Madhouse (Cal Leandros, #3)(20)

That was true enough … as far as it went. But with his face still the color of clay, there was obviously further to go on the subject. "Niko said it wasn't that bad," I said, oddly irritated, although I wasn't sure if it was at my brother for not being right or at Robin for proving him wrong. Not that I was worried.

Ah, shit.

I shot a brief look at the door and escape … escape from concern and emotional entanglement. Applying these things to others outside of Niko was still new and scary as hell to me. I didn't know if I even knew how to do it.

But, in the end, that was nothing but piss-poor cowardice. Goodfellow, who'd saved my life at least twice, deserved better. I looked away from the door, shoved hands in jean pockets, and scowled. "Something's wrong. Tell me." And quick before I bolted.

"It's nothing." He closed his eyes and laced his fingers across the mound of covers.

"If it's nothing, then tell me, goddamn it," I demanded, "before I kick your horny ass."

He cracked an eye. "Can you feel my waves of unadulterated terror from there? I'm doing my best to suppress them, but I fear I'm wholly unsuccessful."

"Fine." I gave him the finger and headed for the door, making my escape. "Screw you."

He sighed and untangled his hands to push up to a more upright position. "Wait."

I already had one hand on the doorknob, brass and cold, and I could've kept going. An object in motion tends to remain in motion. It's physics, that's all. It can't be cowardice or the easy way out if it's physics, right? I let myself believe that for several seconds before I dropped my hand to my side and turned, exhaling, "Damn it."

"I do have that effect on many, many people. And I'm not used to any of them wasting worry on me. I've not built up a habit of gracious acceptance." He gave a tired grin. "Although in all other aspects of etiquette, I am without parallel. The Don Juan of decorum."

"Yeah, right, and I'm not worried. Just…gathering all the facts," I said with obstinate wariness. "Now give them to me already."

He did. It was poison. The sirrush was venomous with toxic claws and fangs. It could be fatal, but pucks were extremely resistant to poison, so for Robin it was only painful and slowed recovery by a few days. Now, there were some nice mutated super-genes for you. What'd I get? Super-smelling. No wonder I didn't have my own comic book.

"And it's a rare excuse to have Seraglio mother me and to catch a glimpse down her polyester shirt at the Promised Land. That's worth a little pain." He reached for a half-empty glass of wine on the nightstand and added smugly, "I told her I was injured saving a nun from being mugged. There were orphans involved as well. I'm quite the hero."

"I'll bet." Seraglio was far too sharp to swallow that, I knew, but it was possible she had a soft spot for her employer. "You're okay, then? A few days in bed and you'll be annoying the hell out of us as usual?" The relief was sharp. This whole having a friend thing, damn, it was work.

"It's my calling in life, and, yes, I will." After draining the glass, he rolled it between his hands. "Now that you're done not worrying, shall we hug? Isn't that what one does in emotionally fraught situations as this? I'll keep my hands above the belt. I am still mooning after your brother after all. Blonds, they always break my heart."

He seemed ridiculously pleased with himself, grinning despite the lines of pain creasing his forehead. I strongly considered grabbing handfuls of sheet and blanket and yanking his ass onto the floor, but that was before I figured it out. Robin had said it himself: He wasn't used to people worrying about him. Concern—I wasn't in the habit of giving it and he wasn't accustomed to receiving it. He wanted to be, though. That was plain to see in the grin, the humor-lightened eyes, and the quirk of eyebrows under wildly curly bed hair.

"I'm not hugging you. So shut up. Jesus." But I did stay and filled him in about Ham and how he was going to investigate the homeless situation for us. Naturally, it wasn't the homeless theory that he concentrated on.

"A musician," he said with interest. "Wild and willing groupies, how can one go wrong?"

"About that …" I was sprawled in a chair by the window. "Remember what we talked about before George was taken?" It seemed forever and it seemed like only yesterday. And wasn't that a trick? "About me not passing on the family name?"

The Auphe might not have a family name—I'd never bothered to ask—but they did have genes. They'd given them to me, but that's where it stopped. I wasn't taking a chance of making any more like me … or worse than me. And worse than me was definitely a possibility. It was one reason George and I weren't for each other. Robin had given me the usual options—rubbers, the big snip—but I didn't have the faith in them that I had in the Auphe will to be born.

"I remember." He leaned toward me. "Don't tell me. You're finally casting aside celibacy and embracing the nasty, oily arts. Thank the Minotaur's massive member. It's about thrice-damned time."

Facing down a sirrush was nothing compared to the level of predatory attention now aimed my way. "Hold up. I don't want orgies or sadomasochistic role-playing weirdness," I said cautiously. "I just want to get laid, pure and simple. Being half Auphe doesn't mean I want to spend my whole life not getting any." No one with a dick, working or not, wanted that. And I was twenty. You could make little blue pills out of what was running through me. I wanted George more than I'd ever wanted anyone, but I couldn't have her. Maybe, though, I could have someone else, even if they meant so much less. And if anyone knew someone it would be impossible for a human-Auphe hybrid to reproduce with, it would be Goodfellow.