“No, it wasn’t like that.” Cinn fought to keep the impatience out of his voice. He’d been trying to explain his latest trip to the shadowrealm for at least half an hour, and the exhaustion of the day was getting the better of him.
As soon as they’d returned to Auri, they’d driven straight back to Darcy’s cottage together, all piling onto the rug on her living room floor, jostling to be closest to her fireplace. Darcy had lost the battle, so went to make tea. Upon her return, the recount had began.
“What I’m still trying to figure out,” said Julien, wrinkling his nose. “Is what version of the so-called ‘shadowrealm’ you went to if there were no spirits there to shape its form? I know Béatrice was there last time, but it can’t have been an imprint of her memory, or aprojection of her reality, or however Noir phrases it to you.” Julien took a noisy slurp of his tea, and Darcy shot him a dirty look.
“I’ve no idea,” Cinn replied, facing the fire. He’d pointedly avoided any level of eye contact with Julien since their return. Already he was plotting how to delay the inevitable conversation they’d now have to have, following their…entanglementearlier. He could only hope by the time it occurred, he would have found a more eloquent way of phrasing ‘that was the hottest kiss of my life, but please don’t kiss me again because my stupid brain can’t handle it’.
“Could it be…” Darcy started.
“Spit it out.” Elliot leaned forward to take another cookie. They were Darcy’s pistachio nut creations, sadly not the vanilla ones with dark chocolate chips Cinn was determined to perfect.
Darcy dragged out the pause before declaring, “What if… it’s theumbraphage’sprojected reality?”
A charged silence as everyone considered her words.
“That… makes a lot of sense,” said Cinn.
It also raised a lot of questions, which Julien soon voiced. “But why did he go there that first time when there wasn’t an umbraphage about? And why do they live in that nightmarish version of London?”
Elliot rose to his feet, rolling his shoulders that surely ached after his earlier efforts. “I’m going to head off. We still on for Béatrice attempt number two tomorrow afternoon? I have the day off.”
Julien’s eyes shot to Cinn. “I’m not so sure that’s a good idea anymore.”
“What?” Elliot snapped. “You mean we ripped a rib off her dead body for nothing?”
Julien winced. “But the umbraphages—”
“Can’t hurt me in the shadowrealm,” Cinn said, with conviction he didn’t truly feel. “Besides, I want to go back. The shadowmote had more to show me, I’m sure of it, before you made me return.”
“Oui, I’m so sorry about that,” said Julien sulkily. “Next time I’ll just leave you to your precious version of London, where the fucking moon is fractured and red ivy has eaten everything. And stop touching that.” Julien leaned over to knock Cinn’s hand away from his now-bandaged wrist. The burns underneath the fabric itched like hell, despite the strange concoctions Darcy had smeared on it.
Elliot shot the pair of them a quick half smile. “See you tomorrow,” he said, before abruptly turning to leave. Darcy started stacking cups, and a few moments later, the muffled roar of Elliot’s motorcycle reverberated through the walls.
“It’s almost midnight,” said Julien to Darcy, a slight pleading tone seeping into his voice, before yawning dramatically.
“Oh, for God’s sake, fine, you two can stay. But use thesparetoothbrush,notmine. And help me get the blankets out of the cupboard.”
Julien jumped up, beaming so wide Cinn almost laughed, to follow her out of the room. Shortly after, a hissed argument was faintly audible from the corridor. “I mean it, Julien!” Darcy’s voice warned, followed by a door closing.
Hovering just outside the bathroom, Cinn waited for Julien to be done brushing his teeth, accidentally locking eyes with him multiple times in the mirror. Andfuck, did each time do something to him. Julien’s subtle smirk as he handed over the toothbrush told Cinn he knew exactly what he was doing.
Cinn rinsed it for a full ten seconds before putting it in his mouth.
When he re-entered the living room, Julien was dumping an armful of blankets onto the rug. “You’re on the sofa, I’m on the floor.”
Cinn was about to protest, but itwasJulien’s choice not to drive them back to their own beds. If he wanted to wake up tomorrow with a bad back and a cricked neck, so be it. He did leave Julien the softest-looking blanket in exchange, though, choosing a patchwork quilt that looked rather handmade. A closer inspection revealed the initials BM stitched into the corner.
As Cinn settled into the admittedly comfortable sofa—no wonder Julien loved sleeping on it—a nicotine craving hit him, but entering the garden alone with Julien, out of the safety of Darcy’s earshot, seemed like risky territory.
He lay on his back, facing the ceiling with its rustic wooden beams, and traced with his eyes a route of tiny imperfections in the wood.
“Can I ask you something?” Julien said, and Cinn wanted to sink into the sofa’s shell.
“Yes,” he finally replied, every muscle held tense. He really didn’t have the energy to talk aboutthe kisstonight.
Julien paused, then said, “Earlier, when you stopped outside of the Displacement Baths. You were freaking out about being fully submerged in water.”
Cinn’s tired mind reeled from the unexpected direction of the conversation. “Is that a question?”
