Under Suspicion

Chapter Twenty-Four

Will took me by the hand and I stumbled behind him into his living room. “Still moving in, huh?”

Though it had been at least a year, Will still had nothing more than the two lawn chairs in the living room, a Wii console and now, an entertainment wall unit so sleek and modern, I was certain NASA was probably missing it. He shrugged, offering me that carefree, lopsided grin.

“I think the pillow there”—he pointed to a needlepoint Arsenal pillow nestled on one of the chairs—“really makes the place look homey. You want to go across and change your shirt? I’ll make you a cuppa.”

I looked down miserably at my pee- and chocolate-soaked shirt. “I don’t want to go home. I’m afraid I’ll blow it up, or something will come barreling in there and kill me. Can I hang out here?”

“Sure. If anything is coming after you, it’ll never find you here, right across the hall.”

I felt my lower lip jut out childishly. “But you’re my Guardian.”

“I was just kidding, love. It’s my job to protect you. But if you blow up my apartment, you’re on your own.” He gestured to his living space as though it were palatial or furnished. “I quite like it here now.”

I nodded, looking around. “I kind of do, too.”

He jerked his head toward the bedroom. “Why don’t you go grab yourself a less scenty shirt, though? I’ve got a clean stack on the bureau. Yes”—he nodded his head modestly while patting his flat-as-a-washboard stomach—“I do laundry.”

I nodded and padded into Will’s room. It was smaller than mine and dim, with a tasteful bedroom set that belied the lawn furniture out front. I looked around and breathed in Will’s scent—part laundry detergent, part some sort of spicy, fresh cologne. The stack of clean clothes was on the bureau, and next to that a framed photograph of an older woman, with a sweet, serene smile. Her head was slightly cocked, and her eyes were the same gold-flecked hazel as Will’s. She had the same warm, playful look that I had seen so many times when I looked at Will. I knew his mother was back in England, that he talked to her often; and the thought—Will’s family, his roots—struck something in my heart. No one I knew—myself included—had roots.

I turned around and grinned at Will’s rumpled bed; at his nightstand, which held a half glass of water, a stack of Harlan Coben books, and a pair of eyeglasses. Nothing mysterious or mythological. Nothing magical. Nothing that said he was just passing through, only here long enough to change the fate of the world. Roots.

I slipped out of my shirt and reached for one of Will’s. It smelled like laundry detergent and cleanliness. I couldn’t bear to slip into it in my dirty state. Instead, I shimmied out of all my clothes, and turned the shower on extra hot in the attached bathroom.

When enough steam filled the room, I stepped into the shower and held myself under the pounding spout. The hot water poured over my shoulders and I felt my whole body melt. I clamped my eyes shut and suddenly I couldn’t tell the shower water from the tears flooding over my cheeks. I was tired. So, so tired. I didn’t want to think of the Underworld or fallen angels or a father who didn’t want to see me. I didn’t want to piece any puzzles together or let anyone down.

I didn’t want to be the Vessel of Souls.

I didn’t want to protect the Underworld.

I stepped out of the shower and dried off with one of Will’s ultra fluffy towels, enjoying the soothing normalcy of a bathroom stocked with all the usual stuff; and a bedroom that contained a slept-in bed and a giant picture window that could be thrown open to allow the sunlight to stream through.

I was tired.

Will’s bed was welcoming with its disheveled sheets, which smelled like Will. Comforting. Clean. Simply human. I dropped my towel and snuggled under the covers for just a second, just to feel normal—like a girl who had a boyfriend. Not an angel.

Not a vampire roommate.

I was so, so tired.

When I opened my eyes, I wasn’t sure where I was. The light was dim and I was comfortable; I felt alive and well rested. And then I heard the breathing next to me. It was a rhythmic rise and fall, a normal human cadence. When I rolled over, I sat up with a start.

It was Will.

And I was naked.

My heart started to thud and I rubbed my head. I had taken a shower. I had crawled into bed.

