Chapter 8

EIGHT

Paris stepped back from his latest mural of the monster and tapped his paint brush against his hip. "I'm missing something."

He'd been working on the painting for hours, after the hours he'd spent painting both scenes of the vampire victim, from the oval and the alley. By now, it had to be the wee hours of the morning, nothing but pitch-black darkness outside, made more so by the roaring fire inside. Mac had kept the flames going while they'd worked—Paris painting, Mac searching his case files for clues and identities. They'd taken a break hours ago to eat the lentil soup a witch had brought over and the cheese sandwiches they'd grilled on the hearth, but Paris hadn't lingered long. Every minute away from his dream was a minute he risked losing details. Like whatever detail it was now that he couldn't put his paint brush on.

"Trick I learned for investigating crime scenes," Mac said as he stood. "Close your eyes and put yourself there but in the victim's shoes. Look at it from their perspective."

Paris recoiled at the thought. He'd lived it once himself already, had been a bystander each of the other times. Watching it from the sidelines, there'd been a veil between his fear and the victims', between him and the giant. He didn't want to be in his path again, imaginary or otherwise.

"I'm right here," Mac said as he slid a hand into the groove at the small of his back, resting it lightly there. "I won't let him hurt you."

Inhaling a shaky breath, centering himself with Mac's hand and the paintbrush in his own, Paris closed his eyes and put himself back on the grassy oval, ten or so yards from where he'd first stood in his dream.

When he glanced over his shoulder, he was directly in the giant's line of sight, and as his gaze locked with the monster's blue one, he realized it lacked the malice it had in the parking lot dream. When the giant looked at the vampire, he was hungry—for power. Paris recognized the look: it was the same hunger that had been ever-present in his father's eyes.

Instinct drove Paris to move the opposite direction, away from the threat, but the now red-eyed giant stopped him in his tracks, invisible bindings digging into his thighs and arms, into his existing injuries. Pain and fear spiked, and Paris struggled to breathe.

Until Mac's hand pressing gently at his back reminded him this was just a memory, a mental scouting mission like the real ones he used to go on with Jason. Turning fully around, he studied the giant, looking for anything he hadn't already captured with his brush. Finding nothing at this scene, he took another deep breath and moved on to the next one, putting himself on the ground in the dark alley.

Only he arrived sooner than when he'd been there the last time, the vampire's soul dragging him a few terrifying moments earlier. To when the monster leaned over him, so close Paris could smell rosewater, elderflower, and quinine on his breath and could see the scar beneath his beard. He'd been so out of it with fear when he'd been on the altar himself, he'd missed those clues before. Like he'd also missed the gilded knife with its topaz stone that the giant used to slice into the vampire's barely healed scars, the nick on the blade's edge causing Paris to scream right along with him, remembering the way his own skin had torn and shredded, the awful, hopeless?—

A sharp tug at the center of his chest, his name repeated in calm, soothing tones, warm hands cupping his cheeks and soft fingers against his temples, drew him out of the alley and back to violet eyes. "There you are," Mac said from right in front of him, continuing to gently stroke his temples. His breath smelled of earth and cheese and the wine they'd drunk with dinner; not the terrible cocktail of his nightmare. "Just breathe for me."

"He took me back further," Paris said between gulps, his eyes filling with tears, the unexpected terror overwhelming, the crash landing back to relief jarring. "How? What's happening to me?"

Mac drew him into his arms, chin on his crown, holding him like he had yesterday, loose enough Paris didn't feel trapped but solid enough to feel safe. "We need to talk to the witches," he said. "But those knives you painted carving into your back, the voices in your head, I think whatever happened to you on that altar opened you up. He was channeling souls through you; he made you a medium."

Forehead against Mac's shoulder, Paris gasped for breath and tried to wrap his head around the most sensible explanation for the nonsensical. And worried who would come knocking next.

Next.

Two souls had already knocked, and he had new clues that could help them. He just had to pull himself together and share those with the detective standing right in front of him. Another deep breath, then he straightened and wiped the wetness from under his eyes. "He's toying with them for the hunt," he told Mac. "He captures them, then lets them go to chase them again. Lola's face was bruised and beaten, and the vampire had barely healed scars the giant ripped open again. But they were different too. He hated Lola. I don't know if it was personal or because she was a woman or because she was human, but there was malice there. With the vamp, he was after his power, plain and simple. He was hungry."

