I glanced around the room, looking for Zayvion. He was absorbed in a quiet, intense conversation with another man I’d never met. The man with Zay was slender and tall, wore black slacks and a black turtleneck, and held himself with an elegance that made me think of historical movies with sword fights and aristocrats. His hair was so blond, it was white, and long enough it fell between his shoulder blades, pulled back and banded. He and Zayvion were both turned half toward us, talking quietly, but also with hand gestures, as if they had a lot to say, and not enough time to cover it with words alone.
Hoping to change the mood, I nudged Shame.
“So who’s Zay with now?”
Shame blinked and seemed to come back from a long, long distance. He inhaled, and looked in the direction of my gaze.
“Terric,” he breathed.
It wasn’t the sound of a man who hated another man. No. In that one word, in that one name, was longing, need, the sound of something precious lost.
I didn’t realize they had been intimate. Or maybe they hadn’t. Maybe the draw between Soul Complements wasn’t about the sex. Maybe it was just about magic. Using it, having it, letting it use you, immersed and joined by it in ways unimaginable. Power.
Whatever it was, Shame’s body language was that of a starving man using all his strength not to yield to the poisoned feast before him.
I thought about putting my hand on his arm to console him, and decided against it. Shame was keyed up and I didn’t want to get a cheese knife in the throat.
“Zay and him friends?” I asked instead, trying to draw Shame down.
“We all were once.” Saying that seemed to help. He closed his eyes a moment. Maybe he realized he was sitting on the edge of his seat. He relaxed in stages back into his normal slouch and rubbed his gloved hand over his eyes.
“Balls,” he said. “It’s gonna be a long night.”
“Were you and Terric lovers?”
“No.” He sighed behind his gloves. “I’m not gay. But that man . . .” He pulled his hand away from his eyes. “Soul Complements. It’s . . .” He just shook his head. “Him and me . . . and magic? No. It doesn’t—can’t—work.”
“Did you refuse to be tested to see if you and he were Soul Complements because you were afraid you might want sex with him?” Yes, I am tactful that way. And also stupid.
He stared at me for a moment. “It’s good you and I are friends, Beckstrom,” he finally said. “Because I’m willing to ignore that ridiculous nonsense that just fell out of your mouth. It doesn’t have a damn thing to do with sex, okay? There were other reasons, other . . . bad things.”
“Like?”
“Like I’m done talking about it. And like I wish Mum had ponied up a bottle or two of wine right about now.”
“I can see why she wouldn’t want to serve alcohol to a roomful of trigger-happy magic users,” I said.
“She doesn’t have to feed it to the magic users. She could just feed it to me.”
“I’ll buy you a beer if you give me a who’s who on the rest of the people here.”
“Done.” He sat and leaned his elbows on the table. “The three women laughing over there? Dark wavy hair, coffee skin, and beautiful matching sets of big, lovely—”
I slapped him on the arm.
“Hey. Eyes. I was going to say eyes. What were you thinking? They’re the Georgia sisters. Life magic. The blonde next to them, about Mum’s age in the biker jacket who looks like she can wrestle an alligator? Darla. Death magic.”
He shifted in his seat a little. “The Russian underwear model over there is Nik Pavloski, and the family man next to him is a sweet-hearted killer named Joshua Romero. Faith magic—that means they’re both Closers. At the table near the wall is the ass wipe, Barham. Life magic, and the woman sitting next to him who looks like she hates him—petite, pale, black hair with a red streak, and a knockout scowl—Paige Iwamoto. She’s Blood magic. Stab him, baby—you know he deserves it.” Shame licked his lips and stared at Paige, as if he could will her to wield the cheese knife.
“Shame,” I said.
He looked away from Paige and Mike, giving the room a subtle glance while he reached for a piece of bread. He would make a good spy.