Chapter 32

32

T he next day is full of tension. Of planning and packing. Of scanning the trees around them, looking for surveillance.

Only in the afternoon, when the sun is just barely beginning to turn orange over the trees, does a loud alarm blare through the cabin.

"Satellite phone?" Chloe asks, her brow furrowing. "Nobody calls that."

"Only the forest service calls that," Gurlien corrects, but he clambers to his feet from where he had been feverishly leafing through paperwork, pulling out the brick of a phone from the drawer.

There's no display to read numbers off of, so they all stare at it a beat before Gurlien presses the button to answer it.

There's a pop of static, loud, before a click.

"Yes?" Gurlien asks, crossing his arms and locking eyes with Chloe.

It is their hideout after all that is at risk.

There's another pop, like the phone is connecting to another satellite, before a woman's voice filters through, garbled and staticky.

"Frederick?"

Maison stiffens, as all eyes snap to him in the small cabin, even the cat, but he doesn't say anything.

"Frederick, they told me to call you." The voice is trembling, even through the tenuous connection. "They said to call this and see if you're alive."

His jaw tightens, and he rubs his face, before shaking his head at Gurlien.

"Sorry, ma'am, I think you got the wrong number," Chloe says, leaning forward and putting on an immaculate British accent. "Are you okay?"

"No, this is the number they gave me," the woman replies, and through the connection, there's a desperate tone to her words. "They said he would be here if he was alive. Please."

Chloe gapes over at Maison, who's as still as stone. "No, ma'am, this is a rural number, I'm so sorry."

"Please, they told me they'd hurt me if I don't find him, is he there? Is he alive?"

Maison crosses his arms, and shakes his head.

"No, nobody here by that name, sorry." Chloe trails off, and Maison grabs the phone and snaps it shut, cutting off the call.

"That was a trap," Maison says, his voice tight.

"No shit," Chloe says, higher pitched. "They know where we are, they're going to come, we need to get out."

"That was your mom?" Delina asks, and they all three stopped to look at her. "Would they actually hurt her?"

For a brief moment, she thinks Maison's going to shatter, but he just nods. "She doesn't call me Frederick if she needs me. That was her signaling me to not rise to the bait."

"But they'll hurt her?"

He locks eyes with her, and she would do anything to not see that expression across his face ever again. "Probably."

"Jesus Christ," Gurlien murmurs.

"Do we need to finish packing? Do we need to run right now?" Chloe interrupts, scrambling up to standing. "If they know our satellite phone they can find us so easily, they could just walk right up and knock on the door, why the call?"

"They think that whatever they do, I'll counteract it, so they want to know if I'm still alive," Maison says, his voice dead. "They don't want to ambush you if I'm in the building."

"So they think you might be and Korhonen didn't get to report back, but they're not sure, which means they don't have drone footage that could see through the windows," Gurlien says, but he's almost vibrating with nervous energy. "If we leave now, they might have the roads blocked off, they might have something in place, they might—"

Not even bothering to stick around for the rest of the talk, Maison turns on his heel and strides into the room he's been staying in, shutting the door behind him with a click.

Gurlien gapes at him, then shuts his mouth, then opens it again. "Chloe, we need to pack, get the research and I'll get the components," he says, grim. "If they don't have something in place, they will fast, and we need to beat them to it."

"We don't have room for all the research, we have two extra people, we need…"

They squabble on, discussing what parts of her cabin to divide up, which parts of her mother's precious research to leave behind for these people who had tried to keep her ignorant. Try to make plans for something they don't know.

Delina pushes herself up to standing, and they both look at her.

"Make preparations, don't take any of my mother's stuff, and don't leave yet," she orders, and it's bizarre, giving edicts for something like this, when pretty much everyone else is better suited to leading them than her. "They might be guessing, and no movement would be more confusing than not. They're expecting you to run."

With that, she glances to the door that Maison disappeared to, and, with confidence she certainly doesn't feel, walks towards him and closes it behind herself.

The click of the door is loud, far louder, in the tiny room.

There's a small bed tucked in the corner, and the baby blue carpet is dusty with disuse. There's a single bare bookcase with Maison's paintings from the last few days drying on one of them, and a small suitcase leans up against a bedside table.

And Maison's sitting on the floor against the bed, his head in his hands.

