Tested in Fire Read online

  “Say no more.” He offered her the bag. “This is for you. I didn’t expect an invitation.”

  She accepted it, her eyes filling with tears. “Thank you, Stefan. You are a good man.”

  He shrugged. “It’s nothing.” He handed her the remaining bag of groceries. “I know you can’t get out as much as you used to, so here’s some necessities. Milk. Fruit. Those croissants you like. Is there anything else I can do for you? You mentioned earlier that you might have an errand for me.”

  “Non. I— I have everything I . . . require.” She hugged the bags to her chest. “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry for what? It’s not like I wasn’t going out anyway.” He backed away, raising a hand in farewell. “You know where to find me if you change your mind.”

  She nodded, and closed the door softly.

  Damn. If only there was something more he could do for her, for them both. He snagged the bags from his threshold and opened the door of his studio. The space was still filled with afternoon light, the scents of solvent and oil paint lingering in the air despite the world-class air circulation system. He didn’t mind that. The smells were familiar, comforting.

  Home.

  Or almost. Because Luke hadn’t called once since he’d bailed in favor of alcohol. Stefan had been so sure that he’d at least send a sheepish text that he’d left his phone on during his session with Jason, propped on the worktable next to his easel, which he never did. But nada.

  He unloaded his groceries: a stack of frozen pizzas that would max out his less-than-roomy freezer; three bags of salad mix; a bottle of vinaigrette dressing; a loaf of bread; deli turkey; sliced gouda. Jesus, as a cook, he freaking sucked. Luke, on the other hand, was amazing. If Stefan gave in and moved in with Luke—

  No. Not until I’m free and clear. Because cooking—well, that was just another way for Luke to take care of him, another way to prove that Stefan needed taking care of. Maybe I should learn to cook after all.

  He set the containers of Thai food on the counter. Enough for two, including Luke’s favorite yellow curry chicken. Wishful thinking? Maybe. But in the last few months, surely they’d grown close enough again that Luke wouldn’t repeat his past behavior—that awful day over seven years ago when he’d dropped out of the conservatory and left Stefan behind.

  As twilight dimmed the clerestory windows, Stefan gave up and ate his share of the Thai food. Although he’d sworn that he wouldn’t do it, he gave in and called Luke. I’m not surrendering. Not asking for help. I don’t really think he’ll leave me again. But he needed to know that Luke was okay. I’m his boyfriend. I’m entitled to be worried. And Stefan could own it—Marius’s death had made him more than a little skittish when Luke was unexpectedly incommunicado.

  After fifteen consecutive no-answers, each one stretching Stefan’s nerves tight and then tighter, he was beginning to believe something was truly wrong, or else Luke had decided Stefan was just too high-maintenance and cut his losses.

  Stefan’s chest contracted around his heart. Did I go too far this time? Or maybe not far enough? How much was he willing to sacrifice to have Luke in his life? Was he willing to go back to the codependent life he’d had with Marius—or with Thomas, for that matter—letting Luke indulge his caveman tendencies? No. Stefan was through with that crap. He wanted a partner, not a daddy. Someone who recognized his strength and met it, man to man.

  He stared at the phone in his hand, the pathetic list of recent calls. Guess I can’t expect to meet someone else’s strength unless I pull some of my own out of my ass. Because falling back into that pattern was so easy. But Stefan had discovered, too, how much he liked being self-sufficient. He’d finally managed to stand up to Marius’s careless generosity, the generosity that had stripped Stefan of his self-confidence. Guess even a posthumous stand was better than no stand at all.

  Still, he’d be willing to compromise a little of that newfound pride if Luke would just answer his goddamned phone.

  Mosquitos.

  Buzzing. Whining. Retching?

  Luke had never heard a retching mosquito before. He tried to make sense of the sounds. Too much trouble. Retching mosquitos would have to take care of themselves. He drifted off. Jerked awake. Eyes still heavy. Too heavy to open, but the mosquitos had departed, replaced by arguing chimps. No. One voice was deeper, more gorilla than chimp. Luke tried to tell them to shut up, but the only sound he could force out was a cross between a croak and a whimper.

  It worked, though. The apes shut up and let him go back to sleep.

  When he woke again, the gorilla was angry—and had developed an Italian accent.

  “You stupid cow! You put me into a defective body? A finocchio at that.”