Is Will naked, too?

His chest was bare, the covers pulled just over his stomach.

I gingerly lifted up the blanket, peered underneath. He was wearing pants.

I watched his chest rise and fall in the dark, a sliver of silvery moonlight catching the perfect edge of his profile. He was handsome this way—quiet, asleep—and his lips looked lush and perfect. My heartbeat sped up and my palms were clammy damp. I leaned over, drew a breath, and pressed my lips against his.

Without a word, without a single thought, I was kissing Will and he was kissing me; his arms snaked around my waist and he pulled me close to him. My breasts crushed against his chest as I kissed him harder, pushing every other impulse out of my mind. His fingers were looped in my hair, and mine were raking across his back as we spun, kicking back covers, pulling off clothes. I felt my blood coursing through my every vein, my every artery—every single part of my body was tingling, on high alert. For the first time I could really remember, I felt alive.

Will pulled into me, holding me close. I listened to our hearts pounding, felt his breath washing over me.

There were no scars on his back—no threat of leaving when he looked at me. His skin was supple, perfect.

He knew what I knew. He saw what I saw.

He looked down and kissed me once more, and I melted into him.

Sunlight streaked through the picture window and I stirred, an ache going through my entire body. I waited for ChaCha’s kibble breath, for her frenzied good-morning licks, but nothing happened. I cracked open one eye and then the other; I rolled over and took in the empty pillow.

Will.

I sat up and stared around the empty room; the unusual feeling of comfort and serenity crashing over me. I slid into one of Will’s shirts and padded into the kitchen, where Will stood shirtless, staring at an egg in a frying pan as if it were an alien baby.

“Good morning,” I said, trying hard to keep the sleep and sheepishness out of my voice.

“Good morning to you, love,” Will said, giving me a noncommittal kiss on the forehead. “Sleep okay?”

I nodded. “What’s that?”

Will frowned. “I was planning on making you breakfast in bed.”

I glanced at my watch. “It’s almost noon.”

“Well, there is that. Also”—he poked at the egg—“I don’t know how to make eggs.” Will tossed the pan—milky egg and all—into the sink. “How ’bout you stay around? I’ll make my famous call to Crepe Ape?”

“No, thank you. I should really get going.” I gathered my clothes under one arm and carried my shoes in the other. Will and I shared an uncomfortable silence.

Do I kiss him? Thank him? Wave good-bye?

“I gotta go,” I said, avoiding his gaze and slipping out the front door.

Smooth, I groaned.

And then I ran into Alex.

“Hey,” he said, steadying me.

“You’re back,” I said, startled, but otherwise unsure how I felt.

“Yeah. Got in about an hour ago. We’re done.” He grinned, but his brow was furrowed. “You’re sure in a hurry to get somewhere.” His words slowed down as he took me in—I was in a thigh-length football T-shirt, carrying my clothes, my red-hair halo undeniably screaming, “Morning after!” I saw him swallow hard, and all my early-morning comfort crashed away.

He’s not my boyfriend, I reminded myself. So why do I feel so damn guilty?

Alex looked down at his shoes and I shuffled my bare feet, thinking that if “Devil Dearest” cared for me at all, he’d choose this very moment to open up the mouth of Hell and call me home.

“I tried to call you, but it kept going straight to voice mail. I figured you had something going on.” Alex looked as though he was working not to see my T-shirt, not to look at my naked legs. “I’m heading out again in a couple of days. Back to Buffalo, just to finish things off. I just wanted to stop in to make sure you were all right.” The muscle jumped in Alex’s jaw as he swallowed hard. “But I guess you’re doing fine.”

I opened my mouth to say ... What?

“Um, thank you. I ... was just ...” I pointed to Will’s door. “We were just—”

Alex shook his head; a smile that was really not a smile at all on his lips. “That’s okay. You don’t have to say ... I just wanted to say good-bye.”

