Amon suddenly seemed nervous and dropped his eyes. “Your”—he gestured to my midsection—“inner workings, your viscera—the stomach, lungs, liver, intestines, even your heart—are linked to mine. This connection has caused you pain. I am sorry for this, but I was desperate. You see, I cannot survive long in this world without my jars of death, and since—”
I held up my hand. “Wait. A. Minute,” I said, punctuating each word. “Are you saying that you’re borrowing my ‘inner workings’ because you couldn’t find your canopic jars?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re serious?”
“Yes.”
There wasn’t even a hint on his face to say he was anything but sincere. All right. I decided to go along with the craziness for just a moment and try to figure out what exactly was getting lost in translation. At least I was now getting some answers.
“So you’re saying that I’ve been feeling sick because of this spell you cast.”
“Your thoughts are correct.”
“And so…you’re what, exactly? An organ vampire?” A mind-melding vampire was something I understood if not believed in.
“I do not understand ‘vampire.’?”
“You know. A bloodsucker. A garlic hater. Turns into a bat. A sparkly demon that avoids sunlight. That sort of thing.”
“I do not avoid sunlight; the sun strengthens me. And I do not drink blood.”
“Uh-huh. So that makes you a…” I did the mom trick and waited for him to fill in the blank, but he just stood there looking at me.
“Okay,” I said, embracing my inner sarcasm. “Then choose the answer that best applies to you. ‘I am (a) crazy, (b) a tanning-slash-workout junkie, (c) an ax murderer looking for a place to put his organs, or (d) a figment of Lily’s very inventive imagination.’?”
He frowned. “I am lucid of mind, Lily. I do not understand ‘tanning,’ and the only lives I have ever taken were those of evil men.”
I was about to ask a question about the killing of evil men when Amon strode boldly toward me. Again, I found I couldn’t move, though his increasing proximity was setting off alarms in my brain. He gently pressed his palm to my cheek and gazed at me with eyes greener than the grass in Ireland.
Instantly, I became aware of his unique scent—liquid amber with a kiss of cashmere and a hint of myrrh warmed in the sun. I liked it. A lot. I didn’t want to. My cheek burned where his palm rested, and I found I couldn’t turn away from him.
With the utmost earnestness, he asked, “Does my touch prove to you that I am a real man and not someone found only in your dreams?”
My throat had suddenly gone dry. I made an effort to swallow and reply, but instead I focused on his full lips and merely nodded, especially when I realized that I didn’t really know how to answer his question.
His hand slipped down my face to cup my chin, and he studied my expression for a moment before saying, “You do not need to fear me, Lily. You are hurting because of my actions. Please let me help.”
After he said that, I was able to focus once again on the throbbing at the base of my neck, the ache in my limbs, and the nauseating quiver in my stomach. I nodded, confused but trusting at that moment, despite the other half of my mind protesting to the contrary.
Amon took a step closer, miles of bare chest mere inches from me, and even without coming into full-body contact, I felt prickles of warmth sink into my frame like I’d been shot with little solar arrows.
Closing his eyes, Amon placed his hands on my neck and cupped it gently. The thought briefly occurred to me that I might soon be strangled, but he held me as carefully as a butterfly. He began murmuring and his hands burned in a VapoRub kind of way. My skin tingled as heat ran through my body, shutting off the pain and leaving a blessed numbness in its wake.
When Amon lifted his head and staggered back a few steps, I could see the cost of whatever it was he had done. His golden skin now had a gray, pasty tinge and his bright eyes looked tired, more brown than green.
Sinking on to the nearest piece of patio furniture, Amon buried his face in his hands, his chest rising and falling quickly, his breathing as shallow as if he had just run a race.