Flame in the Dark (Soulwood #3)(34)

Mud pulled her hands free, rose to her knees, put her palms to either side of my face, and guided my head closer. She kissed me on the cheek, released me, opened the passenger door, and slipped into the day, the blanket around her shoulders flying in the cold breeze.

I wasn’t sure what I had accomplished. Teaching a child to be free wasn’t a matter of telling her once and being done. It was a long battle of opportunities offered and worldviews explored. And if this conversation came back and caused me trouble, then . . . I’d deal with it. I put the C10 in gear and headed out of the compound.

But all the way home, fighting sleep, I kept flashing back to the way Benjamin’s eyes crinkled at the corners. And then instantly I’d see a vision of Occam, his too-long, shaggy blond hair swinging against his scruffy jaw, his brown-gold eyes watching me. And as I maneuvered up the mountain to Soulwood, I realized that Occam did indeed watch me. A lot. A real lot. Like a cat with his attention on prey.

The venison stew on the stove had filled the house with enticing scents, but I was too tired to care. I gave it a good stir, added wood to the stove, took a tepid shower to wash off the fire stink, and fell into the bed.

? ? ?

I woke to knocking at the door and I pulled a robe over my pajamas, picked up a shotgun, and went to the front of the house. It was Occam and I didn’t like the way my heart leaped at the sight of his silhouette in the front window. I broke open the weapon and set it aside, unlatched the door, placed my body and face into the crack, and scowled at the wereleopard. “You ain’t never heard of cell phones? People use ’em to announce visits, so that other people are dressed and presentable when guests arrive.”

Occam held up a box of Krispy Kreme donuts and said, “The ‘Hot Now’ light was on. I got twelve.” Pea climbed up to Occam’s shoulder and sniffed the air, her black nose fluttering, her neon green coat catching the red sunset, turning an odd shade of olive brown. The grindylow showed up at the full moon, when the werecats were the most unpredictable, and also whenever they were about to have personal interactions with non-were-creatures.

My scowl went darker. I pointed to the box. “Still hot?”

“Pretty much.”

“Bribe,” I said.

“Totally, Nell, sugar.”

“Okay. But you don’t tell my mama I let you into the house while I was in my unmentionables.” I shoved away from the door, swiped the donut box, and opened it on the way to the kitchen. The sweet dough was utterly wonderful and I stuffed a huge bite into my mouth and chewed. Without turning around, I closed my bedroom door on Occam and dressed in a hurry: navy pants, sturdy black field boots, a crisp white shirt worn tail out, with a belt around the waist. I also strapped on my weapon harness and grabbed a clean dark jacket. Presentable, I swiped another donut on the way to the bathroom, ignoring Occam, who said, “You’ll ruin your dinner.”

“You ain’t my mama or my daddy, cat-man.” I shut the bathroom door. Between bites, I washed my face, brushed my teeth, gooped up my hair, and put on some makeup. Work makeup, I told myself. Not Occam makeup. But it made my eyes look bright and kinda sparkly. I stopped at the entrance to the kitchen.

In the main room, Occam was stretched out on the couch, his cell in one hand, an empty bowl and spoon at his side. He had eaten some of my venison stew and made himself a cup of coffee. He looked all cat-graceful, and the term languid came to mind. And serenity. As if he belonged here. I felt my cheeks heat again. They were doing that a lot. To cover my reaction and the blush I said crossly, “I see you made yourself at home. I hope you liked the stew.”

“Nell, sugar, it was amazing. Next time I bring down a deer, I’ll take an extra one and drag it to your door.”

He was talking about bringing me a dead deer during the full moon. In cat form. A deer I’d have to butcher. An act that sounded a lot like a mating ritual for a big-cat. I scowled at him. “No, thank you. I can skin a deer, but it takes all day, working alone, without the proper tools. I got friends I can buy venison from for the cost of the processing. You eat what you kill. Just dispose of the remains in an appropriate location an’ don’t foul my water sources.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Occam said, sounding relaxed and Texan and . . . extremely, extraordinarily manly. Macho even, though I had never, ever used that term to describe a male. The muscles of his arm bunched when he lifted a hand up and shoved two couch pillows behind his head.

Torquil, the white mouser cat with the black helmet-shaped head hair, had settled into his lap. Without looking away from his cell, Occam petted the cat, his fingers long with prominent knuckles. He looked . . . Not kind. Not peaceful. He looked a little dangerous. A predator in his den. Even with a cat on his lap. Jezzie jumped to the sofa back and walked along it, watching cat and werecat with predatory interest. Occam’s blond hair caught the light and his muscles shifted again, just a bit, with the movements of his fingers.

I had a flash of curiosity, about what his fingers might feel like if they touched my skin the way they stroked the cat. I shook the thought away as totally unseemly and unacceptable.

Casually, or as casually as I could manage with the inappropriate thoughts I was having, I walked to the table, looked at the donuts, and asked, “What’s up?”

Occam looked up from his cell and gave me a grin that I could only call rakish. It made me take a breath that was too deep and somehow filled with electricity. I looked at the donut in my hand as he pocketed his cell and rolled up from the couch. He took a step toward me, the cat nestled in his arm. “Nell, sugar, I’ve been patient. I’ve been understanding of our cultural differences.”