“Sure did. Flat-lined. I was gone for three and a half minutes then my heart just started up again. No clue why. I was unconscious when the ambulance took me to the hospital and they lost me on the way there. Then I was just back. Mom said it was because I had something important to do. I didn’t tell her that suddenly everything seemed important to do.”
When he reached for my hand this time, I let him take it and lead me to the couch. Suddenly all my usual reactions were suspect. I was seeing each of them as potentially the last thing I’d ever do with him.
I put my bowl of fruit on the coffee table, no longer hungry. As I sank down and tucked my legs beneath me, he reached for a pack of matches and lit two candles on the table in front of us, put the matches back down and stood looking at me for a long moment. “Do you know how beautiful you are?” he finally said.
I shrugged it off. “I figured it out Silverside.”
He burst out laughing. “Christ, I should have known that’d be your response. You clinically assessed yourself, decided you were symmetrical and your features met some obscure mathematical criteria, you had gorgeous skin and flaming hair to top it off and were therefore beautiful.”
That had pretty much been it. That, and my appearance had proved an effective distraction in battle with men.
“So,” he said, taking a seat next to me. “What did Caoimhe tell you?”
I was more acutely aware of his body next to mine than I’d ever been. His sudden…impermanence seemed to erase all filters from my vision, leaving only a young, very hot, very brilliant man that I cared deeply about. “Only the diagnosis.” I didn’t want to know and I had to know. “How bad is it?”
He looked away a moment and when he looked back at me he said, “Let’s put it this way: I know I have to live each day to the fullest, and I’ve known that for a long time.”
I suddenly understood something I’d never been able to fathom about him before. He’d always been completely unfazed by folks like Barrons and Ryodan, Christian, even the Fae, and I’d endlessly wondered why. I’d admired him enormously for it, been quietly proud of him each time he stood his ground with such powerful immortals, because it had never been bluster, just confidence and laissez-faire equanimity. I knew why now: he’d been living with the threat of death most of his adult life. “Caoimhe loves you,” I told him, with absolutely no idea why I’d just said that.
Apparently he liked hearing it, though, because his grin widened. “I know.”
His response left me feeling unsatisfied and weirdly anxious. I know? That was it? Did he love her? Were they boyfriend and girlfriend? On the verge of setting up house together? Did he bring her here? Cripes, maybe she’d picked out his furnishings for him, brought him the rugs and candles!
I was out of here. I couldn’t deal with this. Any of it. I turned away and began to push up then glanced back and said, “So, are you and Caoimhe…” I trailed off as I sank back down. I was out of my depth. I wanted to leave. I couldn’t leave. My butt was a spring that couldn’t make up its mind, bouncing me off the sofa, dragging me back. I was conflicted by the sure knowledge that the hands of time were eating away at one more thing in my life. Clocks. Of course. Kill the clocks, those time-thieving bastards, he’d written. He’d been telling me, in his own way, the night he gave me the poem and the bracelet, that time was short and every moment mattered. I closed my eyes, recalling the last stanza. It had been his wake-up call, the one he’d been trying to get me to hear, without incurring the risk of me refusing to accept it and running away.
Kill the clocks and live in the moment
No cogs or gears can steal our now
When you laugh with me, Mega, time stands still
In that moment, I’m perfect somehow
Being with me gave him that—the feeling of being unhunted, unhaunted by the ancient, eternal Footman who was holding his coat at the ready, any day, anytime.
“What are you trying to ask me?” he said levelly.
“Do you and…” I trailed off again.
He let the silence stretch, watching me intently, gaze shifting from my right eye to my left and back again. Finally he prodded gently, “What, Mega? What do you want to know?”
“Have you and Caoimhe—bugger it, Dancer, help me out here!”
“You want to know if we’re lovers,” he said with such quiet maturity that I shifted uncomfortably.
He hadn’t said boyfriend or date. He’d used a word that had made me abruptly picture his long strong body stretched out on top of Caoimhe as he whispered something passionate in her ear, regarded her with desire. And it made my stomach feel hot and tight.
“Why is that so hard to ask? You just have to say, ‘Dancer, are you Caoimhe’s lover?’?”
I scowled, poised on the verge of freeze-framing out the door and never coming back.
He leaned back, kicked his long legs up on the coffee table and spread his arms wide along the back of the sofa, and I got the distinct impression he knew exactly how good it made him look. Showing off his pecs and those arms he’d worked so hard to make cut and strong, arms that could wrap around me when we rode the Ducati. He flashed me a smile. “Nah. I’m still a virgin.”
I gaped with disbelief. “You are?”