

“Terrifying. One bite, Calliope, and you’d be dead.”

“She won’t bite me though. We’re helping—”

“You think the Fae give a damn if you’re helping them?” He’s standing on the step just above her, and with his height, he towers over her. “They’re not noble creatures. They’ll flip on anyone in a heartbeat.”

“I don’t think—”

“Fuck, Calliope. You can’t—”

“Excuse me?” Her voice is low and steady, and it steals whatever he had been about to say. She moves up, so that they are on the same step. His gray eyes look dark, stormy. Her eyes feel like bright, hardened gemstones. “You saved my life and I will concede to you in all things vampire, but that doesn’t give you the right to tell me what to do. I am an adult. A person. Not an animal to be commanded.” She can feel the Ether at her back, supporting her, rallying for her. Her fingers are slick with frost. Even Hun has perked up, fur on edge. “I have stayed here at your behest and Iwill continue to stay here until we help Effie. It would behoove you to remember that there is nothing else keeping me from leaving. You should not presume upon my obedience.”

A lie, her heart immediately reminds her. There is something else keeping her. There are two things, in fact, though one has only just begun to take root inside of her. Even as she stands in front of Rory, now, supported by anger and indignation, she feels the tendril of a moonflower vine still treading its way through the soil of her Mind’s Eye.

But what’s really keeping her at Graeme House, of course, is the relative safety it offers, both from the prying questions of law enforcement and the sulfurous magic of her husband’s trade. She knows, with a certainty she feels inside of her bones, that he is still alive. And he’s not one to let go of his witch so easily.

Rory’s jaw clenches and unclenches. She wonders what he’s thinking, what he sees when he looks at her. A foolishly young vampire? A witch with magic crackling at her fingertips? More like, he sees something in between. A weak halfling with a permanent fever.

The look in his eyes has gone dark, and then a split second later, they are soft. Open. It’s like she can see into his mind, for a brief moment, and what she sees spurns that moonflower to continue on its journey.

He nods, the movement stiff—curt, but not reluctant. Respectful. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.” In the full light of the afternoon, he looks even moretired, the shadows etched in thick smudges beneath his eyes. She can see the worried lines around his mouth, too, the ones that are usually hidden by poor lighting and the stubble that graces his chin. A gentle breeze lifts a shock of gray hair that’s fallen against his forehead.

Her lack of reply grows heavy between them and his frown deepens. She wills herself to speak, but her chest is tight with something she isn’t sure she’s brave enough to say out loud just yet.

He drops his head to his chest; it’s a subtle declaration, but it hits her like a knight kneeling before his lady. “Forgive me?”

The steely anger inside of her finally breaks apart. She brushes the lock of hair out of his eyes, her touch bringing his gaze up to meet hers. “Of course,” she says. Her fingers ghost over the rough stubble on his jaw. “Always,” she adds, so softly, it might have just been the wind.

24

When Lightning Strikes

Calliope

They leave for Lyon’s Cross the next morning. Kane is adamant that he should stay behind to keep an eye on things, but as they’re driving away, Rory tells her that it’s more to do with the fact that he gets carsick and doesn’t want to admit it.

The car rocks along the highway, creaks of protest from its chassis even as the asphalt becomes a smooth black snake in front of them. Calliope leans back, closing her eyes against the early morning sun, already simmering with August heat. Her grandma used to tell her that August heat is different from July or even June heat. It’s heavier for one, having been gathering for weeks by the time August rolls around. It seems to press down and sizzle with something wild and fierce. Soon, it will become too heavy, and the air will crackapart like glass, as summer bows down to autumn.

Even with her eyes closed, she can tell that Rory keeps glancing nervously at her, as the sun streams in through the passenger side window, leaving a triangle of shade on her left arm. His quick glances stop when they turn off the main highway and begin to cut southeast across the state, heading for the Louisiana border along the coast. Tall pine trees line either side of the road, keeping the full force of the sun at bay.

Rory fiddles with the radio when the station cuts out with static. He finds a classical music station with frantic violins and a soprano that Calliope assumes is singing about love. The car smells of the same spicy, heady scent of the cigarettes that Rory likes to smoke.

She keeps her eyes closed, oranges and purples swirling on the inside of her eyelids as they speed by trees and billboards and strings of electric wires. Her mind is burning with the worry that something will go wrong in Lyon’s Cross. What if her husband is there, searching for her? What if a client of his is there and recognizes her? The worries roil about in her stomach. She hopes she doesn’t throw up the blood she drank this morning.

What if someone cuts themselves? Or maybe, she’ll lose control all on her own, blackout and sink her teeth into someone’s neck because they stood too close to her. The memory of Officer Burton’s skin against her teeth is still buried deep—or at least, she hopes so. She has the sudden, urgent need to be sure.

The AC in the car blows cold, mildewy air in her face as she slips into her Mind’s Eye, the booming timpani drums scrunching their way out of the car speakers replaced by bird song. Her forest stretches beyond her. Golden light trickles down from the canopy overhead, sinking into the leaves and the soft, damp soil under her feet.

She works on being present in both: the car and her Mind’s Eye. A stabbing pain develops in her right temple, but after a few minutes of effort, she can still hear the creak of the car, the high whirring sound as it barrels through space, tires scraping against the roadway, and yet, her consciousness is perceiving the forest in her mind.

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