Chapter Fourteen

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Stef attempted to pry an eyelid open, but the early morning sun was too bright. Or had they left the light on when they crashed into bed last night? Nope. So was it the brightness cast by his guilty conscience?

Yeah, probably that.

Stef lay on his back, naked, his morning wood just beginning to perk up. Brandon lay beside him, his slow, deep breath in Stef's ear, one heavy hand on Stef's belly.

Had they…?Stef stifled a moment of panic. His memory was too fuzzy, so he focused on his asshole. No excessive tenderness. Good. Because when Brandon finally fucked him, Stef wanted to remember the experience.

It had been pretty late when Stef returned to their safe house. He knew that much. He must have… taken an Uber? From somewhere on Broadway?

Jesus, he should go buy a lottery ticket right now, because clearly he had stellar luck.

He stopped trying to open his eyes and just lay there, basking in the warmth of Brandon's body, the weight of his touch. He liked this guy, both his looks and his company. Even more, he was in awe of the guy's bravery.

So why had he, Stefanos Barros, gone off like a jack hole?

Because he did like Brandon, which meant he was bound to fuck things up at some point. Might as well do it now before it got even harder.

"If you were thinking any louder, I might get a complex." Brandon moved his hand so that his knuckles bumped the tip of Stef's swelling cock.

"And if you keep going, I'll never get to apologize."

Brandon began sliding his hand up and down Stef's belly. "For what?"

"For last night." Fairly nonspecific, but easier than starting a list.

Brandon nodded, or maybe he simply scooted himself closer to Stef. "We're both under a lot of stress. I just wish…"

"What?"

"Don't put yourself at risk, okay? I couldn't stand it if—" Abruptly, Brandon rolled over, leaving Stef cold. His feet hit the floor and he was almost through the door when he flung a "gonna shower" over his shoulder.

"Well, fuck."

Stef lay there, his cock deflating faster than a balloon. They needed to talk, that was clear, but he wasn't the guy to start that kind of conversation off.

But he could make them a decent breakfast.

He hit the downstairs bathroom to swab off the top layer of last night's funk and made it to the kitchen. Layla hadn't put in an appearance, so he filled the coffeepot and started pawing through the cupboards, looking for breakfast-adjacent food.

He found Greek yogurt in the fridge, along with a pint of blueberries, and a box of scone mix and some granola in the cupboard. The scones went together easily, and he had them in the oven by the time Brandon strolled in. He looked calm, but his eyes were redder than they should have been.

Another thing Stef would have to apologize for.

"Smells good in here," Brandon said, his smile tentative, as if he wasn't sure of his welcome.

"Scones'll be out of the oven in ten minutes, but there's yogurt and fruit if you're hungry."

"Coffee's enough for now."

"Sure."

Brandon took a seat at the breakfast bar, holding his mug in both hands. Stef leaned against the sink at an uncharacteristic loss for words.

"I found a book in one of Clancy's boxes." Brandon paused and sipped. "I think it'll help us figure this out. I mean, it's already helped me."

"Good. Oh, good. What kind of book?"

"Not a black-magic-infused grimoire," Brandon said dryly, and Stef blanched.

"Yeah, sorry about that."

Brandon waved him away. "No need to apologize. It's a lot right now." He took another sip. "Anyway, this one basically starts out by saying that if I found the book, then I need the information it contains."

"Well, that's… logical."

Huffing a laugh, Brandon set his mug on the counter. "I tried to send the robin back to its eternal rest last night, but it didn't work. Figured I'd read it again this morning and see if I pick up any other tips."

"Tips on how to deanimate a bird you accidentally raised from the dead." Stef bit his lower lip to keep from laughing. "This is so fucking weird."

Layla came out of her bedroom. "What's weird?"

Stef repeated what he'd said.

"You're not wrong." She took a direct trajectory to the coffee pot. "By the way, it's nice to see you whole and healthy. We were worried when you didn't reappear."

Brandon made an effort to shush her, but Layla ignored him, keeping her hot gaze on Stef.

"Yeah, sorry about that," he said.

"You should be."

"My temper…"

"Could have got you killed." She was implacable. "And possibly Brandon, too, because it was all I could do to keep him from mounting a search for you."

"Layla, chill." Brandon tried to get a word in, but she talked right over him.

"We're not much of a team if one of us goes rogue whenever he gets his knickers in a bunch."

Stef nodded, bracing himself with his hands on the counter. "You're right, and I am sorry."

She gave him a hard look, then shrugged. "Don't let it happen again."

The oven timer took that moment to chime, which gave Stef something to do with his hands. He served them scones with butter and jam — whoever shopped for this place must be psychic — and waited for the other shoe to drop.

He didn't know if it would be Brandon, Layla, or someone else, but his gut told him someone was about to send them in a new direction.

Then his phone pinged, and he knew.

This time, the conference room wasn't in a super-sized skyscraper with a view of forever, and this time Brandon's hands weren't bound. He and Spike were in an old house, one built at the turn of the last century by someone who'd made his money from timber or gold. It might have once been a proud family home, but subsequent generations had reconfigured it for their own uses. Now it was a warren of offices, each door tag more impressive than the last, with one large conference room.

And this time, Brandon was more angry than scared, emotions that shared the same root but affected his thinking differently. "No. Absolutely not."

Spike sat across the table from him. Spike of the platinum buzz cut, denim, and leather, the guy who'd tried to recruit him to SPAM and who now proposed the shittiest plan of all shitty plans.

