“Speaking of Daphne Stills,” Felipe said, pulling the notepad from his pocket and flipping to the last page, “Lucien said you were there when Sheriff Ridder tried to kill her.”
Will straightened like a bow pulled taut. “I was.”
“Oliver is a medical examiner, and when we took a look at his corpse the other day, we were curious how you knew Ridder was already dead when he tried to attack your aunt.”
“His skin looked wrong, and he smelled. I’ve— I’ve seen plenty of dead people. Some fresher than others.”
“But not Lucien?”
“No, never Lucien.”
“Can you think of any reason Sheriff Ridder would want to kill your aunt?”
Will stared out the open window for so long that Oliver thought he wouldn’t answer. Shutting his eyes, Will tucked his legs closer as the plants stretched toward him once more. “At my sister’s funeral, I— I had a breakdown in front of the whole town. It was the last time I was allowed out of the house. I didn’t say anything, but Horace finally grew suspicious of us. There’s been too much death to ignore.” Without a word, Will got up and went to the telescope. In three swift movements, he adjusted its position and put his eye to the lens. “They’ll be leaving at any moment. You all need to go.”
When none of them moved, Will raised his gaze to Oliver’s, and in his green eyes, he could see a wealth of pain left unspoken. “Now,please. I’ll— I’ll help you down.”
This time Felipe went first when the vines reached up to grab them. As Will levitated Gwen to the ground, Oliver watched his cousin. A haunted look hollowed his cheeks and drained what little color he had left. Reaching into his pocket, Oliver fished out a hunk of cheese wrapped tightly in wax paper and left it on the bed between the maps and books of family history. It wasn’t much, but he hoped he had at least gained that much trust. When Will called him to the window, Oliver hesitated.
“How will we get word to you if we need to see you?”
“I don’t suggest you try. My aunt and uncle read anything that comes for me.”
“Then, we will give it to the vines, or Gwen will levitate it to your window. I promise we’ll figure this out.”
A shadow passed across his features. “If you say so, and if I think of anything, I’ll find a way to get it to you.”
As Oliver drew closer, Will’s eyes ran over his face and form as if trying to commit him to memory. Oliver didn’t like that look. He had seen that look on Felipe’s face far too many times back in January when he thought he only had a week left to live: a squaring of the shoulders combined with a lingering wistfulness or longing. Without thinking, Oliver stepped forward and pulled his cousin into an embrace. Will stiffened beneath his hands, but instead of pulling away, he let out a loud breath.
“Have you thought about what you might do after we fix the Dysterwood?” Oliver asked as he pulled away and stepped toward the window. “There are people at the Paranormal Society who would greatly appreciate your gifts. You could start over. We would help you, Will.”
“As nice as that sounds, I don’t think I’m the kind of person who gets to start over. I’ve been doomed by the narrative since birth, born under bad stars to a bad family and all that.” A dry laugh escaped his lips as the vines wrapped around Oliver’s waist and lifted him through the window. “Sometimes it’s better to know you don’t deserve a hero’s end. That way you can’t miss what you never deserved.”
Oliver wanted to say something, but the vines tightened around him and carried him away before he could. As Oliver’s feet touched the moss-slick pavers, the last thing he saw as Felipe beckoned to him from the shadows was Will silhouetted in the high tower all alone.
Chapter Twenty-One
In Somnia Veritas
Oliver had been quiet since they left the Jarngrens’ manor. He had seen him talking to Will Jarngren before he joined the rest of them in the garden, but he had said nothing about it on their drive back to the inn while Felipe and Gwen recounted and confirmed all they had learned. Felipe still wasn’t certain they could fully trust Will’s words or deeds, but they could at least trust his timing. They passed the mayor’s steamer in the heart of town where no one would know they had just come from their house. When they arrived back at the inn after dark, Mr. Allen’s face had been awash with relief. Part of him wanted to tell the man what they had learned about Joanna’s potential role in the reanimatings, though saying it aloud made it sound even more farfetched than it was. He would need to discuss it with Oliver and Gwen, but first, he needed to deal with that spot on his leg and make sure Oliver was all right.