My chest started to feel tight; my heart rose in my throat. “Because of Buffalo, right? I mean, you’ll be back, right?”

Alex avoided my gaze. “Sure.” He reached out, his hand landing softly on my shoulder. He patted it; then gave an awkward squeeze. “I’m glad you’re okay.” He didn’t look at me when he said, “Good-bye, Sophie.”

He turned and walked away; and every fiber of my being told me to stop him, to shout, to say something—anything—that would pull the awkward discomfort out of this moment, for something that would make everything okay with Alex, with Will—with me.

“Alex,” I said to his back.

He stopped and waited a beat before turning around. “Yeah?”

I bit my lip, and words choked my throat. Alex’s tender gaze; Will’s comforting touch. Alex’s sexy half smile; Will’s sweet lopsided one. The way my name sounded in each of their mouths ...

“Be safe,” I heard myself whisper.

I stepped into my apartment, dumping my filthy clothes on the floor. ChaCha came running toward me and I scooped her up, scratching her head absently.

“Nina!” I called. “Neens, I need to talk to you.” My cheeks were hot, and my heart was crushed between walking into Will’s arms—and out of Alex’s.

“Nina?” I said, my voice picking up a tinny, whiny twinge, which I didn’t like. “Are you here?”

I did a double knock on her bedroom door and then poked my head in. Her clothes seemed to buzz with a nervous energy and I felt my blood pressure rise.

“Nina?”

I looked down into ChaCha’s brown marble eyes and she cocked her head at me; then reached up on her hind legs and lapped my chin.

I gave her an extra treat from the kitchen counter, and when I reached for the paper towels (this dog is a slobber hound), I saw Nina’s note stuck to the cabinet.

Soph—

Out with H. Love this man!!!

Think about what color you’d like to wear in our wedding... .

XOXO,

N

I crumpled up the note and tossed it in the trash, then scoured the kitchen for breakfast food. I was halfway through a peanut butter–smeared waffle when my cell phone chirped its “you’ve got messages!” chirp. I shoved the waffle in my mouth and held the phone to my ear.

“You have six new messages,” the unnervingly polite cell phone voice told me.

Alex had called three times; each message getting progressively shorter and stabbing me with shards of guilt. Then there was the obligatory “this is not a sales call” message, and the last two were from Roland.

There was a pause before the message started and I could hear Roland’s nervous breath in the background. I could imagine him mopping his sweaty head with that yellowed handkerchief.

“Hello, Sophie.” His recorded voice sounded as weasely as his date voice. “This is Roland Townsend—Harley’s agent? From the restaurant.” As if he needed any more introduction. “Um, I’m calling to see if you know where your roommate is. I think she’s with Harley and ...” Roland sucked in a slightly shaky breath, which told more than his words did. “Can you just call me as soon as you get this message?” He went on to awkwardly read off his phone number.

I erased his message and his second one started immediately.

“Sophie? Roland again. Roland Townsend. Can you call me, please? Right away. I”—Roland sucked in another tentative breath—“I’m worried about your roommate. I think ... I don’t think Harley has the best intentions—the best intentions toward your friend. I think Nina might be in danger.”

I sat up straight, Roland’s final words slicing down my spine like a frozen blade. My stomach turned over; my peanut butter waffle felt like a hunk of raw dough rising in my gut, pressing against my chest.

I dialed Roland and he answered on the first ring.

“Aw, geez, Sophie.” Roland’s voice was strangled with a strange mix of tension and relief. “I’m glad you got my messages. And my calls.”

I pulled the phone away from my ear and saw the frowny-faced readout: eleven missed calls.

My saliva immediately tasted bitter and my eyes started to sting. “Where’s Nina?”

“She’s not with you?” He breathed out a long, uncomfortable sigh. “She must be with Harley, then.”

“Why do you think Harley’s dangerous?”

“I don’t think Harley’s dangerous, Sophie. I know he is.”