“I hope no one dies,” Talia said as they reached the third floor. “People are always dying in hotels in the movies.”
“I, too, hold out that hope,” Everil murmured, too tired to even apologize for the jest. Besides, they’d reached their doors. Cheap wood and beige walls. “No magic, Talia. Not even just to look. We’ll be harder to locate if we refrain.”
“Hotels have TVs. Unlikesomeone’shouse. I’ll be too busy for magic.” She turned away from him, bouncing a bit in place after pressing the card Bo had given her to the door and pushing it open.
“No magic, even if you run out of TV to watch and unlock the door between the rooms when you get in,” Bo said as he pushed the other door open.
“Is there room service? With the carts and the food under little silver hats? Can I keep the hat?”
“This isn’t the kind of place with room service like you’re thinking.” Bo sounded exhausted. “Are you hungry?”
“I just wanted the hats. And maybe the cart. It’s no fun without.” Despite the complaint, Talia’s tone was all pleased enthusiasm. “Tomorrow, I want breakfast at a diner. The type with pancakes and ladies who call you honey. With the pink uniforms and they’re raising a kid all by themselves.”
Out of his depth, Everil looked to Bo. “Is that achievable? I fear I’m not familiar.”
Bo grinned in response, clearly fighting the urge to laugh.
“We can do a diner with pancakes. It’s the South, so big chances on you being called honey. No promises on the uniforms. Or single motherhood. For the love of everything, please don’t ask them.”
“I don’t need to ask,” Talia replied. “I’ll be able to tell. They’ll be world-weary but strong.”
“Alright. But first, I gotta sleep. Otherwise, I’m going to pass out in your pancakes, and we won’t go anywhere.” Bo nodded toward Talia’s door. “We’ll unlock our side of the connecting door, too. Then pancakes at the diner tomorrow. Deal?”
“I want there to be a man too. He’s on the corner stool, and he’s in love with her, but he’s not saying anything, because he’s so stoic and sad. The guys at the diner are always stoic. And they drink their coffee black.”
“Talia,” Everil prompted softly, “The man said he was tired.”
“Pancakes, and if no one calls me honey, you have to.”
“Very well,” Everil pointed at her open door. “Now go to bed. Honey.”
“Fine.Fine. Don’t stay up too late!“ Talia stepped into her room at last, turning to smile back over her shoulder.
“Night, honey,” Bo called as her door swung shut on the sound of her giggling.
“She watches a significant amount of television,” Everil explained. “I suggest you rest in case she has some new impulse by morning.”
“At least it’s teaching her not to shit on single moms.” Bo shrugged, then stepped inside the second room, holding the door until Everil followed after. “I vote we both get some sleep. You want right or left side?”
The room felt strange. Empty. For the past century, Everil had rattled around Brookhaven. It might not have been Faerie, but it still knew him. This room smelled of cleaner and had a bland, impersonal aesthetic, all tan and white. It knew no one, not in any way that mattered. It was a place defined by a sense of absence.
An absence with two chairs, an open closet, and a single bed.
Everil glanced sideways at Bo, remembering the river. Bo’s fingers in his hair, and Everil breathing him in. Lust caught in a recursive pattern: reflected and amplified. He hadn’t expected it, the way Bo’s closeness awakened appetites best buried. But then, he’d never shifted around a soulbond before. Nimai had no patience for his stallion form.
Had he given the man the impression that he had some expectation of his attention? Surely not. He’d been clear. At least, he thought he’d been clear. No. He could feel Bo through the bond. The man was tired. No resentment. No lust.
Everil was overthinking things. The bed was merely a bed. This, apparently, was how it was done in hotels. It likely worked in most cases. Everil couldn’t imagine that they often catered to the recently bonded.
“You’re tired,” he said, after too long spent quiet. “You may have the bed. The floor will serve me fine. I’ve no wish to crowd you.”
The hurt that radiated through their bond, bitter as chewing orange rind, was instantaneous. Bo shifted away from him, shoulders set.
“Everil,” he started, sounding worn and frustrated and, yes, hurt. “Can we please just both sleep on the fucking bed? I’m not asking because of the soulbond. There’s no magic manipulation or whatever going on. It’s common hotel courtesy, and I would feel like an asshole if you slept on the floor. Please.”
Everil wanted to flinch from Bo, but he knew better. He went still, instead.
How did he always manage to get it wrong? Even with Bo, who was hardly the most subtle individual of Everil’s acquaintances. One would think it easy to please a man who laughed so readily with Talia. But no, Everil got it wrong, twisted the man’s amusement into hurt.
