Luckily, he can make contingency plans, too.
***
The next evening, Simon doesn’t appear with the sunset. Cody isn’t worried—really, he isn’t. Simon usually sleeps in. Cody just has to throw all his thwarted, not-worried energy into other things.
A jog around the perimeter takes some of the edge off. No sign or scent of intrusion, but Cody takes another two laps to be sure. The surrounding woods are lush, calling Cody to chase the traces of rabbit and squirrel. He wants to shift, but it’s more a wistful thought that it would be nice to stretch out. Not a lossof control.
Pesky bugs buzz as the night deepens, and Cody returns to the house. He pauses at the door, listening, but can’t hear Simon yet. Scent doesn’t help. The entire house smells of Simon, at least on the lower floors.
Cody could forget tonight’s plan. If Simon sleeps in for too long, he probably will. Too many hours to think how stupid this is. But for now, Cody heads to the library on the first floor above ground.
This room’s murals are soft, sunlit gardens. The rendering is delicate, wistful, enough to make Cody wonder whether Simon misses the sun. Like the other murals in the house, unfinished patches of white interrupt the scene.
Cody kind of likes the empty patches. They leave space for possibility.
The library also contains an old record player, not cheap, not expensive, but in mint condition. Judging by the cabinet behind it, Simon’s taste in music is eclectic. Rock, classical, musical theater cast recordings, as recent as the current decade and as old as… Cody isn’t sure when records were invented, actually.
He picks a rock band he recognizes and sets the record on the player. After a pause to look up ‘how to operate record player’ on his phone, he sets down the needle—
—and flinches at the unexpected swell of violins and cellos.
“Okay,” Cody says, as the classical instruments play on. Leaning in, he discovers the record doesn’t match the case.
A cursory glance indicateseverythingis mis-sorted. Cody considers organizing them for about two seconds before the enormity of the task overwhelms him. He’ll have to occupy himself some other way instead.
In the middle of Cody’s third set of push-ups, fabric rustles. It’s barely audible beneath the lively flute section, even to Cody’s sharp ears. He dips for another rep, nose nearly touching the carpet, then sits up.
The push-ups didn’t raise his heart rate, but this does. Simon leans in the doorway, arms crossed in calculated repose. He’s as sensual in a sweater and jeans as he was in the red leather pants. Barefoot, his toes just as ashen white as his face. He looks different tonight, no longer quite so stiff and guarded, but not desperately hungry like he was last night. The scent of old bottled blood is faintly detectable.
Simon looks, if Cody isn’t completely misreading him, curious.
“That’s a weird waltz,” Simon comments.
“You have to organize your records.” Cody hops up and moves the needle, cutting off the harps or harpsichords or whatever that is. “This is insane.”
“I use CDs now. Haven’t moved on to streaming, though.” Simon lifts his chin, clearly inspecting Cody. “I didn’t think werewolves needed to work out. I thought you were just born looking like linebackers and lumberjacks.”
Cody refrains from flexing under his t-shirt. “There’s a genetic predisposition, but it’s just easier for us to bulk up. I’m guessing you’re not a gym rat.”
“No point,” Simon says. “The shadow-gift keeps me the same as ever, unless I were to magic my hair different or something.”
“Have you ever tried?” Cody asks, wondering what Simon would look like with shorter hair, or highlights, or rainbow streaks.
Simon grimaces. “Certainly not. Most witches are terrible hairdressers. What’s withthe music?”
Cody blinks, taken aback by the sharp question. Right. This is the point. Maybe he’s misreading Simon’s attention. Even if he isn’t, this is a bad idea. But Cody’s always had problems controlling his instincts.
“I’ve been thinking about this since I said no at the club.” Cody sets the needle back on the record. As the harps and violins sing out again, he extends his hand. “Will you dance with me?”
Simon’s lips part softly. The surprise looks good on him. “Excuse me?”
Cody waggles his hand. “You heard me.”
“I don’t actually want to dance with you,” Simon says, even as he steps forward. “I just wanted to annoy Andrea.”
“That’s a shame. I turned on your vintage record player and everything.”
Simon covers his heart in mock indignation. “I bought that in ’92! The 1990s aren’t vintage!” But he places his hand in Cody’s. With the ice-cold touch, his annoyance seems to melt. Simon looks up, searching. “Why are you doing this?”
