The scent of salt that flooded the air was so strong that my eyes watered. Kane’s skin turned iridescent purple, coated with his magic poison. “Come again?”
Rohan stepped back. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry, man. I just–fuck.”
I pressed against the wall, letting the shadows cover me as Rohan blew past, headed downstairs. He was bound for the Vault to blow off steam. Again.
I crawled back into bed but sleep was a long time coming.
Waking up Sunday morning was a painful experience. I stomped into the kitchen, prepared to snarl at anyone that got between me and coffee. I flung open a cupboard, grabbed a mug, and did a double take.
The paintbrush on the counter was back to its original color.
“I’m guessing you heard our little chat?” Kane braced his hands at the top of the doorframe, leaning into the kitchen. His lime green pajama bottoms slid a tantalizing smidge down his hip and his bare chest showed off his perfect six-pack and the barbell jewelry in each nipple. His spiky hair was a bed-headed snarl. “Stop objectifying me. It’ll only depress you that you can’t have any of my magnificence.” He slapped his rock-hard abs.
I mustered up a weak smile, worried that my relationship with Kane had been damaged by Rohan being a jerk. “About last night. I’m–”
Kane plucked my empty mug out of my hands, effectively shutting me up. “Ro’s his own person. Just because you’re dating doesn’t mean you have to apologize for him. You’re not responsible for him.” He poured himself coffee.
Wasn’t that what happened when you were in a couple? You apologized for the other person? Or had that just been me for my ex, Cole, especially near the end? I had all of one whopping teen relationship to draw on, and given how strong a personality Ro was and where we were in our lives, it wasn’t much of a guide. “I’m not sure how responsible he is for himself right now.”
Kane took a stupid long time hogging the sugar. “He’s hyper-sensitive about anyone failing him. Don’t care. We’ve all got our hot buttons. He doesn’t have to keep repeating the same script.”
Mature me did not point out his hypocrisy as he went into week three of not speaking to my brother. Besides, antagonizing him wasn’t going to get me the sugar any faster. I dumped a splash of milk in my coffee, then stood pressed up against him until he got annoyed enough to hand the green-glazed sugar jug over.
I finally got that first delicious taste of caffeine, picked up the paintbrush, and ruffled my thumb through the bristles.
“What’s so fascinating, babyslay?”
“Last night this paintbrush was blue.”
“Blue how?” Kane snagged a banana out of the bowl on the counter and unpeeled it.
“Signature spell.”
“It should still be blue.” He swallowed about half in one bite while I limited my inappropriate thoughts to a scant dozen or so.
I sipped my coffee. “You’d think.”
Ari walked in, already dressed in black on black. Shocking. “Morning, Nee.” His eyes flicked over Kane’s chest for the barest second.
Kane didn’t react. Or greet him. But his eyes lingered on my twin.
Sexual tension and simmering frustration, not a combo I ever wanted to experience again.
“Good morning, Ace.” I poked Kane in the hip. He swatted my hand away.
Ari swiped my coffee away, took a sip, grimaced, and shoved it back into my hands.
I shook sloshing java off my fingers. “I was enjoying that.”
“No, you weren’t. You get a new paintbrush?”
“Nope. Wait here. I want to see something.” Making a big show of clutching my coffee to my chest, I retrieved the last of the Sweet Tooth from my bedroom and brought it back to the kitchen.
I slapped the vial into Ari’s hand. “Check it out. It’s not pink anymore.” No more crystals either, just a fine white powder.
“I see that.” He inspected it. “Looks like corn starch.”
Kane slow-clapped him.
I muscled in between them. “Quit being assholes. You guys have to keep each other alive in a couple days.” I dipped the tip of my pinky into the powder and licked my finger. “Corn starch it is. Whatever magic element was combined with it to make the Sweet Tooth is gone.”
Kane held the vial up to the light. “If the magic has a short shelf life, that makes this stuff more valuable. Limited supply.”
“He’s right. Oh, shut up,” Ari said at Kane’s gloat.
“Gawd,” I muttered. I snagged a croissant from the bag on the counter and went in search of Rohan.
He’d set up shop in the library and dragged the whiteboard upstairs from the conference room. On it he’d scrawled a list of demons with any type of toxin or hallucinogen. His cramped writing covered the board.
Rohan was sprawled on one of the sofas grouped near the fireplace. Big chunks of the floor-to-ceiling bookcases were empty, with half-open books strewn over chairs, the long table that ran along the window, and the Persian carpet. “It’s the list that won’t quit,” he groused.
He read my “Karma is like 69” T-shirt and laughed, resting his head back against the top of the sofa. “A joke for every occasion.”
“I’m a regular walking comedienne,” I said waspishly. Snarky comments were the last thing I needed from him right now.
“You are. You’re always ready to laugh shit off. I need that.”
Oh. He wasn’t being sarcastic. I plopped down next to him, resting my head on his shoulder as I perused the database entry on his laptop. Lavellan: a poisonous water shrew.
“Fun new development.” I told him about the evaporating magic. “Could that help knock some spawn off the list?”
“Not sure. I doubt anyone did tests on how long any of these poisons last.”
“Because they’d rather kill the demons producing the poison than study them.”
“Even so.” Rohan settled a pillow behind his back. “How short is this shelf life? A day? A month?”
I pulled the laptop over. “Let’s hope that Aida hasn’t skipped town.”
“At least we know wreta demons aren’t responsible for Sweet Tooth.” Wretas needed to be present for their drug to be consumed. The user generally sucked the secretion straight off the demon, though they could just fling prismatic drops at you to get you hooked if so inclined. It was possible that the demons had found a way to anchor their secretion in corn starch, but Sweet Tooth didn’t behave the way the wreta’s hallucinatory bliss did. Wreta secretions were powerfully addictive–Christina couldn’t have done it a couple of times and walked away. She’d have been emaciated, sucked dry, seen her hair fall out, and also be most likely dead now.
My fingers flew over the keyboard. Our lunch detritus ended up shoved to one end of the library table, and I took the occasional pull of the bottle of Coke at my elbow despite it having gone flat, warm, and gross about an hour ago.
Our digging did yield a few notable facts about wretas: they tended to live in groups and if they didn’t secrete on a regular basis, they stank like a noxious sewer. This resulted in them living close to waste-producing industries.