"What do you want?" he asks, muffled behind his hands.

Delina would've absolutely greeted him the same way, so she dismisses the offense with a shrug, folding herself up so she's sitting next to him.

He doesn't move, and for a long moment she just sits next to him, listening to him breathe.

"You don't have to talk me through this," Maison says finally, after the moment of quiet stretches on, twisting and warping her perception of time. "I've dealt with this before."

"That sucks," Delina says baldly, and he lifts his head enough to look at her, really look at her. "I'm sorry."

"I know you didn't do anything for this," he mumbles, and there's actually wetness around his eyes. "They would've still made that call if you didn't bring me back, they would probably still hurt her if you didn't bring me back, and I would still be unable to do a damn thing about it if you didn't bring me back."

How many times did he struggle with this, with her blithely unaware next to him?

"Do you want to go to her?" Delina asks, and he makes a small noise in the back of his throat, something close to pain.

"I can't," he says, miserable, and he lets his head thump against the bed. "I can't and you know why."

Because of her. Because of that bond he described. Somewhere along the line it turned into a chain around his foot, anchoring him to her.

"All I can do is sit here, hope they think I'm dead, and hope they let my mom go sometime. I leave you, they'll kill you. They'll storm this place and shoot their way in and you'll be the first shot." He squeezes his eyes shut. "If they don't get you, the next time you slip up, a demon will. I can't do a goddamn thing."

"I'm gonna take it that if I say you don't need to stick around it's not gonna help?" Delina asks, and he shakes his head. "Then we go to them."

For a moment, she thought he misheard her, before he sits up straighter. "Delly, we can't."

"Why not?" she asks, and she doesn't truly know what she's saying, not really, but him sitting here in misery is equally not an option. "You don't want to leave me alone, we can't just let them hurt her, we go to them."

"Again, they could just kill you," Maison says, his voice rising in pitch.

"You don't think they would like to have someone who can bring people back from the dead in their possession? Like what Korhonen said? He brought out an entire demon in order to try to capture both of us." She challenges him, twisting so she's seated cross legged in front of him. "Let them think they can cheat death, get your mom out, then we run. All three of us."

He stares at her, then rubs his face. "It won't work."

"Why not?" she says again, as impish as she can, and it almost pulls a hint of a smile from him. "It'll require planning, but they're not expecting me to just go to them, it'll catch them off guard. We can go in, save her, then you don't have to sit here and worry about her."

"It's a lot more complicated than that," he says, which is expected, but his shoulders loosen, just a bit, and if she can get him out of this misery for a few minutes, then the conversation will be a success. "Nobody can just waltz in and ask for what they want."

She shrugs, which succeeds in drawing a smile from him as he shakes his head at her.

"Delina," he starts, "even if there was something we could do, we couldn't do it without more information," he says, and she can just feel his heart breaking just by sitting next to him. "If they think I'm going to do something, they're going to move her, they've done it before."

"When my dad broke his ankle?" Delina asks, and he nods.

"So even if I wanted to go burst in there, guns blazing, I…couldn't. I would need more information, we'd need to hack into their systems, we'd need to break in - which is incredibly complex by the way - and then we'd have to find her, all while they're on the lookout for us." He thumps his fist against his leg, a stark contrast to his calm words. "We can't just go in right now."

"Okay, so maybe tomorrow," Delina says, and he smiles, briefly. "Or the next day, my offer doesn't expire just because a few days have passed. It's not the worst idea."

"We need more information, and that will take days."

"Then we will get it," Delina protests.

"And if they spot movement from this area, they're almost certainly watching in some way, then they'll do worse, so we're literally stuck. Maybe Chloe and Gurlien can leave, they'd be sitting ducks if that demon is out there and they cross the circle, but we're stuck."

"I feel bad about that," Delina says. "I pretty much showed up on their doorsteps and blew up their lives. Nobody expected me."

"Nobody ever expects you," he says, and she's not sure if it's a compliment or not. "You're the singularly most confusing person I've ever met, and I've met some weird as hell people."

"You know, I think I believe you on that," Delina jokes, and they briefly, ever so briefly, share a smile. "Before this last…however long…" her mind refuses to believe that it's only been maybe a few weeks. "I would've laughed at the idea that your graphic design company had weird people, but apparently you know like vampires and shit."

