Page 52 of Sore Throat, Slight Fever

She is unrooted, upturned. Refusing to move at all hasn’t worked, so she goes back to her first approach. She does the opposite again.

She is now standing in front of him, so close her fingers brush against him. It’s accidental at first, slightly startling because even though her eyes are open, her consciousness is focused on her mental construct. She’s not sure why she does it, but she lingers, fingertips seeking the coolness of his body, trailing along the smooth muscles of his arms. She’s so warm compared to him that she wonders why he hasn’t melted from her touch, like an ice cube in the sun. A chocolate bar left in a pocket. A snowflake kissing her cheek. She blinks and his visage is overlaid on her thought-structure likea half-exposed photograph.

He reaches up and his palm connects with her cheek. Her body is summer. August. A flame burning under her skin. His fingers drift downward, against the side of her neck, and she feels him take a step forward, his body pressed against her. So cold. Unyielding. January’s frost. “Take a step backward.”

She can smell the spark of magic in his voice, and she is so distracted by the overwhelming scent of vetiver and clove—of the closeness of him and the shock of desire that comes with his proximity—that she finds herself giving into the strange pull in her muscles that doesn’t come from her, but his voice, like the curse in her blood, wiping her mental construct away as strongly as a fire in a real forest.

She calls up her mental construct as quickly as possible, but her foot is still midair when the forest flickers back into her consciousness, and she begins to fall backward. Rory grabs her quickly, but instead of simply breaking her out of the compulsion, she accidentally pulls him into her Mind’s Eye with her.

* * *

Rory looks up and blinks, turning around in a slow circle. A rudely disturbed Hun rises and bares her teeth at the intruder. Rory jumps, hands clenched into fists as he warily watches the large wolf-like animal.

Calliope stands in between them, hands raised. “It’s okay,” she says hurriedly. “It’s just my hunger.” She turns and reaches out to Hun, smoothing down her ears and scratching at her neck. “It’s okay, Hun,” she tells the beast, glancing up at Rory. “Rory is a friend. He’s allowed here.”

Hun sniffs in Rory’s direction and then bumps Calliope’s cheek with her nose before settling back down into her nook between two large tree roots.

Even after Hun closes her eyes and seems to forget the intruder, Rory stays tense, fists clenched at his side. “Your…hunger…?” He seems to have forgotten how to speak. He looks around at the tall trees, the lush growth with an unreadable expression.

She suddenly feels entirely self-conscious. This is the metaphysical manifestation of who she is. What if he doesn’t like it? The thought causes a sudden eruption of mushrooms at their feet. Rory stumbles backward, eyes wide. She picks a deliberate path through the mushrooms, holding her skirt high so she can see where she’s stepping. She reaches toward him—

The horn from a truck jars them out of her Mind’s Eye, and they are back on the roadside, a belated hot puff of air blowing past them as cars zip down the interstate.

“That was…” Rory takes a step back. He runs a hand through his hair, pushing it away from his face only to have it fall across his forehead again. Her fingers itch to brush it away, but she doesn’t dare move closer until she knows what he’s going to say. She cansee the emotions morphing behind his eyes, and she isn’t sure which one will rise to surface.

“That was…,” he begins again. He takes a step closer. “Incredible. That wasn’t—wasn’t me slipping into your mind. You pulled me in, all of me. Or my consciousness or whatever.” He takes another excited step closer, lowering his voice. “How did you do that?”

“I don’t know,” she says, shakily. She feels queasy, dizzy. She leans forward until her forehead is against his chest, letting the coolness of him soothe the pain pulsing behind her eyes. His hands tangle in her hair, then he presses his fingers against the back of her neck. She lets out a small appreciative sound as he gently massages her shoulders.

“Touch makes compulsion stronger,” he says. She can feel the words rumbling through his rib cage “It might take a bit more practice before you can fight that off. It’s probably not the best defense though, pulling someone into your head with you.”

“Right.” Her voice is muffled against his shirt. She looks up. “I didn’t mean to. Pull you in with me, that is.”

“It’s my fault.” He glides his hands up and down her arms, as if trying to warm her up, but instead, he’s trying to cool her down. The act is so strangely intimate that it has the opposite effect. Her body seems to burn hotter.

“I pushed you too hard,” he continues, wetting his lips as he looks at her, his gaze tracking a path acrossher cheeks, down the length of her neck. “Thank you for letting me be there. For trusting me. For telling your…Hunger that I’m welcome.”

She still feels shaky, and she nods, eyelids flickering with fatigue. Her throat is on fire and her legs feel wobbly, boneless even.

“You need to sit,” he murmurs, leading her back to the car.

She stumbles slightly, but leans against the firm, solid length of him. She slides awkwardly into the car, letting her head fall back against the headrest, eyes half-lidded watching a blurry Rory walk around to the driver’s side. He slides into the seat, and she hears the clink of keys, the engine roaring into life.

She slides into her Mind’s Eye, to examine the patch of burned ground, still smoking from Rory’s mental attack. The acrid smell of smoke lingers in the air. Hun nudges her hand, and she absent scratches behind the creature’s ear as she kicks some dirt over the scorched patch of earth.

25

Lyon’s Cross

Rory

The twin lion sculptures are placed on either side of the dirt road. The base of the sculptures are choked with tangled jasmine vines, but are otherwise nondescript. Just two roadside oddities—until the Oldsmobile speeds past the twin lions and over the town line into Lyon’s Cross. The wrought iron gates that mark the entrance appear just beyond the sculptures, and, unlike Rory’s previous trip to Lyon’s Cross, they are closed.

“This is new,” he says with a frown.

They come to a complete stop, the engine idling. A uniformed guard is leaning against one of the gates, and he pushes himself up as they approach. He walks casually toward the newcomers, hand on the gun at his hip. Rory can tell that the guard is avampire from the smell of the smoke and slight metallic tinge of him even through the window. His skin is pale, his shoulders broad. He walks forward with a slow authority, the sort of casualness that only comes from knowing power and having the confidence to abuse it. Rory tenses.

Up close, the guard looks bored as he smiles tightly at them, revealing pointed canines and incisors. Rory recognizes the fang arrangement; it’s caused by a rare strain of vampirism. Rory was once friends with the source of that strain, considered her family—until he staked her husband.Fuck, he thinks. If his former sister-in-law is here, in Lyon’s Cross…then she has a stake with his name on it, and he highly doubts she would spare Calliope. He tightens his grip on the steering wheel, calculating the risks of just slamming on the gas and breezing past the guard. Could the car make it through the gate? Maybe, but he hesitates to announce their arrival to the insular magical community in such a way. Maybe Aisling isn’t here. Maybe this is just one of her lackeys, cut loose from her conclave for some minor indiscretion? It wouldn’t be the first time.

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