Kindling the Moon (Arcadia Bell #1)(37)

“I’ve never seen a photo, but I was thinking about Devil’s Friends on the way back from San Francisco.”

He bent his head to wipe his chin against his shoulder. “Huh?”

“Some cheap exploitation paperback written about the Black Lodge slayings. I only thumbed through it, but I remember a drawing of the glass knife. The writer said it was based on a police officer’s description. The handle was round and the blade slightly curved. I remember thinking that it looked more like … never mind.”

Lon cocked a brow.

“Anyway,” I quickly said, “what I mean is that the Tamlins could be right about the talon. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to start looking for Æthyric demons with glass claws.”

“I found four more albinos today. None with glass body parts of any kind.” Something close to a smirk briefly crossed his mouth, then faded. “I don’t know. Maybe you should hold off on summoning anything right now and let me refine my search for a day or two. If I can identify some with glass talons, you could start with those. What do you think?”

“Maybe you’re right. I guess I still have time.” Honestly, the thought of summoning a host of unknown Æthyric demons for a lineup made me bone-weary. “Well, the good news is that it will be easier to identify, right?”

He pushed the half-empty wheelbarrow forward a few paces, then continued shoveling. “A hell of a lot easier to identify, but no easier to find. Still the same number of books to go through.”

I hadn’t thought about that. “I guess you’re right,” I said glumly as he patted down the section he was working on with the back of the shovel. I snapped my mask back over my mouth and returned to my work in silence.

We finished with the first batch, then he hauled two more bags of hematite from his truck and we started the process all over again. After three batches, we were halfway done. The sun was beginning to set, but we were both sweaty and aching, so we allowed ourselves a short break. We washed off our hands with the garden hose as best we could, then I went inside to get water. When I came back out, he was sitting in the backyard on an old rusted lawn chair lighting a valrivia cigarette. Shirtless.

In the last of the day’s light, his skin was golden—in contrast to my own complexion, which was either pasty or milky white, depending on your point of view. He was also lean and muscular. Not in an I-work-out-at-the-gym way, but more natural and honest. My eyes followed a thin line of honey-colored hair that bisected his torso from a small patch in the center of his chest down past his belly button. My clothes suddenly felt too tight.

I stopped in my tracks and pretended like I’d forgotten something, then turned back and rounded the corner of the house until he was out of sight. A few cleansing breaths gave me some control over my feelings. No way was I going to let him catch me mooning over him like some teenage girl.

The second time I approached him, I kept my head down and tossed him a bottle of water, then dragged another lawn chair over. Not too close. How far had he said his ability extended? I made a quick calculation and placed my chair several feet away.

“Do I smell that bad?” he asked before offering me a valrivia cigarette.

Dammit.

I leaned forward out of my chair to reach for it, then quickly sat back down, only to realize that I had no lighter. So I held out my hands, coaxing him to toss his over. Instead, he flicked the lighter and puckishly beckoned for me to come to him.

Double damn. I begrudgingly got out of my chair.

“Yeah, you kinda stink,” I said after my cigarette was lit.

“So do you,” he answered with a grin. Before I could make it back to my seat, he scooted down, stuck his leg out between mine, and hooked his foot around the leg of my chair, dragging it closer. Well within range of his ability. I plopped down in defeat.

“When’s your servitor supposed to return?” he asked.

“I allowed it one day, so by tomorrow night, give or take. That kind of magick sometimes has problems adhering to strict schedules, so it could be a couple days.”

He nodded, then we smoked in silence for a long moment. I tried not to look at him, but I couldn’t help it. Fine lines creased the outer corners of his eyes. As he ran a hand through his hair, stray strands of ash blond and platinum floated in the wind at the crown while deeper shades of caramel brown flittered over the tops his shoulders. My eyes stubbornly wandered down his bare skin. He had a thick, pale scar, several inches long, that ran diagonally across his lower left ribs.

“What did that?” I asked.

He looked down, tucking his chin against his chest, then slumped back in his chair, his legs lazily falling open. “My ex-wife, Yvonne.”

“Uh … wow. I thought she was a model, not a grizzly bear.”

His knee rocked sideways once, almost touching mine. He studied me through slitted eyes. A smile threatened to lift up one side of his mouth as he took a long drag off his cigarette. “You’ve been studying up on me, I see.”

“One of my waitresses lives in La Sirena. She thought I should be impressed that you were once married to a super-model.”

“Were you?”

“I’d never heard of her, so not really.” I did, however, look up images of her online. She was lovely, all right. Medium brown complexion, full lips. Her face was long and regal—a feature she’d passed along to Jupe—and the lower half of her was just as stunning. Though, petty or not, I personally thought her hips were a little skinny. She was also flat-chested.