He doesn’t reply and it’s a fair response. Who am I to ask something so personal? He walks past me to a small work table covered in brushes and paints. Knives, scissors, and spades stick out of well-used containers. I watch as he selects one thin paintbrush with a tiny tip. He dips into a small jar and walks back over.
“Can I?” he asks, holding the paintbrush to my cheek. His eyes are on fire, burning closer to copper than brown.
“Sure.” I bite down on my lip as he moves closer, aware of a heat rolling off of him. He brushes the hair off my cheek, eyes focused and intent. I sense his heartbeat thumping with slow, easy beats. He leans close, hovering the brush just over my skin, until first touch when the tip surprises me with the cool paint. I laugh, because it tickles, but brace myself as he goes to work. The strokes of the bristles are soft and soothing; I’m lulled quickly into ease. Bunny’s body is close enough that the hem of his flannel brushes against my arm. I get a whiff of his delicious scent. I have to stop myself from pressing my nose into his shirt. I study his face, his lips and mouth, and in the peace of the moment I want nothing more than to press my lips against his, just to see if they feel as soft as they look.
I’m so into this thought, into the moment, that I feel myself leaning forward just as he steps back and says, “There. Perfect.”
I reach to touch the paint, cool and wet on my cheek, but stop myself, knowing it will smear. He returns from his work table with a small circular mirror and asks, “Want to see it?”
“Yes!” I’m giddy like a little girl.
He holds it up for me and I hunch, trying to catch the right angle, and then I see it. It’s a delicate twist of vines, similar to the one engraved on my locket.
“I liked the design,” he says quietly, as though he’s revealed a piece of his soul.
“Thank you, Bunny,” I say and continue my walk around the room, absorbing every one of his pieces.
Chapter 8
Morgan
I spend the afternoon working on my book. The story is bothering me—a nagging feeling that I’m missing something important. I sit back in the window seat and review what I’ve written so far.
Maverick has spent her childhood with the ravens and they’ve become like a second family—maybe her real family. She feels a sense of peace when they’re around, but lately other forces have come into play. The girl is older now, in high school, and even I have to admit it’s time for the protagonist to branch out a little. Meet new friends. Maybe a boy.
But what boy would want to be with a girl that speaks to animals? Also? Boys suck.
I stare out the huge window, pressing my forehead against the glass. Down in the park, birds burst in and out of the treetops. Up here it’s quiet. No birds at all. Not even pigeons roosting in the eaves.
I look down, as much as is possible. From this angle it’s clear the house has a nice-sized back yard, and in it, a figure catches my eye. I see the top of a head—hairless—and I think it must be Damien. He wanders in and out of a small structure and curiosity gets the best of me.
I didn’t shower after Bunny painted my face. I didn’t want to lose the magic of the moment and a quick glance in the mirror proves the painting is still on my cheek. Quickly, I slip on my shoes and run down the stairs. Sam’s door is shut and when I pass by the second floor I pause briefly when I hear low, soulful music drifting down the hall.
I know that Damien and Clinton share this level and the former is outside. That means Clinton is behind the haunting melody, and as much as I want to follow the music, I know better than to barge in on Clinton. His reaction to me the night before was less than warm. In fact, he made it clear he has a problem with me being here. Dylan basically confirmed it.
I leave the music behind and head to the kitchen, seeking a door to the back yard. I swing open the heavy door and find Sue standing over a table of freshly washed vegetables. The small woman with graying hair and a stiff-looking uniform holds a knife with a wide blade and has a pile of red peppers nearby. A bowl full of different colored eggs sits on the counter.
“Do you need something, dear?” she asks.
“Are those fresh?”
“There’s a coop on the roof.”
“Really?” I smile. “We had chickens when I was a kid. My father built a coop in the backyard. Oh man, they nearly drove him mad.”
“But they provided plenty of eggs?”
“Well, not really. There were a few incidents.” The memory floods back and I grasp for it before it fades. “The first was when we had this one crazy chicken that just vanished in the back. Like one minute we were chasing it. The next poof, he was gone.”
“And the second?”
“Something got in the coop. My father had to clean it up. That was the end of the chickens.” I watch her work for a minute. “So, I’m just looking for the way out back. Thought I’d check out the yard.”
“Just through that door there,” she replies, pointing with the knife. “Are you going out to see Master Damien?”
“Sort of?” I answer honestly. I’m a little embarrassed that she knew right away what I was up to. Sue has a knowing glint in her eye. I suspect it’s difficult to get anything past her.
“Well, take him a plate, will you? He gets so busy out there he forgets to eat.”