A Warm Heart in Winter(58)

“At least let’s clean you up,” Blay interjected. “Come this way.”

Blay took the angel’s arm and led Lassiter around to the left of the staircase. Tucked under the steps, the formal powder room was like a jewel box, with rare stone inlays and twinkling crystal fixtures, everything so lush and lovely. And talk about karats. The sink was gold, and so were the filigreed faucets and the tiny little lamps with the hand-tooled silk shades—which were like birthday candles for a tsar.

Pushing Lassiter down onto the silk-covered bench, Blay snagged a monogrammed hand towel. As he wetted a corner, he had a thought that it was a good thing Lassiter bled silver. The fine terry cloth was a pale gray.

Red blood would have ruined it.

“I’m really sorry,” he said as he leaned into the angel’s busted face.

Lassiter hissed at the contact. Then cleared his throat. “There is nothing to apologize for.”

“He’s still just . . .” Blay blinked and saw Luchas’s face in the snow. “I’m just really sorry. About everything.”

“As am I.”

Back to the sink. Running more warm water. Rinsing the hand towel out.

Returning to that face, Blay focused this time up by the eyebrow. As Lassiter cursed and jerked back, Blay murmured an apology. Which seemed to be his theme song.

About ten minutes later, most of the silver blood was gone, Lassiter’s classically handsome face re-revealed . . . for the moment. The swelling was coming, the bruising not black and blue, but a shimmering under the surface of the skin.

Blay backed up and leaned against the sink counter, crossing his arms. Focusing on his feet, he frowned at his Bally loafers. He’d had boots on, back when he and Tohr had been dealing with the Christmas tree. When had he swapped those for such flimsy footwear?

That he’d taken out to find Luchas.

“I’ve ruined my shoes,” he said absently as he lifted one of his feet and inspected the wet leather. “Funny, I didn’t even notice the cold.”

On that note, he bent down and took off the loafer. The sock was next. What was revealed was bad news. His toes were a white color he never wanted to see again: They were exactly the same as Luchas’s frozen face—opaque, like marble.

Shying away from the image, he stared at his foot. The damn thing was going to hurt like hell when things started to warm up, but he welcomed the physical pain. It would be easier than what was in his soul.

“Here, let me help.”

Lassiter reached forward and put his palm underneath Blay’s sole. Instead of the fearsome energy that had exploded out of Vishous’s curse, this was a warm glow that enveloped and revived: Over the next minute or so, Blay watched as color returned to his flesh, the warm, healthy skin tone coming back.

“Give me your other one.”

Blay shucked his remaining shoe and sock, and extended the left side. “It doesn’t hurt. It’s a miracle.”

“That’s the plan.”

As the magic was worked on his other foot, Blay realized that the angel was not wearing one of his trademark crazy outfits. He was in all black, his wild blond-and-black hair likewise braided and out of the way. For a male who usually went around in spandex leggings, à la David Lee Roth, the reserve was yet another jarring shock.

Nothing was ever going to be normal again. Of this, Blay was quite sure.

“Can I ask you something?” he blurted.

“Anything.”

It was a while before Blay could frame the question. “What can I do to help him?”

Okay, fine, it was probably not fair to ask that of the angel, given the attack. But was anybody really thinking right tonight?

“You know the answer to that,” Lassiter said.

“No, I really don’t.”

The angel leaned down and picked up the shoes. The wetness on them receded as soon as he touched them, retreating from the tips and traveling to the heels. Unfortunately, there were stains left behind in the fine leather, that which had been unmarred before now marked with permanent discoloration.

“Yes,” Lassiter said, “you do know what to do.”

After the shoes changed hands, the angel left, a lonely figure it seemed, in spite of his power and influence. Or perhaps . . . because of it.

Blay, on the other hand, stayed where he was, staring at what had been on his feet. Overhead, the heating came on, warm, dry air drifting downward onto his hair.

“I can’t stay here all night,” he said aloud.

All things considered, the first part of going anywhere else was putting his shoes back on. His socks were still wet, however, having not benefitted from Lassiter’s attentions, and so he wadded them up into soggy fists that he held in one hand. Then he shoved his feet home, the loafers fitting more tightly than they had before.

Out in the foyer, he discovered that everyone had scattered from the drama. Turning to the grand staircase, he pictured Qhuinn upstairs. He knew where the male would be. He would be with the twins—

Blay frowned and looked around the base of the stairs.

A split second later, he fell into a hurried rush.

The angel was right. He did know what he had to do.



Qhuinn found what he was looking for in the playroom. As he pulled open the door, Layla glanced up from the floor where she was sitting with the kids—and froze while their eyes met.