"Vampires aren't real," Maison says, then pauses. "I think."

"You're apparently half spooky, so who knows."

That was a mistake, his smile fades at the remembrance of the situation they're in.

"Delina…" he starts, then squeezes his eyes shut again. "I appreciate the offer for help, you are under no obligation to do so."

"I know that," she replies, crabby, before she reaches out and grabs his knee, in a motion of confidence she doesn't fully feel.

A spark crackles from her hand to his jeans, and he flinches.

"I know that doesn't hurt you," Delina says, as if chiding him would make this any better. "I don't care if you want my help, I don't even know if I can help, I just don't want you to think you have to do it alone."

He looks at her, really looks at her, his lips turned down in a frown, his eyes pinched, and she makes herself meet his gaze. Doesn't turn away from the awkward, doesn't turn away from the creeping sensation that she should still be angry at him, doesn't turn away from the fact that she's not.

Finally, his lips twitch, and it's not a smile, not quite, but still, she's relieved.

"You're giving me a lot of mixed signals, Delly girl," he says, his voice deep and a little raw. "I can't figure out where your head is."

She gets the question.

"You ran away, you broke up with me, you saved my life, you're concerned with me, and now you're offering to put yourself in danger for me. Not for me, but for my mom, who you've literally never met." His hand settles over hers, still grasping his knee. "And I think you're trying to make me feel better?"

"Trying," Delina admits, and he gives her a soft smile at that. "Not sure I'm succeeding."

"Why?" His voice beaks, just a bit,

Because her heart hurts at the idea of him sitting here alone. Because she can tell he's upset just by his shoulders and the lines between his eyebrows.

Because he's held her through years of her depression, her helplessness at the rages of her own mind. Because he held her behind him when faced with someone there to end her, took the shot meant to kill her.

"Because five years, I guess," Delina admits. "If you want honesty."

Gentle, telegraphing his motions, he reaches up and cradles her chin. They're sitting so close to each other that her hip is pressed against his, her side against his.

And he's searching for something in her eyes, something in her expression, and she doesn't know what, so she just focuses on breathing, on making herself an open book for him to read.

"Honesty?" he asks, and she nods, of course. "Do you remember the Christmas we went to the town square lights? The first one?"

Of course she does. Prescott goes all in on Christmas lights around the courthouse, and the first year they went it actually snowed, leaving magical drifts of white with the lights twinkling through.

She had also just recovered from a bad bout of the flu, and had practically clung to him all day long, stubborn in the want to see the lights but utterly exhausted.

"And we went to the pizza place afterwards and it was so full and so warm? And they had the lights dimmed down so everyone could see the snow and the decorations outside?"

She doesn't know how this relates to any of their conversation, of his mother being hurt and the confusion between the two of them. They had gone to the lights every year after that, too.

"We were crammed in that tiny booth, there were people everywhere, and then you rested your head against my shoulder," he continues, and he gently pushes a strand of her hair behind her ear. "That's when it stopped being about my job to keep you happy, that's when I started wanting to make you happy."

That was well over four and a half years ago. They had been dating for maybe three months.

"With your head on my shoulder, with the noise and the dim lights and too many people, I felt myself crumble into love with you. You were so tired, and with just that little touch all my ideas of keeping a professional distance with a professional amount of affection just…evaporated." He gestures something flying away. "I never wanted to leave that moment."

"Oh," Delina says, soft.

"I still don't," he finishes, his voice so quiet she can barely hear him. "And now you…know. About me, about my parentage. About your mother and about all the lies. And I still don't want to do anything that would lead away from that peace I felt in the pizza parlor, staring out at Christmas lights. You were complaining about being too warm and making jokes about how many people were there and every word out of your mouth was the best thing I ever heard."

He ducks his head, as if this takes so much out of him to tell her, and his words hang in the air between them.

And it's on her to respond.

"More honesty?" Delina asks, and he nods as well. "I don't know if I'll be ever able to trust you again, fully. But I want to try."

Her heart pounds in her chest, and his face breaks.

"Delly…" he trails off.

"You are so not allowed to keep secrets from me anymore," she declares, as imperial as she can. "And that includes any details on how I can help with your mom."

He tugs her into a one crushing, heart breaking hug. The sort of hug where he clings to her, as if she is a life raft in the middle of an ocean, like she's the only thing that can keep his head above the water while he desperately treads.

