Page 15

Calisto

“Calisto Manuel Dominguez! I hope you’re not planning on walking past without stopping to say hello to your mother.”

I winced, because that’s exactly what I’d intended on doing. I’d been banking on my mother being far too invested in whatever today’s baking project was to notice me sneaking past. There was no way I could ignore being triple-named, though.

“Of course not,” I said, stopping in the doorway and leaning against the doorjamb.

My mother gestured to the breakfast bar, two plates piled high with muffins sat on it. “Sit here and try these. I need someone to tell me what they think.”

“I was just on my way to…” The words dried up in my throat as she shot me a sharp look. I dutifully crossed the kitchen and slid onto the stool she’d indicated. We both knew me claiming a need to be somewhere was a weak excuse when our lives for the past three days had all occurred within these four walls. Well, that and Asher’s generously sized back garden. At least, it was just her in here and I didn’t have to face Margarita’s sharp tongue. Experience had taught me there wasn’t enough alcohol in the world to blunt it.

“Where is everyone?” I asked. “It’s too quiet.”

My mother placed her hands on her hips while she contemplated my question. “Let me see. Your father is reading a detective novel on the porch of the summerhouse. He’s found that’s the best place for getting the morning sun, and you know he likes his sun. Henry and Lola are… Well, I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you what they’re up to. They’re treating this like a second honeymoon.” They were, my sister, and brother-in-law, happy to have an excuse to call in sick to work—their list of symptoms growing more inventive by the day—and their borrowed bed seeing a lot of action. “Your grandparents are in that room with the big TV. Your grandad can’t stop going on about how much better the picture and sound are. I’m not sure we’ll be able to make him leave this place once we’re able to.”

My mother turned away to take another tray out of the oven. Apparently, two plates of muffins weren’t sufficient. “Jayne is working.” Yeah, Jayne had been one of the lucky ones in that she could work from home, and often did, anyway. Vicente could too, the two of them quickly carving out office space in the house that didn’t have a shortage of rooms.

“Felipe?” I asked. “Margarita and Thiago?”

My mother shrugged. “Not sure. And you know where Asher is.”

Yeah, I did. Although, it had come as quite the surprise that while we were all sequestered here, he’d continued to work as normal. When I’d questioned him on it, he’d pointed out that only the necromancy department was closed, the rest of the building operating as usual, and that Cade couldn’t—and more importantly, wouldn’t—handle everything on his own. Mistaking my silence for apprehension, he’d assured me we’d be perfectly safe, that he had access to the camera feed on his phone, and there was no way O’Reilly would make a move on a residential street in broad daylight. In truth, what bothered me most was less time spent together. Time, where I kept hoping he’d broach the subject of the kiss we’d shared three nights ago. Neither of us had mentioned it, leaving me pondering why that was, and why nothing else had happened since, despite us sharing a bed every night?

The conclusion I’d come to was that Asher was waiting for me to make the first move, just as I had that time, and because I hadn’t, we were stuck lying next to each other, both keenly aware of the other’s presence, and doing nothing but sleep. It was good; I kept telling myself. Far better not to lead him on.

My mother shoved a muffin in front of me. “Try this one first. I made them for Asher.”

“For Asher?” There was no holding back my surprise. “That’s very kind of you, but I don’t think—”

“I know… I know,” my mother said. “He’s picky about what he eats. It’s got all the ingredients he puts in his smoothies, though. And no sugar.”

I obediently broke off a piece, shoved it in my mouth, and chewed. Asher having offered me one of those smoothies on my first morning, made me the perfect person to judge its similarity.

“Well?” my mother asked when I didn’t immediately offer my opinion. “Do you think he’ll like it?”

“It certainly tastes similar,” I admitted. “Just don’t get offended if he refuses to try it.” I pointed at the other plate. “What are these? Non-Asher muffins?”

A hint of color appeared in my mother’s cheeks and she ducked her head. “No, they’re all for him. I thought I’d do something nice as a thank you for him letting us stay here.”

My mother was one of the few members of my family who didn’t seem to mind being here, Asher’s luxurious kitchen probably having a lot to do with it. As for some of the others, they acted like they were being held prisoner against their will, the questions about O’Reilly and the situation they’d found themselves in coming thick and fast. How long before we can leave? If the police know she’s dangerous, why don’t they just lock her up? Why don’t you just tell her you can’t do what she thinks you can? That last one amused me somewhat, making it sound like I could just call her up and say, ‘hey, there seems to have been a slight misunderstanding. Maybe we could grab a coffee together and talk it over. No, you don’t need to bring your goons and point a gun at my head.’

“That’s sweet,” I said and meant it. My mother shoved a muffin from the second plate in front of me and I dutifully took a bite. “Blueberry and oat,” she said. “And then there are these that have just come out of the oven. Be careful, because they’re still hot. They’re banana and courgette. Or zucchini,” she added with a slight frown, “according to the American recipe I used. It took me ages to work out what I needed.”

“Zucchini,” I said around a mouthful of the blueberry and oat one. “Who on earth decided that would be a good thing to put in a muffin?”

“Presumably, the person who came up with the recipe.” When I made no move to pick one up, she shoved one closer to me. “Go on. I want to know which one is your favorite?”

I broke a piece off and eyed the green bits suspiciously. At my mother’s encouraging look, I took a small nibble. “Well, the good news is that it tastes more like banana than courgette.”

“Which one do you like the most?”

“Blueberry and oat,” I said, with no need to give it much thought.

“And which one do you think Asher will like the best?”

“Probably the one that tastes like his smoothie, seeing as he has that every day and never seems to get bored of it.”

