Soul Taken (Mercy Thompson #13)(46)

“Is this a dream?” I asked again when I was finished.

“Have a brownie,” he said, instead of answering my question. “You like brownies.”

I gazed doubtfully at them. “I’ll take a macaroon instead, please. I don’t like the look of your brownies.”

He laughed, and this time it sounded like his laugh—if a little tired. “Macaron,” he told me. “Macaroons are the stodgy ones with all the coconut.”

“I’m sorry about the piano,” I offered without taking a cookie. “And, really, most of the living room furniture. The stairway. Some of the books got pretty wet, too, when the frost all melted.”

“I don’t care about the piano,” he said. “Things can be replaced. Even books.” He was frowning at me. He leaned sideways, getting a better look at my dangling foot. “What’s wrong with your foot? Your feet? Why are you keeping that one way out there?”

I looked at my foot, too. “It’s the one that got a bit of spider spine stuck in it.” Hadn’t both of them been hurt? “I’d forgotten. It doesn’t hurt.”

“Show me,” said Stefan.

I raised my dangling foot and lost my balance, as if it were a lot heavier than I’d expected. Stefan swept forward like a striking snake and grabbed my ankle, sending the teapot spiraling off the edge and into the darkness.

He kept his grip until I regained my seat.

“Don’t fall off the cliff, please,” he said, sounding a little shaken. He gave the abyss a wary look. “Literally or figuratively. I don’t know what it is or why it’s here.”

“Okay,” I agreed.

I knew I hadn’t been in any danger. I trusted Stefan to keep me safe.

I examined that last thought as Stefan looked at my foot. I knew that the only person I trusted to keep me safe with such bone-deep certainty was . . . no one. Not even me.

I frowned suspiciously at Stefan. What else had he said to stop my panic attack?

“Give me the other one.”

I managed that without overbalancing myself.

“You should get them looked at,” he said, releasing the foot he held. “Show them to Zee, I think. And soon.”

He released me and began folding up the tablecloth with quick, almost angry movements.

“Are you afraid?” I asked abruptly.

He stopped moving, then his hands tightened on the tablecloth before he flung the whole thing—half-formed brownies and all—into the darkness, which swallowed them up.

“I’m always afraid, Mercy,” he said, looking into the endless black. “Always.”

I don’t remember anything after that.



* * *



—

The next time I woke up, it was to the sound of my bedroom door opening and the smell of the good hot chocolate. This was accompanied by the scents of bacon, cheese, and all sorts of breakfasty foods.

“Mmm,” I said. “Marry me.”

“Okay,” agreed my husband. “This afternoon at two p.m. work for you? I might manage one thirty in a pinch.”

“Sorry,” I murmured, burrowing deeper under the pillow, “I think I have a date with this guy.”

“Do you?” There was a clink as something, presumably my breakfast, was set down.

“Yep.” I yawned. “Some hot guy. Used to be special forces. Don’t know that he can compete with a man who cooks breakfast for—uhumf.”

He inserted a muscular arm under my belly and heaved me out of the blankets and over his shoulder.

“Mine,” he said smugly, a hand patting my butt.

I let myself go limp and muttered, “The things I put up with for breakfast.”

He laughed and set me on my feet. That hurt for a second—and then it didn’t. I returned his butt pat with interest on my way to my chest of drawers, where my breakfast awaited.

Adam had evidently rolled the walking stick aside to make room for the plate. I hadn’t caught it moving—I seldom did—but I was pretty sure Adam wouldn’t have put the plate half-on, half-off the chest.

The walking stick had been first made by Lugh who knows how long ago and had destroyed itself saving me. It had reappeared a few weeks ago, looking as if it had never been reduced to splinters and bits of melted silver. I rolled it over so I could push the plate back on solid ground. I wondered if the walking stick still counted as an ancient artifact after remaking itself in my dreams.

Dreams. I paused, remembering that dream—or whatever it had been. I decided I’d eat breakfast and digest the dream a bit before I shared it.

“Any news?” I asked, wolfing . . . coyote-ing down crispy hash browns and bacon. Adam was a wonderful cook. I could bake good brownies.

Adam shook his head. “I thought we could both use fuel before we tackled mysteries.”

He sounded a little preoccupied. I smiled to myself. I hadn’t worn anything to bed, and I wasn’t wearing anything now.

“Sex fiend,” I told him. “The tabloids are right about you.”

“Unusually so,” he agreed. “Almost as if they had an inside source. Are you through eating yet?”



* * *



—

“So what do you think it was?” Adam asked, nearly an hour later, as he put away the pans he’d used to make breakfast.