She wraps her arms around him and clutches tight back.

His heart beats, loud and fast, and his arms tremble around her, like he's so scared of hurting her but can't hold any less tight, and she smushes her face into his chest.

"I don't ever want to lie to you again," he mumbles into her hair, pressing his cheek against the top of her head. "I don't. I don't."

They're still sitting on the carpet in the room, with his paintings spread over the bookcase and his small suitcase is leaned up against the bedside table, and it's so far away from the peace of Prescott. The air smells different, the frost creeping along the window is different, the brilliant green of the trees under the snow is different.

The knowledge they have is different.

Instead of just her boyfriend Maison, who paints and bakes cookies when he's stressed, who works with graphic design and likes her dad, it's Maison who put his life on the line for her. It's Maison the half-demon, whose artery broke and spilled blood throughout his body. It's Maison who is half terrified of her, of the problems her powers create. It's Maison who's spent almost every day in the last five years utterly stressed for her safety, who bent over backwards to make her happy.

It's Maison, who also misses his mom.

"I'm not gonna let you keep me away from helping you," she mumbles back. "You're gonna have to accept that, too."

His arms briefly tighten, before he pulls away, and that's all the warning she gets before he grabs her chin and kisses her.

They've kissed hundreds of times. Thousands, probably, over the last five years, but none have ever felt like this.

His lips sear against hers, as if he could consume her through just the act of passion. Like it's every bit of his willpower to not escalate, to not overpower her. His hand on her chin is hard, firm, keeping her in place, so even if she wanted to pull away, she couldn't.

She doesn't want to.

She arches her back, pressing against him, throwing her arms around his neck, tangling a hand in his soft brown hair. Every line of him, every touch, burns, blazing through her and any anger and frustration and leaving just…this.

He makes a note in the back of his throat, a soft, needy noise, and she opens her mouth to his, and he takes it. Greedily, like they've never kissed before and he will never get another chance again.

It sings through her blood, lighting a fire in her stomach, and she breaks the kiss just long enough to straddle his thighs, then grips him by the hair and pulls him back in.

He relents, happily, pulling her closer, a hand at the small of her back, holding her there, relentless, and she bites his bottom lip, and he groans, just like he always does.

It's not enough. It was everything, and then, suddenly, it's not enough, and she scrabbles to pull up her shirt, bare her skin so more of him can touch her, so his hands can circle her skin and warm her touch and—

Loud, a spark crackles from her hand.

They both jump, their lips breaking apart, and his eyes glow red, wide.

"Did you mean to do that?" he whispers, and his lips are wet.

"I still don't know what that is," she whispers back, gentling her hand in his hair, resting her forehead against his.

He grins at her, the sort of smile that takes away all of her fears and her stress, blowing them to the wind, and she smiles back, all sorts of foolish. "I don't either."

"Weird," she whispers, pressing a small kiss to his lips again, in between words. "Here I thought you might know everything."

"I wish," he responds, holding her tight against him, and it's so breathlessly easy, it's so breathlessly simple, sitting here straddled on his lap. Like she never left, like nothing ever happened between them. Like it's home.

She kisses him again, and his stubble scratches against her, his hands gripping her hips in place, his thumb brilliant against her skin, until—

The alarm blares through the cabin, and they jolt apart.

The satellite phone.

His eyes still glow red, and his cheeks are flushed, but his face sobers as they dimly hear Chloe answer it again, and the same woman's voice asking for Frederick once more.

And here she is, straddling him with her shirt off.

"Oh," she whispers, pulling back, reaching for her shirt, and he hands it to her where it fell next to his bed.

"Yeah," he whispers back, briefly squeezing his eyes shut, breathing in deep, getting himself under control. "They're not going to stop."

She shrugs her shirt back on, awkwardly climbing off his lap, and he rubs his face.

"Let's go back out there and plan," she says, hoping her voice is steady, "and we will continue this later."

He blinks up at her, like it's the last time he'll see her face. "I'll hold you to that, I will," he warns, and it tugs a smile from her, almost against her wishes, as he flattens down his hair from her mussing and adjusts his jeans.

It's just as familiar of motion as he always did, before he climbs to his feet, offering her a hand up.

This time, she takes it.