“See if you can do some more digging.”
“Of course.”
Lance looked up at the sound of a door and to his astonishment saw Mel striding toward his truck carrying a steaming mug. He was so surprised he didn’t even reply to Gawain as he hung up.
He immediately scrambled out of the SUV and met him before he could leave the sidewalk. The dimples were back, and Lance groaned inaudibly when Mel smiled. He thrust the mug into his hand. “If you’re going to sit out here all night, you might as well have a warm drink. Sorry, it’s not coffee. Just regular breakfast tea.” He waved a couple of little white packets at him. “Sugar?”
Lance frowned. Mel shouldn’t be standing out here. “It isn’t safe—”
Mel lifted an eyebrow in derision. “No, the neighborhood’s shit. So, wanna tell me what you’re doing here?” He eyed the clearly expensive SUV. “No one can afford protection.”
Lance huffed at the implication. “How about you invite me up so I can drink my tea and explain.” He took a cautious sip. He actually wished it was brandy. What the hell was he going to say?
Mel stared at him, clearly undecided.
Lance sighed and drew himself up tall. “Look, we can’t talk out here. I saved your life.” He took another sip. “And you brought me tea. How scary is that?”
“You clearly never met my gran,” Mel answered dryly, shaking his head as if he knew he was going to regret his decision. “Come on, then. I have some cookies that go well with tea. Mrs. Jackson from downstairs gets them.” He followed his glance toward the rap music still blaring out from the basement apartment. “That’s Mrs. Jackson’s grandson, Emile.” Mel sighed. “She’s deaf. Unfortunately, no one else is.”
Lance smiled at Mel’s muttered words and followed him inside. He spent the four flights of stairs leading to his apartment trying to compose an opening to his explanation. Something told him that anything involving the words immortal or fifteen hundred-year-old witch’s curse might not get him another cup of tea, probably not any cookies, and definitely not the answers he needed.
* * *