“Yeah, no fucking kidding.” The man’s laughter was sharp, and he leaned further in as he spoke, setting the device he held on the table beside the door.
Careful, the way he did it, as if he valued the device. A video camera? Was the man a videographer? Why was a videographer in Everil’shome, tasting of sugar and temptation?
“I’m not generally known to kid.”
“Seriously though,” the human said. “Might be lost, but– You need a doctor? I can call a doctor.”
“No,” Everil answered, meeting the human’s abrupt, abrasive concern with level cool. “I’m not ill.”
The man stepped forward, across the threshold. Everil felt his potential approach as a fresh rush of sweetness. He stepped back accordingly, his hand leaving the doorframe.
The man was staring. Lingering there, just within the doorway, and watching Everil, his gaze shifting between his hands and his face. Odd, that look. As if he were trying to remember where they’d met before.
The house, unfortunately, appeared to have decided the stranger was a guest. While not so responsive as Faerie, Brookhaven had been Everil’s home for the past century. It had basic awareness, including a sense of hospitality. The air warmed, waking a breeze in the hallway that tugged at the stranger’s short, dark hair.
If the house wished to be hospitable, Everil had no choice but to do the same.
“I’m afraid you may come in if you wish. Though, I wouldn’t recommend it. I’m in no state to offer protection.”
“Uh,” the man said, trailing off into silence. But he stepped inside, closing the door behind him. His brows were knit in confusion, his gaze searching the hall. “It’s a very nice house. Recommended or not. Is this Brookhaven?”
“Yes.” It’d been some time since Everil had heard someone else refer to it thus. “I’m surprised anyone remembers.”
“It’s in the records.”
Everil struggled merely to stand, to keep his distance and composure, while the man’s sweet aura dragged at his depleted soul. The room swam, and if Everil only allowed it, only touched the human in this state, the dizzying misery would recede, replaced by orange and vanilla.
No. He’d done this to force a bond withNimai, to override his mind’s revulsion at reestablishing a bond he knew to be poison. This wasn’t Nimai. It was a human, blue-eyed and brief, looking around in wary curiosity.
The man raised an eyebrow, his gaze roving the walls and fixtures, lingering on Everil, then exploring the parlor with unabashed curiosity.
He needed toleave.
“What do you require?” Everil asked. “Food? Refreshments? I cannot offer shelter.”
Or perhaps he could. In a few hours, they’d be gone. The man could have the house. The thought surprised him into dark amusement, a faint, exhausted smile finding its way to his lips.
“I didn’t come for shelter,” the man said, his tone distracted. He was no longer looking at Everil, and that distraction was a relief. His attention only made the thrum of the bond stronger.
“Food then?”
“I came to look around.” The man advanced toward the parlor as he spoke. “It’s what I do. Go to abandoned places. Look around, try not to piss myself when I get too close to a family of raccoons, and record it. They call this place the Phantom Stallion House now, for the most part, ’cause it’s supposed to be haunted.”
That made very little sense. But Everil didn’t have the attention to spare to puzzle over it, not with the human approaching, too sweet and too close, forcing Everil to withdraw. A fae, a kelpie, cowed by a human.
“Pathetic,”murmured Nimai’s remembered voice.“You’ve made yourself pathetic, Everil. You’re nothing without me to look after you.”
“Apt,” Everil managed to say. He took another step back, nearly stumbling, surprised by the lip of the carpet. “But I’m afraid you’re to be disappointed. I’ve no ghosts to offer. I could locate some mice? But raccoons tend to be opinionated.”
He’d retreated past the settee, his back nearly to the bookshelf.Pathetic.Pathetic, ill-mannered, and weak. He hadn’t even fetched the man the refreshments he’d offered.
“Fucking right? Mouthy bastards. I’d only sic raccoons on my worst enemy, and you’re not them.” The man was smiling, but the expression had a brittle edge. “It’s always disappointing. Shit’s not real.”
“I don’t recall saying that,” Everil murmured in mild correction. Ghosts weren’t his remit, but there’d been a time when his closest friend had been Declan, a sluagh. He knew not all spirits rested. He simply didn’t expect to be permitted their company.
The man didn’t seem to have heard him. His gaze was on the coffee table and the little box resting there.
Oh. Winter’s curse, Everil was a fool. Talia had left the courting gifts she’d received scattered about the room. The one that’d caught the man’s eye was a particularly pretty bit of magic. A bit of Faerie, concentrated and bound to the box, meant to allow the human realm to similarly adjust to its owner’s tastes. All it required was a bit of attention, and…
