Darkness Splintered(148)

 

He wrapped his arms around my waist and brushed a kiss across the top of my head. "We'd better get moving. It would not be wise to be late."

 

"I know," I repeated. "Just let me clean up."

 

"Ris, it can wait."

 

"You've obviously never had the taste of vomit in your mouth." I forced myself away from him, climbed off the bed, and headed for the bathroom. For several minutes I did nothing more than scrub my hands, trying to remove blood that didn't actually exist. Blood that had drained into my soul and become a weight I'd never be free of. I swallowed heavily, then grabbed my toothbrush. After brushing my teeth and rinsing my mouth, I cleaned up the vomit, then tossed the towels down the rubbish chute rather than the laundry one. The last thing anyone would want was my vomit rolling around with their clothes. Although given the state of the living room and kitchen, washing clothes would be the last thing on anyone's mind, even if they didn't have bigger problems right now.

 

"Right," I said, returning to Azriel's side. He'd resumed his regular position near the window. "We'd better go meet Uncle Rhoan."

 

He turned to face me. His expression was back to its usual noncommittal self but the compassion lingered in his eyes. "How do you wish to handle this?"

 

I frowned. "What do you mean?"

 

"I mean, I could touch his memories, make him forget. Would that not make things easier?"

 

"In some ways yes, in other ways no." I grimaced. "Uncle Rhoan is basically a psychic dead zone. He can't be touched telepathically. It's what has made him such a fantastic guardian."

 

"While there are some minds I cannot read, Rhoan Jenson is not one of them. I could —"

 

"No," I cut in. "It wouldn't be fair, and it wouldn't be right. Rhoan deserves more out of me than that."

 

"He does. But it nevertheless is a dangerous path to tread given Hunter's murderous bent."

 

"I know." I stepped into Azriel's arms. "Let's get this over with."

 

We reappeared in the upstairs office area of the café. The room was dark and smelled faintly of tobacco. I frowned, then vaguely remembered Ilianna's mentioning that she'd asked our accountant, Mike, to find someone to come in and do the business activity statement and salaries. I'd had no time lately and Margie, our new manager, had enough on her plate just keeping the café running smoothly. 

 

That scent, however, suggested Mike himself had come in. It certainly wasn't a scent I'd come across anywhere else but in his office. And while I would have thought doing accounts a little beneath him, he did seem to think that – because of his past relationship with Mom – he owed it to her to keep a "fatherly" eye on me. Maybe this was his way of doing so.