"That's good, Paris." Mac kept a hand lightly cupped around the side of his neck. "Means we need to look for prior connections and earlier abductions. Was there anything else?"

"He had a knife, gilded with a topaz stone. I can paint it. And his breath smelled like an elderflower tonic. The kind with rosewater."

"Only a few places to get that still."

"And he had a scar." He moved back in front of the monster's picture, grabbed the straight razor from his palette, and dipped the tip of his brush into the paint. He carefully dabbed a little onto the side of the monster's chin, swirled some to match the texture of the beard hair in that area, then, with the razor, thinned out the rest of the dab into a raised line, keeping it perfectly straight like the scar he'd seen. "Right there."

Mac moved closer, snapping pictures with his phone. "Oral or jaw surgery wouldn't leave a scar like that. Those surgeries are done inside the mouth. That scar is from an external injury, and with it being that straight, it was professionally treated. This is good, Paris," he repeated. "Real good."

"Assuming he's not erased, like I am."

Mac patted his shoulder on his way back to the kitchen table, opening his laptop and connecting his phone to various cables. "That's why multiple leads are important. There may not be surgical records, but someone sold him that tonic. I'll get the searches running."

"How do you even get a signal out here?" Paris asked as he dabbed his brush into more paint to get started on the knife. A small generator behind the cabin provided enough electricity for hot water, plumbing, a fridge, and a few other appliances, but Paris found it hard to believe Mac's computer transmitted with any reliability from these woods.

"Boosters and other tech." He gestured at the various attachments connecting the devices. "Icarus's sister is a hacker."

Paris bobbled his brush, flinging paint farther afield than he intended. "Icarus has a sister?"

"Adopted. They were in the same foster home."

"Huh, I knew he needed the Daylight to protect someone, but I never knew who." He swept his paintbrush so as to hook the tip of the knife's blade, then used his razor to shadow its peaks and valleys and create a nick in the straight edge. He winced, but shook off the thought before the remembered pain drowned him again. "Did my list of Daylight clients turn up anything? I didn't know the vamp from my dream, but maybe someone else did. Sometimes who I sold to wasn't the end user."

"Nothing in the hard files, but I have searches running against the digital." After a final flurry of keystrokes, he slumped back in his chair. "Why did you deal?"

Do deal , Paris almost corrected, but bit his tongue instead. He lifted his brush long enough to shrug, then after another swipe through the paint, continued to work on the knife's handle. "Folks needed it. Folks like Icarus. They all had good reasons."

"They could've been lying."

"I'm sure some were. Everyone knows I'm gullible, but if I was able to help one person, then I did what I could."

"While stealing from your father."

He dipped his brush in the yellow paint, added the touch of purple that tinted all his dreams still, then filled the hole he'd left for the stone in the middle of the handle. He used his razor again to clean up and define the edges, depicting a slight filigree to the border around the stone. "He promised to protect them, and he didn't." Paranormals would hire his father for protection, and the next thing the shifter or vampire or warlock knew, they were doing Vincent's dirty work for him. He was human, yes, but a monster in his own terrifying way. It was a business model, a hoard of stolen power and riches that Paris wanted nothing to do with. "What does it mean to be his heir?"

"I don't know yet. That's what I sent Liam to find out. He'll recon with Adam and Icarus and the rest of the team, then report back."

Paris turned to ask who exactly was the rest of the team, but Mac's mouth stretching wide in a silent yawn made him yawn too since he, unlike his father, wasn't a sociopath. "When's the last time you slept?" he asked the raven, who tipped back his head and laughed, a tired, resigned thing that Paris felt all the way to his bones. "Go to bed, Mac."

He righted his head, a challenging, devastating smirk turning up one corner of his mouth. "Only if you do."

"Deal." He tossed his razor on the palette, capped his paints, and rinsed his brush in another mug he'd claimed for paint water, before ducking into the bathroom to wash his hands and check his bandages. When he reemerged in his tee and boxers, Mac was spreading a blanket on the couch.

"I said bed . You're way too tall for that sofa, and this bed is big enough for you and me and two more people."

Mac eyed the couch, looking anywhere but at Paris. "I'll be fine here."

Paris pressed his lips together and waited, hands on his hips, for Mac to glance up and meet his no-you're-not glare. He caved almost immediately, chuckling as he snatched up the blanket and headed for the other side of the bed. "I see why you and Icarus are friends."

