Darknight(92)

We were about halfway home when he finally spoke. “You’re not saying it.”

“Saying what?” I asked, although I thought I knew.

“‘I told you so.’”

“What good would that do?” I lifted one hand from the steering wheel, reached down to lay it on top of his where it rested on his knee. At least he didn’t try to move it away…but neither did he try to touch me in return, only sat there, not responding at all. A nervous quiver went through my stomach, but I told myself he was just in shock, trying to process everything we’d just seen and heard. “I’m so very sorry, Connor.”

“Are you?” he asked, staring straight out the window at the buildings and cars passing by. “I mean, you never liked Damon.”

Well, he didn’t give me much reason to, I thought. I would never say such a thing to Connor, though. Not now. He loved his brother, and even if I couldn’t fully understand that love, I had to respect it. “I didn’t agree with his methods,” I said carefully. “But I would have been willing to meet him halfway, for your sake.”

A brief, curt nod, and Connor shifted in his seat, pulling his hand from beneath mine. I didn’t try to prevent him from doing so. The last thing he needed right now was me clinging to him. I was here, and I’d listen to anything he had to say, but I wouldn’t force myself on him. Somehow I knew that would only make things worse.

We pulled into the alley behind our building, and I parked the SUV. At least I was more or less used to driving the FJ by that point, so there wasn’t any fudging or having to back up and try again, which had happened once or twice as I was familiarizing myself with the vehicle and the cramped parking space I had to squeeze it into.

Connor got out and I followed him, trailing behind as he unlocked the rear door to the building and let us in. We walked upstairs in silence, and still said nothing as we entered the apartment.

In the back of my mind, I’d sort of been hoping that he might find some kind of equilibrium once we were back home and in familiar surroundings, but if anything, being in the apartment only seemed to worsen his mood. He unbuttoned his coat and flung it over the back of a chair rather than hanging it up properly. Not a big deal, of course, but I knew Connor, knew that he was usually careful about such things.

As I was taking off my own coat and putting it away, his gaze fell on a couple of paintings that he’d stacked up against the wall in the hallway. He’d brought them over from the studio the day before, wanting to see them from different angles and in different lighting. Now, though, his brow darkened as he stared at them, and before I could do or say anything, he’d driven his booted foot right through one of them.

“It’s all bullshit!” he growled, kicking away the ruined painting. “All of it! What the fuck was I doing, sitting here and making a bunch of fucking paintings when my brother needed me?”

Aghast, I could only stare at the wreckage of what a few seconds ago had been a summer-toned landscape of warm grass and tall, cool pines. “Connor — ”

I could tell he was about to do the same thing to the second painting. Without thinking, I reached out with my mind, whisked it out of harm’s way, sent it winging across the room until it settled safely against the wall under the windows.

“You’re getting pretty good at that, aren’t you?” he snapped. “Where did all this come from, anyway? Last thing I heard, about all you were good for was talking to ghosts.”

The rasp of his voice as he said those hateful words was so similar to Damon’s that I wanted to put my hands up to my ears so I wouldn’t have to hear it anymore. But that would be a childish gesture, and ultimately futile. I drew in a breath, then said, “It’s like I told you before — the prima’s power is there against the time when it’s needed.”

For the longest moment, he didn’t reply, only glared at me, and I couldn’t help wondering what his next attack would be, what burst of anger I would have to deflect. But something in him seemed to crumple, and all of a sudden his shoulders drooped. He raised his hand to his hair, ran his fingers through it as if somehow that would clear the fog of anger from his mind.

“I’m sorry,” he said at last.

Relief pulsed through me, and I went to him then, pulling him against me and wrapping my arms around him. He clung to me, and I whispered, “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

Except I really didn’t think it would be.



* * *



I made us grilled cheese and tomato soup for dinner — ultimate comfort food — and we went to bed early. No lovemaking that night, but I held him close, tried to reassure him with my presence until he finally fell asleep in my arms. He’d had one terse phone call from Lucas saying that the house had been cleaned up and Jessica “taken care of,” which meant her body must have been left somewhere to be found.