  A thump. A sharp thwack, flesh against flesh. A cry, cut off with a gasp.

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. But I needed to speak with you, and another stroke could have taken you any moment.”

  Luke recognized that voice. The French potter. What was she doing here in his—wherever the hell he was? Why couldn’t he open his eyes? It’s a dream. One of those god-awful ones where I’m trying to run through tar, or read a book that won’t come into focus, or remember my high school gym locker combination. That had to be it.

  “There was no pain this time,” the gorilla mused. “No burning. You found a way to avoid the fire at last?”

  “No. This is temporary. A visit only, so that we may talk and plan for the . . . the end. I did not use the Sicilian clay.”

  “You mean the fire is still coming?” Alarm laced the gorilla’s tone. Good. Because Luke recognized the speech patterns now. That pretentious Italian guy. He deserves to be alarmed, especially in my dream.

  “For a permanent change, it must. You know what Niccolo said. Only fire can transform the clay. But—”

  “Damned charlatan,” DiBartolo growled. “Always talking in riddles.”

  Asshole. Luke tried to raise a hand to flip him off, but his left hand wouldn’t move. Damn dream. Oh well. He’d always been an ambidextrous off-flipper. But his right hand had turned to lead, his flesh as heavy as the blankets that weighed him down.

  Scratchy. Wool.

  That’s wrong. Stefan knew he was allergic. Why would Stef put a wool blanket on his bed? He needed to find Stef. Ask him. Tell him. What? Something important. Something about monsters and tentacles and mud.

  With an effort, he finally raised his eyelids, but he didn’t magically awaken in his own bed with Stefan beside him. Instead, he found himself lying in a four-poster bed opposite a massive wardrobe, everything blurry as if he were viewing it from behind a Vaseline-coated lens, his body still unresponsive. The harsh tang of hospital-grade disinfectants overlaid the funk of sweat and a mustiness that whispered of age and neglect.

  He tried to call out, to curse, to demand answers, but all his words ended in a wheeze at the base of his throat.

  “Ah. The sleeper wakes.” It was his own voice, but with an Italian accent—and it hadn’t come out of his mouth. What the fuck?

  Yet even with eyes too blurry to read the label on the flock of pill bottles on the table next to his head, he could make out a man standing in front of the ornate wardrobe doors. A man he saw whenever he cared to look in the mirror.

  Luke lay alone in a stranger’s bed. But he also stood in the center of the room with Antoinette hanging onto his arm.

  His heart pounding until he felt it would burst, Luke dragged his hand up the rough blanket, pawed at the flaccid skin on his face, able to voice nothing but inhuman mewls.

  An evil grin grew on Not-Luke’s stolen face. Then he laughed.

  “Jacques,” Antoinette said. “Don’t. That is not kind.”

  “Bah. What can he do about it? His time in this body is over.”

  Shit-fuck-goddamn-son-of-a-bitch. That potter witch had stolen his body with her black-magic mud facial and given it to DiBartolo.

  Luke knew better than to waste time wailing how impossible is was. He’d had firsthand experience
that impossible was just a synonym for TBA. Besides, what good did it do to deny it? It had clearly happened.

  She wrung her hands. “Non. I told you. This is only for a short time. I gave my word.”

  “You should know better than to make promises, Tonina. Not when you have no power to keep them.”

  “Promises.” Her tone held bitterness, recrimination. “What of your promises?”

  DiBartolo-Not-Luke strolled closer to the edge of the bed. “What of them?”

  “You promised there would be no more after the last jump. You swore to me when we locked our masks in the vault that they would rest there forever.”

  He pulled a nitrile glove out of a box on the bedside table, toying with its fingers—pull, snap, pull, snap—as he smirked down at Luke with Luke’s own lips. “I was not the one who chose this one. I was not the one who instigated this jump.”

  She clutched his sleeve—the sleeve of Luke’s favorite blue Oxford. “Then why did you hire this man to retrieve your mask from the vault with no word to me?”

  DiBartolo—not me!—startled. “This is the owner of Morganstern Art Investigations? I had no idea.”

  “But don’t deny it. You did hire him.”

  He tossed the glove onto the bed, on Luke’s left side where he couldn’t reach. “And if I did?”

  “What of my mask?”

