Free Heat Stroke by Rachel Caine Page A

after me like your personal sheepdog.”
    â€œWell, you don’t call, you don’t write . . . and you’re offended on Rahel’s behalf? That’s new.” Jonathan waved it away, tipped his bottle again and swallowed. “You know what’s so important. I’ve never seen you do anything so . . . incredibly, brainlessly stupid. And hey. That’s saying something.”
    God, it all looked so real. I knew that the room around me had to be stage dressing, built out of Jonathan’s power, but it felt utterly right. The pop and shimmer of the fire in the hearth. The woodsy smell of smoke and aftershave. The texture of the slightlyrough couch fabric under my fingers. There was even frost on the windowpanes, and a localized chill from that direction—it was winter here, deep winter. I wondered if that was any indication of his mood.
    David said lightly, “You’re keeping score of my screwups? Must get boring for you down here, all by yourself. But then that’s your choice, isn’t it? Being alone.”
    A flash came and went fast in Jonathan’s eyes, and sparked something in response in David. Silent communication, and very powerful. Ah. Whatever was between these two wasn’t hate. It looked a lot—uncomfortably—like love.
    Jonathan let that flash of emotion fade into a still, empty silence, set his beer aside, and leaned forward with his hands clasped. “Don’t try to change the subject. What you did wasn’t just selfish, it was nuts. You put us in danger.” Jonathan’s eyes were changing color, and I looked down, fast. I knew, without anybody telling me, that it wasn’t safe to be facing that particular stare. His voice went quiet and iron hard. “Do I really have to tell you how serious this is?”
    â€œNo,” David said. “Let’s just get on with it.”
    â€œYou want to at least explain to me why you did it?”
    David’s voice was warm, intimate, almost compassionate. “Jonathan, I don’t have to explain a damn thing. You already know everything I’m going to say. You always have.”
    â€œNot true. You were always full of surprises.”
    â€œGood ones, occasionally. Maybe this will be one of them.”
    â€œOh, you’d so better hope.”
    It was a very heavy silence that followed. I listened to the crack and pop of logs on the fire and focused on the smooth pebbled leather of my skirt. Eyes down. Mouth shut. I could do that.
    Jonathan sighed and stirred. “You gonna drink that beer or what?”
    â€œNo. You know I hate the stuff.” David held out the untouched bottle.
    Jonathan leaned across the empty space and took it. “How about you, Snow White? You drinking?” He was talking to me. I’d almost forgotten about the sweating cold Killian’s in my hand, except as something to hold on to; I took a fast, mute sip and glanced up.
    Mistake. He was staring at me. I fell into those eyes, like Jonathan had his own dark gravity, and for a few seconds I knew him. Old. Wise. Limitlessly powerful. Funny. Sarcastic. Cold. Merciless. Sentimental. Sad. Lonely. I could see history stretching back to a dizzying distance, just a blur of days . . .
    But the door swung both ways.
    I knew him.
    He knew me, too.
    There was nothing, nothing he didn’t touch inside of me, and yet it wasn’t like the raping intrusion you’d think. I had the sense of compassion, of amusement, and a kind of strange gentleness as he gathered me in, learned me, lived in me.
    â€œJonathan! Dammit, stop!” I heard David’s shout, but it was too far, too far to travel to answer. Was it possible to be consumed like that, and still be whole? I felt like I was unraveling, spreading thinner,thinner . . . there was no pain, but a vast sense of becoming . . .
    Something sliced across that connection like the blade of a knife, and I