Checking Oliver was still by the outhouse with Gwen, Felipe popped open his partner’s gladstone and dug through the myriad ofbottles. Ever since the pumpkin vine squeezed the bite on his calf, it had intermittently burned and itched. Whatever venom the insects carried in the country, it was far more potent than what Manhattan mosquitos had to offer. Grabbing the alcohol and a square of gauze, Felipe shucked off his trousers and grimaced. The lump looked awful. It was red, hard, and hot to the touch, and while there was no boil or pus, pressing on it made his leg throb. Pouring alcohol onto the cloth and placing it over the bite, Felipe bit his lip and breathed through the pain as he put the bottle back with his free hand. He bundled the used gauze into a sock and tucked it deep into his bag where Oliver’s bloodhound nose couldn’t smell it and threw on his pajamas. He promised himself he would show Oliver the welt later when things calmed down, but now was not the time.
Crossing the room, Felipe hesitantly grabbed the letter from his mother and a notepad from his discarded jacket. His hands were already shaking despite gnawing on a piece of jerky from Oliver’s stash, but he couldn’t go another night without sleep. Maybe starting it would be enough to put his better left forgotten memories to rest. Drawing in a tense breath as he settled into his side of the bed, Felipe reminded himself who his parents expected him to be: the head of the household, a husband, a father, and an investigator who carried on the Galvan way even if he did it for people they despised. While he was technically all of those things, they would be disappointed if they knew how loosely he fit those definitions. Every letter was a slight of hand where he showed them just enough of his life to keep them from looking closer.
That had been okay when he was doing it to protect Teresa from his family’s legacy or working himself into the ground on cross-country cases, but now, he had a new life with someone he loved that he could never tell them about. Even without mentioning his death and reanimation, he knew they would never understand. That was why he had put 2,500 miles between them and hadn’t seen anyone in his family in over twenty years, wasn’t it? Because they would never accept the man he had become. Years ago, he had tried to close the gap between them through his letters. He thought maybe if they saw how happy hewas, they would understand him better. When he told them a funny story about how their first dog, Bollito, got into his notes, they said he should discipline the dog better. When he told them about how daring and smart of a toddler Teresa was, they sent him advice on how to break her spirit. After that, he stopped giving them details about his life in New York, and they barely seemed to notice.
He didn’t need a letter in response to know how poorly they would react to him living with and loving Oliver. They would say they would pray for him to find the correct path, and they would write to Louisa and ask her what she did to drive him away. She would send a searing letter in return if they ever dared, but the thought of them sticking their noses into his business tofix himwas far scarier than them vanishing from his life completely. A Galvan quietly fucking another man was unforgivable. A Galvan living openly with his male lover was sacrilege. Felipe ran a tired hand across his face. He envied Oliver’s openness with his nana. The woman had even made a wedding quilt for him and his future partner for god sakes. Meanwhile, Felipe had spent most of his life pretending he was a good son for his parents’ tepid approval. Shame washed over him as he stared at the blank page; he wasn’t sure he was strong enough to ask for anything else.
Sighing, Felipe reread his mother’s updates and started replying to those. Pleasantries and feigned interest about his cousins’ lives were the easy part. He had just finished that paragraph when the door opened, and Oliver slipped inside. The knot loosened in Felipe’s chest as Oliver leaned against the door and gave him a slow smile that felt like home. Leaving the letter behind, Felipe rose to meet him with a kiss. His fingers snaked along the buttons of his waistcoat as Oliver moaned softly against his lips. He knew Oliver would never go further than kisses and caresses with the innkeeper around, so while he was certain the infected bite was safe from discovery, he undressed Oliver with barely restrained hunger. He worked his way along Oliver’s jaw and down his neck, relishing the way his lover’s fingers groped at his back and hip. When Oliver gasped in his ear as his shirt fell away and teeth skimmed skin, the blood rushed from Felipe’s head to his cock, andthe tether pulled taut between them. He had to stop. Pulling back, he admired the expanse of his partner’s square shoulders and the dusting of black hair peeking out from the bottom of his rumpled undershirt. When his trousers finally fell and pooled at his feet, it was clear Oliver wanted Felipe as much as he wanted him. For a long moment, Oliver held Felipe’s gaze, his eyes dark with arousal, but with a shake of his head, they softened.
“If I didn’t know Mr. Allen was awake and puttering around right below us, I would promise to pleasure you as quietly as possible, but we can’t,” Oliver whispered, resting his forehead against Felipe’s as he ran his fingers through his walnut curls and held him close.
“I know.”
“Besides, I don’t think you would be very quiet.”
Felipe’s lips quirked into a smile, relishing the low rumble of a laugh that reverberated through Oliver’s chest. “I’m not loud.”
