Chiara collapsed on the couch. Eyes closed. Chest heaving. As before, the room was completely undisturbed. The dark slime had affected only me. A scar now hovered in the corner near the door.
What. The. Hell.
Weakness swamped me. Stunned, I allowed my body to sink to the floor. Shaky. Unsteady.
Questions flickered through my brain.
Why had the scar suddenly appeared here? Why had the Chucky-slime emerged? And why with Chiara this time? Why had my finger flickered in and out of corporeality?
Were the scars and Chucky-slime tied to me in the end and not the D’Angelos?
Clearly, something between my ghost state and my physical state affected the scars. My finger fluctuatinghadto be a connection.
But beyond that . . . I sorted through ideas and options, arriving at several potential answers but nothing concrete. I needed to discuss them with Chiara when she awoke.
In the meantime, was I in danger? The Chucky-slime was strong. Would it continue to emerge? And did I care, given Chiara’s current situation? I had come so close to losing her earlier on the highway. If I hadn’t been with her and able to distract the assassins . . .
My heart clenched painfully, lurching into my throat.
I couldn’t leave Chiara alone. She could sleepwalk heaven only knew where. And as long as this thing with the Tempeste family remained unresolved, she would be threatened. I would offer what protection I could. To that end, I scooted closer to the couch. Chiara had drifted back into a deep sleep, her breathing regular.
I adored watching Chiara sleep. Creepy but true. When awake, she was always in motion. So to be able to sit and stare at her . . . her face relaxed in sleep. The faint hint of laugh lines curving toward her mouth like parentheses. The tiny mole next to her right ear. The way her hair curled against her throat.
She was safe. She was here. I was here.
For now . . . that simply had to be enough.
Hours later, midday sunlight crept across the stone floor. I stood and crossed to the window. The Mediterranean Sea spread before me in absolute blue glory. Given our late arrival the night before, I hadn’t noticed the view.
The apartment was part of a medieval house scrambling up the cliff. Glancing down, a narrow lane ran in front of the building—the only thing between the house and a short drop to the ocean below. To the left, houses crowded around a small harbor, structure after structure built on the back of the one in front of it, climbing the steep hillside until the houses melted into sprawling vineyards.
A groan sounded from the couch behind me. I turned just as Chiara sat up, wincing in the bright sunlight.
She pushed the mass of her dark hair away and shaded her eyes, looking for me. “I take it I sleepwalked again last night.” It wasn’t a question.
I nodded.
“Care to elaborate?” she asked.
“You said some weird things. Then, a scar appeared. It opened, and the Chucky-slime tried to pull me through.”
Chiara recoiled, sucking in a hissing breath. “Could you be more blasé about it?”
“Probably.”
She threw her hands up with a disgusted noise. “You stupid British gentlemen and your dumb concept ofennui.”
I suppressed a grin.
I recounted as best I could what had happened: her odd, gravely voice and words about lightning. My finger flickering and the scar appearing and then fracturing open. Chucky-slime emerging and trying to devour me.
She listened without comment, though her quick breathing and convulsive swallowing betrayed her anxiety as I described the Chucky-slime.
When I was done, she didn’t immediately say anything. Instead, she rubbed her hands against her thighs and plucked some fluff from the bottom of her shirt.
I expected her to speak, to explain. Chiara wasneversilent. Onanytopic. That alone had alarm bells clamoring around my brain.
“You’re being awfully quiet,” I said.