Stef sat next to Brandon on one side and Layla sat on his other. Spike had friends too, an officious woman in a too-tight suit and a guy whose man bun and grubby hoodie shouted Yes, I am a slacker. Neither of them reacted to Brandon's refusal, though Spike frowned so hard a groove formed between his eyes and Stef reached for Brandon's hand under the table.

Stef's touch both calmed him and convinced him that their plan would never work.

Because Brandon would not allow them to try it.

"Now look," Spike said in a tone so reasonable it came off as condescending. Either way, it made Brandon's chest burn. He needed some Tums, and he needed one of these people to start making sense.

"Mr. Barros is a member of the team, and as a member of the team," Spike continued, "he's expected to take some risks."

Brandon squeezed Stef's hand so hard the vet gave a little squeak. "There's a difference between taking a risk and setting yourself up to be devoured by a wraith." Brandon knew that firsthand. "I've seen the damage a wraith can do, and there's no way"—no fucking way—"I'll put anyone I'm close to in that situation."

Spike cracked his knuckles. "Then you'll have added incentive for learning how to control the dead."

Brandon lurched to his feet and stalked over to the window. He braced himself with both hands on the sill. This conversation had started off bad and then gone straight to Hell-no-ville. This April person, the one Stef compared to a dungeon master, had sent a text, telling Stef they all had an appointment at SPAM headquarters. Brandon would have ignored it, but Stef convinced him they should at least find out what the organization wanted.

And what they wanted was for Stef to play decoy, to draw the wraith into a range where Brandon could destroy it.

As if.

"I mean, it could work." Stef sounded uncertain, but not nearly frightened enough for Brandon.

"It could, but it won't." He spoke to the window sash, grinding the words out through clenched teeth. "And it won't because we're not going to try it. Last night I couldn't even deanimate a robin." He whirled around to face Stef. "Do you think that I would take a chance like that with you?"

For a long moment, it was as if the others had gone invisible. Only Stef remained, and he and Brandon had an extended stare-down.

"But I trust you," Stef murmured.

Brandon had to laugh at that. "Why? I don't trust me."

Another stare-down, this one interrupted by Spike. "As much as I appreciate your obvious concern for Mr. Barros's wellbeing, Brandon, you don't have much choice. The Powers That Be gave this plan to April, and she passed it along to us. You've got about twenty-four hours to get up to speed with your necromancy skills because the optimum time to implement the plan is tomorrow evening at nine o'clock."

You're fucking kidding me. "Who decided that?"

"I'm not at liberty to say."

Spike hadn't been such a cold bastard when they first met. He must have saved that side of himself for when it would hurt the worst.

"And if I refuse?"

"Then more people will die." Spike stood, as did his two colleagues. "Starting with Mr. Barros."

Walking as a single unit, they headed toward the door. Maybe the other two were holographs attached to Spike. Brandon had to stifle a hysterical laugh at that. "Hang on. In order to take the wraith by surprise, I'll need to stay hidden. How's that going to happen?"

Spike tilted his head, blinking as if Brandon's question was truly unexpected. "Layla will shield you, of course."

With that, the three representatives of SPAM paraded out of the room, leaving Brandon to stare at his housemate as if she'd suddenly grown an extra head.

"What the actual—"

"Dude, you're a goddamn necromancer. SPAM wasn't going to let you wander the countryside unmonitored."

Her acerbic tone landed like a slap to the face. "Um—"

"I knew you were up to something." Stef leaped from his seat, putting himself between Brandon and Layla. "Why didn't you say something?"

"I—" Layla choked, her cheeks flushing bright red. She brought a hand to her throat, as if she really was choking on something.

"You can't tell us, can you?" Stef said more calmly. Brandon was breathing too hard to take in more than the surface details. Layla shook her head, her eyes closed.

"Okay." Stef turned to face Brandon, taking him by the arms. "They've put some kind of gag order on her. She literally can't answer the question."

Brandon shook free of Stef's grasp. "But why? Spike didn't seem to think her skills were any big secret."

"Spike is a fucking idiot." Layla sounded like her voice had been dragged through a field of glass. "Look, I'm sorry. I don't blame you for being upset."

"Upset? Jesus, we've lived together for months. Were you ever going to tell me?"

She managed to get out a "no" before a fit of coughing had her crouched on the floor, gasping for breath.

"Let's get out of here," Stef said. "Now that we know we're really on the same team, we can work together to figure out a plan."

Stef moved toward the door, but Brandon didn't. "Are we, though? All on the same team?"

Layla glanced up at him, her face grim. "What I can say is that I'm glad we're friends, although I understand if you're not."

A gentleman would offer her his hand, and Brandon had been raised in the South. Training and instincts warred for long enough that Layla scrambled to her feet without his help. "Let's go before they send another team to talk to us."

Stef left the room with Layla on his heels. Brandon waited long enough to draw in a few deep breaths. He had something like twenty-eight hours to learn to be a necromancer or the guy he kinda liked might very well pay the ultimate penalty, and oh, by the way, his housemate had been spying on him for months. "Jesus Christ."

Stef leaned back through the door. "Come on, Brandonakis. The only way out is through."

Standing with his arms crossed, Brandon thought hard about refusing to play the game, but he had to conclude that Stef was right. He couldn't let people die because he was afraid.

And as for Layla, well, he had every intention of upping her rent.