"We're nothing alike," Paris said as he crawled under the sheets and quilt. "He's all strong and bossy and sexy."

"There's more than one interpretation of those words." Mac stretched out on top of the quilt, fully dressed, the blanket tossed over his feet. Paris let him have that distance, counting it a win that he was beside him at all, that he would get the good night's sleep he deserved. Counted it a bonus when Mac turned on his side to face him, his dark hair falling across his forehead and making him look years younger. Sweet, almost. His words were even sweeter. "You're both good people. I didn't believe it about either of you at first, but like him, you keep proving me wrong."

Paris would have liked to stay in that gooey good place, but the ache in his heart wouldn't allow it. "Is Icarus really okay? He was always good to me. I'll never forgive?—"

Mac's hand covered his where it rested between them. "He's fine. So is Adam. For what it's worth, you helped bring them together."

"Adam's the Devil, right? He's a phoenix?"

"Was. Like Icarus was a vampire."

Shock sent Paris levering up on his elbow. "He's not anymore? How did that work?"

Chuckling, Mac tugged him back down. "They were counterbalances—walking rebirth and walking death—whose souls became entwined. Mated, for lack of a better word. Nature released them both, channeling the magic back to her, and giving them a second chance. Their souls chose to come back together."

That did not sound like an easy task for the reaper who had to guide them. "And how did that work for you?"

Mac closed his eyes, but not fast enough to hide the wretched melancholy that streaked through them. He rolled onto his back and folded his hands over his middle. "We do what the souls deserve. Adam and Icarus deserved that second chance."

Paris started to reach out, but stopped himself short. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"I told?—"

"What you felt?"

His Adam's apple bobbed, a hard swallow, then a single tear escaped the corner of his eye and raced toward the dark hair at his temple.

Fuck it.

Paris was a tactile person, and it was killing him not to try to soothe the obviously upset man—friend—beside him. He scooted closer and laid a hand on his shoulder. No words, just contact, letting Mac know he wasn't alone.

He found his words again after another swallow. "When you know the person on your list, when you love them"—he tapped his chest with his fingers—"it's a special kind of hell. What I want to happen and what must happen aren't always the same."

"Your aura was a wreck that day in Encinal and when you first showed up here."

He whipped his face Paris's direction, glassy eyes wide. "You can see auras?"

He withdrew his hand, tucking it back with the other beneath his pillow. "I couldn't before. I don't know why I do now, and I don't know how I know what they mean, but I do. Assuming I'm doing it right."

"What did you read in mine?"

"Loyalty, duty, regret."

He returned his gaze to the ceiling. "You were reading it right."

"What do you regret, Mac?"

"So much."

The words were faint, barely audible, but no less a wrecking ball for their hushed volume. They might as well have been a shouted cry for help, and it was everything Paris could do not to close the scant distance between them and to wrap himself around Mac like he'd done for him twice now, but he sensed even this was more truth than Mac let most people see. Balling his fist under the pillow, he forced his instincts back and waited Mac out, doing what he could to comfort with his presence and breaths. Eventually, Mac's slowed to match his, and after another minute, he turned back onto his side, facing Paris, hands tucked under his own pillow.

"We'll ask the witches to help you with the auras."

"I don't want to get rid of them. I think I'm supposed to see them."

"To help you understand them. Read them." He smiled softly. "For when they're not as obvious as mine."

"Thank you."

His eyelids seemed to grow heavy, slipping closed as he muttered "Welcome," and a moment later a light snore slipped out from between his lips. He shifted onto his stomach, close enough Paris could feel the puffs of his snores across his own face, could watch as the tension flowed out of his muscles. Finally, at rest.

But Paris was more awake than ever. His gaze wandered past Mac to the murals on the wall. They came to life in the dancing firelight, as did all the questions Paris still had about the people in them. Who was the monster? Who was the vampire? Why were he and Lola targeted? How could he help Mac deliver them? And why did he always see them in purple?

"The auras?" Mac mumbled, eyelids fluttering, and Paris realized he must have asked that last question aloud. And that Mac wasn't completely asleep yet.

"No, the souls."

That sweet, soft smile flitted over the raven's lips again. "Because I do." Then disappeared into the pillow as he nuzzled down, surrendering fully to sleep.

And if Paris hadn't already started surrendering some of himself to this man, the tug he felt between them told him it was only a matter of time before he was ready to surrender it all.