The Night Everything Fell Apart (The Nephilim Book 1)(51)

“Let’s hope not.”

Her faith in him overwhelmed him. She leaned over and touched him with her bandaged hand. If he’d ever entertained doubts about her courage, they vanished in that instant. Her absolute trust humbled him. Would he ever be worthy of it?

“Arthur?”

He looked up. “Yes?”

“Are we...” The expression in her green eyes was uncharacteristically shy. “We’re really bondmates?”

He couldn’t repress a smile. “For better or for worse.”





TWELVE


“Whatever happened to your hand?”

Mrs. Spencer was not pleased to see Cybele and Arthur appear in the dining room a full fifteen minutes past the appointed time. Mr. Spencer, slightly balding, his expression mild, sat at the head of the table. His grandson, Jack, to his right, had his eyes trained on his empty bowl. The basket of bread and the covered stew pot were apparently untouched. The meal had been awaiting their arrival.

Cybele donned her most conciliatory smile. While the wound on Arthur’s hand had already vanished, hers remained bandaged. “I...um...knocked the photograph in our room off the wall,” she improvised. “The glass broke. When I tried to pick it up...” She shrugged and looked ruefully at her hand. “I’m afraid I cut myself.”

Mrs. Spencer’s eyes narrowed. “Is that my towel you’ve wrapped it with?”

“Uh...yes. Sorry, ma’am. It was the first thing I grabbed to stop the bleeding. We’ll pay for it, of course. And for the picture frame.”

The promise of more money forthcoming seemed to mollify the woman. “I must say, you made a very poor job of the bandaging. Come to the kitchen and let me do it up proper. Your friend can visit with the mister and Jack.”

Cybele darted a look at Arthur. He wasn’t exactly in a social mood. His entire body was tense. Mr. Spencer, who sat at the table’s head, waved him into the chair at his left, opposite his grandson. Jack looked up, taking in the visitors with guileless blue eyes. He was probably close to Arthur’s age. The thought was laughable. He looked years younger and, somehow, centuries more innocent.

Arthur took the indicated chair. Cybele eyed him uncertainly. Mrs. Spencer was holding open the kitchen door but Cybele couldn’t shake the feeling that she shouldn’t leave Arthur. Which was ridiculous. He hardly needed a babysitter. He was tense, yes, but nothing in this room was likely to set him off. Except her. He’d probably be better off with her out of sight.

“Please, everyone,” she said. “Feel free to start eating without me.”

Mrs. Spencer sniffed at that. “I should say not. They’ll wait, if they know what’s good for ’em.”

There was nothing to do but follow her hostess into the kitchen. Once there, Cybele unwound her makeshift bandage and dropped it in the trash bin. “Why, it’s not even deep,” Mrs. Spencer groused. “I can’t imagine why you wrapped it up ten times over.”

“Um...I hate the sight of blood.”

“Hmph.” The woman retrieved a tube of ointment from a cupboard and smeared a bit on Cybele’s palm. She followed up with an adhesive bandage. They returned to the dining room to find the men sitting in silence. Mr. Spencer contemplated his empty bowl. His grandson fiddled with his cutlery, a grimace on his face. Arthur’s eyes roamed restlessly around the room.

All three looked up as the women entered. Cybele hastily sat in the empty chair at Arthur’s right. “The meal smells delicious,” she said with what she hoped looked like a sincere smile.

“First, the prayer,” Mrs. Spencer declared as she settled in her chair at the foot of table.

Oh, damn. A prayer? Beside her, Arthur muttered a curse under his breath. Cybele hastened to cover it with a comment.

“How...nice.” In reality, it was anything but. A religious ritual, even a small one like a prayer before meals, was not a comfortable thing for a Nephil adept. “Do you pray before every meal?”

“Before supper, certainly.” Mrs. Spencer gaze narrowed. “Don’t you? Or are you non-believers?” Her voice held more than a hint of challenge.

“No,” Cybele said. “We’re...um...rather fervent believers, actually.”

That was absolutely true. In fact, she and Arthur were more than mere believers. They knew beyond a doubt that Heaven and Hell—and all their associated denizens—were real.

For the first time since they’d arrived, the edges of Mrs. Spencer’s lips rose. She gave a nod of approval. “Gratified I am to hear it. So many young people go astray these days. Is that not true, George?”

“Aye, my dear. You have the right of it. As usual.”

They were the first words the man had uttered. And they seemed to be, Cybele thought with dark amusement, a little sarcastic. If Mrs. Spencer sensed her husband’s surreptitious mocking, she gave no indication of it. Her attention had returned to her grandson, who was scratching at the tablecloth.

“Jack,” she said sharply. “Stop your fidgeting. We have guests.”

Jack’s chin jerked up. His gaze slid to Arthur. He froze, except for his hand, Cybele noted, which was suddenly shaking. Realizing it, he made a fist and slumped back in his chair. When his grandmother’s frown deepened, he closed his eyes.