My mother nodded, her carefully schooled expression giving away that getting me to taste the muffins had been nothing but a clever ruse for whatever topic she was about to bring up. “Have you argued?” she asked.

“Has who argued? Me and Asher? No. Why?”

“You’ve had something on your mind for the past few days. Something apart from that dreadful woman who has us all hiding here like we’re rabbits in a burrow, scared to poke our heads above ground in case the fox gets us. And I know you said you’re not boyfriends.”

“We’re not,” I got in quickly.

“He looks at you like you are.”

“Does he?” I ignored the warm glow that insisted on lighting up my chest. “When?”

My mother shot me a coquettish look from beneath her lashes. “When he thinks you’re not looking. He can barely take his eyes off you, the poor boy. You could do a lot worse, you know. He’s incredibly handsome. He has this house. And he’s clearly devoted to you, if he’s willing to put up with all of us being here.”

“It’s complicated,” I said. I toyed with a rogue crumb on the kitchen counter, pushing it one way before steering it back the way it had come. “He figured no one would like him after the way he behaved at that first dinner.”

My mother waved a dismissive hand. “Pfft… He was honest, and he did it politely. I had left the kitchen in a state and how was he supposed to know I had every intention of rectifying it?” She gave me a long, searching look. “So, have you argued?”

“No,” I said honestly.

“But something’s been on your mind?” Years of not living with my mother had made me forget how perceptive she could be. “Because you’ve been…”

“Been what?”

“Antsy,” she declared after a moment’s thought. “Yes, that’s the perfect word for it.”

She wasn’t wrong. I had been antsy. Despite Asher and I both refusing to talk about the kiss we’d shared, it had nothing to do with that. No, it was all to do with not having seen Baxter for three long days. It had me worried something had happened to him, something that meant he couldn’t come back.

The rational part of my brain knew it was far more likely he was just respecting my wishes, but the emotional part refused to be silenced. I hadn’t wanted him to go away forever. I’d just wanted a break from him needling me.

The funny thing was I’d gone and done exactly what he’d urged only a few hours later. I had given Asher a try, the results far from disappointing. And the only person I could discuss Asher with was Baxter. Well, that wasn’t quite true. I could call John or Griffin, or their other halves at a pinch, but none of them knew me as well as Baxter did, and neither of them had been privy to the same conversations he had.

“Calisto?” my mother questioned when my silence had gone on for too long. “You can talk to me, sweetheart. You know that.”

“It’s nothing,” I lied. “Just… you know, this whole situation. This house is a bit like a pressure cooker, and I’m worried how long it will be before it blows.”

She nodded sagely and then reached over to pat my hand. “Well, we can’t stay here indefinitely. It’s okay for your grandparents… they’re retired. But the rest of us have jobs we’ll have to return to eventually if we want to keep them.”

“I know,” I said, pressure building behind my eyes. “I know this is only a temporary fix.”

“It’ll work itself out. Things always do.”

I wished I could share my mother’s optimism, but so far, absolutely nothing had worked itself out. Not O’Reilly. Not Asher. And not Baxter. There was something I could do about one of those things, though. With that in mind, I headed for Asher’s bedroom, the room still bearing the slight tang of his cologne from that morning.

“Baxter?” I called. “Can you hear me?” Asher had asked me once whether I could summon him, and I’d said I didn’t know, that I’d never tried. Well, now I was trying. “If you can hear me, I’m sorry I told you to go away. My anxiety that day caused me to lash out at you unfairly. I thought you’d go away for a few hours. Not a few days.”

Silence. Nothing present in the room that hadn’t already been there. “I miss you. I miss talking to you. You drive me crazy sometimes, but so do all my brothers and sisters. And I think of you in the same way… as one of my siblings. We’re family, you and I, so please don’t block me out.”

I did a slow circuit of the room while I waited. By the time I’d returned to my starting point, nothing had changed. Could he hear me and was just choosing to ignore me because he was sulking? Or did our connection not work like that?

It would have been handy if we’d ever talked about it, but we hadn’t. We’d just accepted things for the way they were. Or at least I had.

“Baxter?” I tried again. “If you can hear me, please appear. You can call me names. You can tell me what an ungrateful shit I am and how lucky I am to have you in my life… You can say anything you want and I won’t argue, but please appear. Even if it’s only for a minute. I just want to see you’re okay and nothing has happened to you.”

Three more circuits of the room. Same result. Which left me with only two options, doing nothing and waiting for him to appear under his own steam, or doing what I really didn’t want to do, what I’d only done once before in my life.

Baxter had tried everything over the years: blackmail, bribery, cajoling, cold, hard logic, but I’d remained steadfast in my intention to stay away. What better way was there to show him how sorry I was than to do something he knew I found abhorrent?

Even knowing that, I spent another ten minutes fighting the inevitability of it before finally seating myself cross-legged on the carpet with my back propped up against the wall. Asher’s bedroom door didn’t lock—why would it when he lived alone?—but he wouldn’t be back for hours, and I felt certain enough that no one else would invade his space. By which time, either I’d have found Baxter and spoken to him, or I’d have given up.

Closing my eyes, I breathed slowly, struggling to remember—when I’d tried so hard to forget—how I’d done this the last time. Teenage angst and an unwillingness to accept that with all the burgeoning skills I had, I didn’t have the power to change things had fueled that time. Well, I had changed things, and no one had been the better for it. Not me. Not my family mourning the kindly man who’d done so much for them. And certainly not Edmund Wainwright himself.

Continuing to breathe slowly, something of a meditative state needed, I willed myself there. Five minutes in, I bit out a curse at it not working and opened my eyes. Except, where there should have been a painted wall and an ornate chest of drawers, there was nothing but thick, gray fog.