Indigo(19)

She glanced back down the hall where the shadows stretched from the corners, urging her to join them.

Don’t bring him into this, they seemed to be saying. Don’t take the chance. Come to us. We’ll get you home. We’ll take care of you.

It was over. The Children of Phonos were done in New York. Eventually others would come and try to reestablish the chapter here, but for now—for a while, at least—they were done. Dead. No more black magic. No more human fucking sacrifices.

It was a win, right?

Sure as hell didn’t feel like one.

She looked back at Sam.

He was moving toward her, his face drawn tight with worry. “Nora, hey. Seriously, are you okay?”

“I…” She exhaled. “Long day. And I really am sorry I stood you up. I shouldn’t have just turned up like this.”

“No, you absolutely should have.” He steered her toward his apartment. “You look like you were out chasing a story. Did something happen?”

Did something happen. She bit through her cheek not to laugh. No, not much, really. I found a boy about to be sacrificed. I couldn’t save him. I tried, but I couldn’t. Then Indigo killed …

Indigo killed? No, Nora killed. She was Indigo, and as much as she might like to blame the events of the day on some separate part of her, she couldn’t start down that path or else she’d never stop, and every terrible thing she did as Indigo would be justified. Because it wasn’t really her.

Except that it was her. It was always her.

And it was justified, wasn’t it? When she thought of those people, and what they tried to do—what they would’ve done again—she knew she’d done the right thing. So why did she feel sick every time she thought about it?

Because you’re weak.

She tensed at that, startled by the venom in the words—and wondering where, exactly, they’d come from.

“Nora?” Sam said.

She’d barely been aware of his ushering her inside his apartment, and now she blinked, looking around at the living room. Numb and confused, she lowered herself onto the sofa. Sam disappeared and returned with a bottle of red wine in one hand and a fifth of Scotch in the other.

He hefted the wine. “It’s left over from the last time you were here. I’m not sure if it’s still good or…” He shrugged. “I’m not really a wine guy.”

He wasn’t really a Scotch guy either, as evidenced by the faint layer of dust on the bottle. It’d probably been a gift.

Beer was more Sam’s style, and he didn’t drink much of that either—but he knew it wasn’t her thing, so he’d dug up these alternatives. He’d done a good job. It settled her nerves a little, the comfort of the familiar, of being with someone who knew her.

Even though she hardly knew herself anymore.

She pointed at the Scotch.

“On the rocks, right?”

She stretched her memory and recalled that they’d once had Scotch at a party, and, yes, she’d taken it on the rocks. He’d remembered a distant, onetime event. God, he really was too good for her. “Please,” she begged.

He disappeared to get some ice, and she made herself comfortable. Just breathe in and out. She was safe now.

Only home is safe.

She ignored the inner warning. It was time to relax with someone she knew, someone from her “real” life. She needed to be Nora again and forget the priestess’s words.

“You … your mother … if it’d happened right the first time…”

She shook her head sharply and murmured, “That’s not forgetting.”

“Hmm?” Sam said as he came in with the glasses.

“Muttering to myself. First sign of old age.”

He handed her the glass and plopped down beside her on the couch. “More like the first sign of a really long day. You want to talk about it?”

She shook her head and sipped the Scotch.

He didn’t press. He knew she wasn’t the type who’d say no but only to be polite when she really wanted him to drag it out of her. Nora didn’t play those games. Except tonight …

Tonight wasn’t about “being polite” and not wanting to burden him. Tonight she desperately did want to talk, to pour it all out and work through it with someone, and the someone most likely to understand was sitting right beside her, waiting.

No. She couldn’t do that. She could never do that.

She gulped the Scotch, not even realizing what she’d done until the burn hit and she sputtered.

He laughed, then quickly sobered. “Whatever happened … if it’s that bad … I don’t want to push, but…”

She drained the last few drops. “Then don’t. Let’s talk about something else.”

“I can do that, too.” His arm slipped around her shoulders … carefully, in case it wasn’t welcome. But when she collapsed against his side, he tugged her closer.

She settled in there, feeling the heat of his body and smelling the faint scent of his soap. She couldn’t identify the spicy fragrance and didn’t want to, because to her, it was just him, his smell, that familiar scent that made her think of his bed.

And damn, that sounded good right about now. The perfect distraction.

Sam was saying something, but she’d missed it. She gave her head a sharp shake and asked, “What was that?”