  He shrugged. “Yours is . . . not necessary.” Antoinette’s hand flew up as if to slap DiBartolo-Not-Luke, but he caught her wrist. “You forget yourself, Tonina. Your host was twenty years younger than mine.” He gestured to Luke on the bed. “This is what I wished to avoid. Considering events, I should think you would be grateful.”

  “You sent for it before you knew you would need it. You planned to seize another host, perhaps always intended it so, despite your promise.”

  He stepped closer, not releasing her wrist, his other hand wrapping her throat. “Don’t be foolish, cara. Why would we wish to stop when we can live forever?”

  Her eyes widened. “Jacques . . .” Luke couldn’t tell if her voice was hoarse from emotion or because DiBartolo’s grip was tightening.

  “I can make much better use of this body than he ever did. Shall we show him how?”

  “Non. We cannot. Always you are like this. Drunk on the sensations of the new body. But you must put it aside. This time it’s false. An illusion. Without the Sicilian clay, the mask cannot hold you there.”

  “All the more reason to seize the opportunity.”

  “Rudy will be here soon—”

  “You worry too much, cara.” He slid the strap of her shirt off her shoulder—with Luke’s hands, damn him to hell and back—then yanked it down roughly, exposing her fragile lace bra. “We’ve time for this.”

  “Jacques . . .” But it wasn’t a protest this time.

  As DiBartolo palmed her breast, Luke scrunched his eyes shut. He couldn’t watch. Not that.

  But he heard. Even with ears that felt stuffed with cotton, he heard, and he couldn’t stop the tears that leaked out of his eyes, tracking winding paths down wrinkled cheeks.

  She said it was temporary, so she must know how to undo what she did. Assuming DiBartolo didn’t talk her out of it. Luke had no faith in either her promises or her backbone. Somehow, he had to figure out how to save himself—without being able to move or speak, at the mercy of the sadistic pair who were still grunting on the floor next to the bed.

  As much as Stefan missed the green wildness of the Oregon Coast Range, he was definitely getting used to the convenience of life in Sarasota. He rattled the bag from the art supply store. Gesso and linseed oil replaced within twenty minutes, no car required. Good thing too. He’d put off the trip all day, wanting to be in his studio if Luke should finally get over his snit and show up.

  He still wasn’t sure whether he’d be so grateful to see Luke that he’d let their disagreement slide, or pick up the discussion where they’d left off.

  He dodged past a group of elderly women in floppy straw hats who’d stopped to look at the fiber art display in the window. As soon as he entered the gallery, he had the answer to his question, because although his heart bumped sideways when he saw Luke pacing along the balcony overhead, his first instinct was to demand to know what the hell Luke thought he was trying to prove with the silent treatment.

  Luke apparently wasn’t here to compromise—an aura of arrogance clung to him, which was odd when his limp was so pronounced. If his hip was bothering him, he usually tried to be as unobtrusive as possible.

  “Hey.” Stefan kept his tone even as he gained the top of the stairs. “Were you looking for me?” Luke wasn’t scowling anymore. If anything, he seemed smug and self-satisfied, as if he’d just talked Stefan out of his pants.

  Luke slowed down and stopped outside Stefan’s studio door. “No. Should I have been?”

  Stefan frowned, a thread of unease weaving through his irritation. “What’s with the fake Euro-trash accent?”

  Luke’s eyebrows shot up. “Fake?” He ran a hand over his jaw. “Ah, yes. If it offends you so, perhaps we shouldn’t talk.”

  Yep. Still pissed. Stefan sighed, shifting the art supply bag to his other hand. “I told you. I need to do this on my own. Can’t you understand that?”

  Luke stroked his chin, eyes narrowing. “If you say so.”

  “If you weren’t here to see me, what are you doing up here?” Stefan took a step closer. “You weren’t in Antoinette’s studio, were you?”

  “What if I was?”

  Heat flared in Stefan’s chest. “That’s crossing the line, Luke. Were you giving her shit about asking me to help with the mask project?”

  “I didn’t mention it, no.”

  “Then why are you harassing her?”

  “You assume I’m harassing her. That is not very kind.”

  Damn it. Stefan hadn’t moved all the way across the country to argue with Luke. He dropped the bag in front of his door and stepped closer, his two inches of extra height allowing him to loom a little. Luke didn’t back down, of course. He never did. Time I learned to do the same.

