He’d never wanted to kiss her so badly in his life.
Doc leaned on the bathroom counter and stared at himself in the mirror. Dinner had knocked the last of the alcohol out of his system, so there was no way to pass off what had happened as a hallucination.
He pushed off the counter and stalked to the other side of the space. Ridiculous how big the bathroom was, but folks on Mephisto lived large. He reached the shower wall and turned again, faced with his own reflection.
Maybe it had been a hallucination. Maybe it was one of those things that would wear off over time. Maybe it would kill him. Or Fi. At that gut punch of a thought, blue flame burst off his skin, shooting toward the ceiling.
He tried to calm himself and forced his breathing to slow. The flame wrapped his body, cool as a breeze, then sputtered into nothing.
Fire had never been a varcolai trait. Never. This had come from Aliza somehow. Maybe she hadn’t been lying about never getting rid of her. She must be laughing from the grave. All those years she’d kept him shackled with the curse of being unable to fully shift, and now he was prone to spontaneous combustion.
It had happened right after a sharp jolt had woken him in the wine cellar. Even through the champagne haze, he’d immediately known Aliza was gone from his head. Or so he’d thought. He’d leaped to his feet and let out a whoop. A split second later, he’d been covered in cool, blue flames.
If Aliza had planned this as a punishment so that he’d have to live the rest of his life with a reminder of how Evie had died, she’d done a great job. If she hadn’t planned it and it was just a freak side effect of her being killed while linked to him through a spell, then his life was destined to spiral downward until it stopped at the gates of Hell.
Time to see just how bad this was. He grabbed a tissue, stuck his hand out, and thought angry, horrible thoughts until the flames burst out of him again. He dropped the tissue into the fire on his palm. It went up in a puff of smoke.
His gut knotted. He’d been hoping the flames would be as cool and harmless to everything else as they were to him. Definitely not the case.
How was he supposed to live like this? How was he supposed to make love to Fi if every time his emotions went nuts, he flared up like a Molotov cocktail? She’d be toast.
Literally.
He sank down against one of the tile walls, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes. The cool ceramic felt good. Maybe the fire would go away on its own over time. Aliza had just been killed. Maybe there was some kind of expiration date on the spell. If he could hide it long enough, there might not be a reason to after a while.
“Doc? You in there?” Fi’s voice came from the other side of the door. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah, baby,” he answered. “Just getting an early start on my hangover.”
“You want some aspirin or something?”
He could picture her leaning against the door, her pretty brown hair tucked behind her ear, her eyes filled with worry. Over him. “It’s all good. Be out in a minute.”
“Okay. The others just put the TV on to see the news, and Creek thinks we should set up a watch system for the rest of the night.”
“Good idea. Happy to help.”
She didn’t answer right away, but he could hear her breathing, the muted pulse of her heartbeat. Even without varcolai senses, he’d have known she was still there. It wasn’t her nature to give up so easily.
“Something wrong, Fi?”
“No,” she said, a little softer than before. Her voice sounded like that when she was smiling. “I’m just glad you’re all better and this whole mess with the witches and the curses is behind us.”
Frustration made him rap his head against the tile behind him. Flames shivered over his skin. He stilled himself, forced his anger to cool. The flames vanished. “Yeah, baby. Me too.”
And just like that, the lie began.
Chapter Thirty-three
Chrysabelle wasn’t surprised that the outside of La Belle et la Bête didn’t live up to the fairy tale it had been named after. The building was gray. Or brown. It was hard to tell from the faded bits of paint not yet worn off by time and weather. Both its first and second floors sported three sets of louvered double doors, split across in the middle with a simple balcony.
All the doors were shut and not a sound emanated from the space. Not a single tourist walking by took one look at the building, and stranger still, none spared a glance at the vampire, fae, and comarré standing on the sidewalk in front of it.
“It’s like they don’t even see us,” she said. Not even her words turned heads.
“They don’t. Not exactly,” Mortalis answered. “Diffusion spell. Keeps the mortals out and the patrons from being gawked at.”
Mal crossed his arms. “Is that why it sounds empty?”
Mortalis nodded. “I can assure you it’s not.” He took a deep breath.
“Not looking forward to this, are you?” Mal asked.
“No.” Mortalis turned toward Chrysabelle. “Keep your wits about you and you’ll be fine.”
“It’s not me I’m worried about, it’s Mal.” She probably should have insisted he go back to the hotel, but considering he’d honored his word about not causing drama, she couldn’t find enough reason to keep him away. Nor did she really want to.
Mortalis shrugged. “It’s not like vampires don’t ever wander in here. The general consensus seems to be if they mind their own business, they’re left alone. However, if word has gotten out about Sklar and the city’s lack of guardianship, that could change the mood. Just be careful.”