“You’re not much of an animal person, are you?” Michael pushed his hood back and bent over to give the tabby a pat on its head. “Nice kitty.”
Feeling another sneeze coming on, I buried the lower half of my face in the crook of my arm to muffle the wet explosion. “That nice kitty is suffocating me,” I said nasally before straightening. “Stay here. I’m going to check out the house and make sure we’re alone.”
I did a quick run-through of the place. Everything was old. The furniture, appliances, rugs—all dated to several decades before my birth. Even the quilts on the beds were faded and worn; the afghans raveled and covered with fuzz balls. It definitely belonged to an old lady. Two bedrooms, a bathroom with a claw-foot tub and cloudy mirror, and a sewing room made up the second floor. After a quick look around, I concentrated on scooping up two blankets, a quilt, and a pillow before heading back down the stairs.
Michael was sitting on the bottom step, leaning against the wall. He was fast asleep and he wasn’t alone. One of the cats had seized the opportunity to curl up in a convenient lap. Annoyed at the competition, Zilla had crawled out of the ski jacket and was currently racing up the banister. I let it go. If anyone was a match for three cats, it would be that damn ferret. “Misha.” I shook his shoulder lightly before shooing off the cat. “Come on.”
His eyes opened, just barely, and he allowed me to shepherd him to the couch in the living room. The cushions sagged from years and years of use, but he didn’t seem to mind as he dropped onto it. He could’ve used one of the beds upstairs, but if we had to make a sudden getaway, being on the ground floor would be best. As Michael slithered out of his jacket and with clumsy fingers worked on removing his gloves, I helped him with his shoes. The laces were too encrusted with ice and snow to untie and I didn’t even try, simply pulling them off. The socks went too, a sodden pile on the rug. “All right, kiddo. Down you go.”
He obeyed without argument, showing me how exhausted he truly was. Michael had shown that he wasn’t one to let me fuss over him, at least not without some self-deprecating or distancing remark. But now . . . he was like a tired five-year-old, obedient and docile. It brought back memories. God, did it. Lukas had been able to sleep anytime, anywhere. There had been many times I’d hauled him from an unconscious heap on the floor to lift him into his bed without waking him. His name had changed, but inside he was still Lukas. It was like they said. The more things change, the more they stay the same.
In the here and now I slid the pillow under his head and piled on the blankets. “Sleep for a few hours. I’ll keep an eye out.” His eyes closed, but his mouth twisted downward. A hand slipped out of the blankets to move his thumb back and forth across the rough texture of the worn cotton in a self-soothing motion. It wasn’t sleep. It wasn’t even a good imitation. I thumped his chin lightly with a finger. “I said sleep, not mope.”
With eyes still closed and a voice thick with a fatigue he couldn’t completely fight, he said softly, “I told myself I couldn’t get attached.”
Confused, I eased from a crouch to a sitting position on the floor. “Misha . . .”
He ignored me. “After John . . . I couldn’t do it. Wouldn’t. People go away; they die. I knew . . . know better than to get attached to anyone.” There was anger underscoring the words, anger and resignation. “Why did you make me?”
Ah. Damn. The kid could make me happy as hell and rip me up inside all in one fell swoop. Trust was a ridiculously hard step for even the well-adjusted. For the rest of us walking wounded, it was nearly impossible. But Michael had already demonstrated that impossible wasn’t a word that applied to him. That didn’t make the wonder any less for me. He was coming to accept me, to trust me. And because of that, he now was also terrified of me. The one person he remembered relying on had left him . . . had died. It was one thing to be deserted by someone you cared for; it was a completely different circle of Hell to be abandoned by your family . . . by your brother.
“I’m your family, Michael. I won’t leave you,” I promised. “And I won’t die. Not until I’m knee-deep in dentures and adult diapers.”
“You can’t know that.” His eyes opened, and the challenge in them was clear.
“No?” I rested my shoulder against the couch. “I knew I’d find you, didn’t I? I know lots of things. I knew you’d get me a god-awful ugly coat. Hell, I’m practically psychic.”