Neon Blue by E Frost (best book reader .TXT) 📗

one by one as I sag to the ground. They can feel that I’m too drained to call the Dead again tonight. I’m done, and so are they. Shit.

One of the nethancs hisses at me before it goes. They’re meat-eaters, aerial predators, and I wouldn’t be surprised if one of them tries to take a chunk out of me some day.

But not today. I draw my churi lethargically, but before I can even think about raising it, the Squire’s there, sweeping me behind him with one hand, holding his sword on the nethanc with the other.

The scaly Elemental hisses again and disappears.

“I appreciate that.” I slump against the Squire’s back. “I’m really not up to fighting off one of those tonight.” My voice is a rasp, my throat seared from swallowing so much power.

The Squire sheathes his sword and turns to me. Before I can say anything, he scoops me up, his arms firm under my back and knees, and carries me to the house.

I think about protesting. I’m not a fainting maiden, and I don’t need to be rescued. But it would probably sound ungrateful. And he is very traditional. So instead I put my arms around his broad shoulders and let him carry me into my extremely clean kitchen.

Chapter 11

Showered, carefully un-taped, various cuts closed with comfrey, and dressed in warm pajamas and my moose slippers, I sit at my kitchen table and stare at the phone handset sitting in front of me.

Why did I see Peter’s face?

It’s the question I keep coming back to. Beside the obvious ones. What was hurting the ghost? Why did pulling all the negative energies into myself – something my stomach is complaining about so bitterly that I’m afraid to hazard even a cup of decaf – seem to help her? And what’s happening to her now? Those have me wondering. But the question that keeps popping to the front of my brain is: why did I see Peter’s face?

I pick up the phone and hit his number on my speed dial.

“Hi, this is Peter. No, it’s not really. It’s my machine. Leave a message. If it’s any good, I might call you back.”

I grimace. His answering machine message isn’t even vaguely funny tonight.

“Peter, it’s me. It’s Tsara. I just wanted—”

He picks up with a click. “Hey, hey, I’m here. I was just thinking about you.”

Ditto. “Screening your calls?”

“Yeah. Class registration closes tomorrow and you wouldn’t believe how many calls I get from freshman—”

I can’t connect his reality with mine for a moment. “Registration, right,” I mutter.

A pause. “Hey, are you okay?”

I rub the bridge of my nose. “Not really.”

“Do you want me to come over?”

Hell, yes. And with Toby healed and returned to Ana’s and the Squire gone, there’s no reason for him not to. Except my shrinking conscience. “This is going to sound really bad, Peter—”

He chuckles. “Try me.”

“Would you mind coming over . . . and not staying the night? I really want to see you, but I’m just not ready—” What a goddamn lie. “I’m not ready for anything to happen. Is that okay?”

“Sure. Want me to bring a pizza or something?”

I start to say that I couldn’t eat so late, but a glance at my kitchen clock shows that it’s only eight o’clock.

It feels like it should be much, much later.

“How about Thai?” I probably shouldn’t even think about spicy food, given what I’ve done to my stomach tonight. But since moving to Somerville and discovering the Blue Grass Café in Porter Square, Thai green curry has become my new comfort food, second only to my Dala’s beef stew.

“You got it. See you in twenty.”

“Thanks.” A weight like the burden of millennia lifts off me. “Peter?”

“Yeah?”

“Really, thanks. I need to see you. I mean, I really want to see you.”

“That sounds . . . promising.” He laughs. That rich, masculine laugh. “See you soon.”

I greet him at the door, still in my pajamas and slippers. He’s seen me in sleepwear before so it shouldn’t be a shock, and if – just on the off-chance – we end up hugging later, well, there are advantages to be being bra-less.

I give him a cheek-peck, which he returns. “Hey, great slippers.” He nods at the fuzzy moose heads on my feet. “Where do I get me some of those?”

“Maine.” I’m too drained to come up with anything witty.

“Beware Greeks bearing gifts,” he says, handing me a heavy plastic bag.

“I thought you were Italian.”

“Same continent.”

That makes me giggle. Ugly American. I wave him inside. “Do you mind if we eat in there?” I hook my thumb towards the parlor.

“Not at all.” He takes a few steps down the hallway and looks around. “Wow, this is really . . . clean. I don’t remember it being so clean last time.” He frowns. His memory is probably a little fuzzy on that point. Guilt stabs hot and burning, like my indigestion. “You’re not one of those really clean chicks, are you?”

“Definitely not. I cleaned up for a . . . colleague.” From the Hollow Hills. “He didn’t notice.”

Peter reaches out and rubs his hands down my arms. I shiver with how nice it feels.

“How about we pretend you cleaned up for me and I tell you how impressed I am,” he says. I manage a weak smile in response. “You want to get some plates and glasses? I brought Singha, too.”

I reach into the bag and pull out one of the beer bottles. I peer at the label. Six percent. “This is rocket fuel. Are you trying to get me drunk?”

He gives me a friendly leer. “Absolutely.”

The contrast between that friendly leer and the shattered expression he wore the last time he was in my house makes my heart hurt. “Peter, I—”

He holds up a hand. “I know. You’re not ready. I’m not pushing. I just brought it because you sounded so down on the phone. I won’t try anything. Scout’s honor.”

I hate the Boy Scouts, in that moment. And anything else that prevents us from getting drunk and naked and sweaty.

“I’ll get the plates.”