“No,” Midas and I said together and then laughed and then stopped when Ambrose joined us.
Frak, that was creepy. I had to talk to Linus about how to put Ambrose in timeout when Midas and I exercised in the future. He was no Boy Scout, and taking his word he wasn’t watching or listening in was stretching my faith in him.
Even a dead guy was still a guy.
And I was the vehicle through which he navigated life. I was fine with that. I had made my choice. But I wanted our shared ride to have a steering wheel and brake pedal so I could park him when I wanted alone time with my mate.
“Shall we?” Ambrose took the steps down to Remy with a bounce in his gait. “Popcorn, you said?”
“Can you not smell it?” Another thought occurred to me. “Can you smell anything?”
“Myriad flavors of magic.”
“Flavor is taste, not scent.”
“The two senses are intertwined for the living. What I lack in one area, the other provides.”
“Hmm.” I followed him onto the level with the door. “So, why the chocolate?”
It wasn’t magic, so it didn’t have a flavor. Or…crap. That wasn’t quite right, was it?
“The spells used to keep the chocolate from melting.” I answered my own question. “You like those.”
He was a snob, and his addiction to high-end magically crafted chocolates, like the ones Choco-Loco sold, cost me a fortune.
“There are others, more subtle ones, not listed on the menu. All are benign, most enhance flavor.”
That made sense, but it did make me wonder where they hid the fine print on how liberally magic was applied to their treats. Sure, most folks were buying for themselves, their sweethearts, or as gifts, but if I was buying treats for a magic-eating boogeyman, then surely someone else…
Okay.
That was unlikely.
But they should still give me the option of skimming the fine print by posting it where I could easily ignore it.
“You eat other food,” I pressed. “You beg for leftovers all the time.”
Which made him sound like a dog.
Oops.
“There are limits on what I can give for free,” he said after a moment’s consideration. “I am not unlike the fae in that manner, in that a balance must be struck. That is part of our bargain. Any exchange between us must be equitable or mutually beneficial.”
His murder spree hadn’t been mutually beneficial, not by a long shot, but the use of his power in exchange for the use of my body was equitable. Once behind the wheel, he had free will. And total control of me. I couldn’t stop him from doing whatever he chose while balancing the scales between us.
The takeaway here, for me, was I needed to pay him in chocolate for absolutely everything to keep our slate clean.
“And,” he confessed, “you tend to eat food that has passed through many hands.”
Wrinkling my nose, I reconsidered my food truck addiction. “You make it sound so appetizing.”
“Bits of the cooks’ and servers’ magic flavor the meals, a seasoning of sorts, and I can appreciate those subtle hints.”
That made sense as to why he preferred certain leftovers to others. Plenty of humans worked in the food service industry, and he wouldn’t gain nourishment from them.
We stopped before the second gateway, and Ambrose began to prowl around it, doing his thing.
As he did, a blur of white streaked past, and its taloned fingers raked the length of his spine.
Frak.
That was not good.
The spirits couldn’t hurt the living, but…Ambrose was dead. He had been a shade, albeit a powerful one, when I struck my bargain with him. It hadn’t occurred to me that he might be in danger from the souls. I had taken Vasco’s sweeping statement about my immunity as encompassing Ambrose too.
A vicious growl poured out of him as he spun toward the spirit and took one step toward it. “No.”
Feathers quivered in its hair, and a possumlike tail, thick and meaty, flexed and curled as it watched him.
“I am a devourer,” he said when it continued defying him. “You are but a morsel for me to snap between my teeth, and when I swallow, you will be no more.”
Hissing and spitting, it backed off a safe distance, but it didn’t leave.
Ambrose inclined his head toward the spirit. “I will not harm you if you give me no cause.”
One or two others joined it, but none of them ventured closer, and none of them dared strike again.
We must be alone in the archive. Without the coven’s lullaby, souls were rousing from their slumber.
“You could snack your way through this place,” I realized. “Talk about all-you-can-eat. This is a buffet.”
“I could, yes, but I won’t.” Ambrose observed the gathering, unable to hide the predatory gleam in his eyes. “These beings have suffered enough without me inflicting myself upon them.”
That tread dangerously close to him expressing remorse, and I wasn’t willing to touch it with a ten-foot pole. I couldn’t afford to be sucked in—or suckered in—if that was his game.
This much exposure to an Ambrose capable of verbal and emotional manipulation couldn’t be good for me. I couldn’t walk through any of the doors he was leaving open. Not yet. Not when I couldn’t trust his word fully. Not when my friends, and my city, were on the line.
Ignoring his hostile audience, Ambrose returned his attention to the gateway.
A faint vibration in my pocket did not make me squeak or jump back.
“What’s wrong?” Midas jerked toward me, hands lifting in a defensive pose. “Hadley?”
“I got a text.” I laughed, surprised. “It must be the proximity to the gateway.”
“You were supposed to turn off your phone,” Remy reminded me. “I’m amazed it’s not fried.”
“I did turn it off.” I thumbed the screen. “Or maybe I put it on silent out of habit.”
Phones these days never got shut down, unless they ran out of juice, but I ought to have checked mine.
Rolling her eyes, Remy gave me a bland stare devoid of surprise. “Any news from topside?”
Bishop had flooded my inbox while I was incommunicado, and I swallowed hard as I read them, wishing I could put his mind at ease.
>>The hearts are gone.
>>Remy took the hearts.
>>Abort the mission.
>>Abort.
Then, as if he had given up hope of stopping me, he slid into update mode.
>>I texted Midas to inform him of the situation.
>>Damn fool won’t text me back.
>>You’re probably together by now.
The next to last one crocheted my gut into a matched set of potholders.
>>A coven emissary demanded we hand over Liz. We refused. Now it’s their move.
The final entry frogged the potholders then tried to go bigger, like maybe a blanket.
>>The Faraday is under attack.
>>I don’t know how long we can hold them off.
>>If I don’t get another chance to say it…
>>…you’re the best friend I’ve ever had, kid.
I shook my phone, but no more texts fell out of it.
>Hold on, Bish. We’re coming. Just hang in there a little longer, okay?