  “I’m sorry.” He reached for Luke’s hand, but Luke evaded him, crossing his arms over his chest. “Aw, don’t be mad, okay? I’ve got some leftover Thai food from last night. We could have dinner. Talk things over.” He leaned in for a kiss, but Luke jerked his chin away, face twisted in revulsion. Stefan held up his hands, palms out. “Okay. I get it. Not ready to forgive me yet. Fine. You know where to find me when you change your mind.”

  Luke’s mouth lifted in a sneer. “My mind is not all that must change.”

  “Luke—”

  “Arrivederci.” He limped past Stefan without a touch, heading for the stairs.

  “Shit.” Stefan swallowed, ice pooling in his belly, banishing the earlier heat of anger. The last time he’d seen Luke in this kind of snit had been the night of Stefan’s twentieth birthday party, when Marius had given him that damn signet ring. Their resulting argument had ended with Luke leaving for Europe without a word of explanation or any intention of returning.

  Is that what Luke’s deliberate use of Italian meant? That he was about to bolt again? But that made no sense. He wasn’t a starving art student anymore. He had a business. A home. Roots in this community. He couldn’t just walk away from it all.

  Stefan peered over the balcony railing. When Luke reached the gallery floor, he smoothed his hair and sauntered toward a pair of women who were cooing over Antoinette’s animal masks. He pointed to the masks on the wall and said something to the women that caused them to dissolve into giggles.

  Stefan clutched the banister. If Luke was planning to sabotage Antoinette’s sales, he was going too far in his campaign to get Stefan to abandon the gallery. And if he’d been confronting Antoinette in this mood, Stefan needed to make sure there was no fallout to clean up.

  He walked across the balcony to Antoinette’s door, keeping an eye on the scene downstairs. The door was slightly ajar. Did that mean sh
e welcomed visitors or that Luke hadn’t bothered to latch it when he left? Just in case, Stefan knocked. When he got no response, he slipped inside.

  “Antoinette?”

  The door to Signor DiBartolo’s bedroom stood open, and Stefan heard the murmur of Antoinette’s voice coupled with Rudy’s basso rumble. He walked down the hall and peeked through the doorway.

  Rudy was pulling on a pair of medical gloves—extra large. “Don’t you worry, Ms. A. Mr. D. and I will get along fine this evening.” He glanced up and saw Stefan hovering in the doorway. “Hey, Steffie.”

  Stefan nodded to Rudy as he crossed to Antoinette. “Are you okay?” He put an arm around her shoulders and gave her a hug, tucking her under his arm. “I saw Luke outside a minute ago. Did he give you any trouble? He doesn’t mean to be an asshole.” He squeezed her shoulder. “Mostly.”

  “Non. You mustn’t worry.” She didn’t look up but turned her face to his chest. When he stroked her hair, Signor DiBartolo jerked in the bed, uttering an almost animal wail. She startled and pulled away from Stefan.

  “Stefan.” Antoinette’s accent was more pronounced, the vowels in his name lengthened more than usual. She still didn’t meet his eyes. “You know how grateful I am of your support, your friendship. Of your care of Jacques these past weeks. But perhaps it would be best if . . . you did not visit him anymore.”

  “I wouldn’t . . .” Stefan swallowed around a sudden lump in his throat. “I’d never do anything to hurt him.”

  “Oh, sugar, we know that.” Rudy pulled a vial of some clear liquid out of the mini-fridge in the corner. On the bed, Signor DiBartolo’s arm flailed, and he knocked a glass off the bedside table. It shattered at Stefan’s feet in a fan of shards and water. “But as you can see, Mr. D is having a bad day.”

  Stefan knelt to gather the broken glass, but Rudy stopped him with a gloved hand on his shoulder. “Let me do that. You take Ms. A out to the kitchen. Fix her a cup of tea while I tend to Mr. D.”

  Signor DiBartolo’s arm arced through the air, batting Stefan’s temple in passing. With the prickle of tears threatening to make Stefan’s exit overdramatic—he and Signor DiBartolo had never been friends, but still—Stefan backed away, dropping the pieces of glass in the trash on his way to the door. Signor DiBartolo’s eyes tracked him, burning with an intensity Stefan hadn’t seen since his stroke.