don’t want quiche, you want bangers and mash.” Whisking away the fondue burner, she headed back into the kitchen.
“Yes, of course, English sausage is going to set me to rights,” muttered Malachy under his breath. “Better serve it quickly, before I start swinging from the chandelier.”
I didn’t question why he sounded so bitter. Even though we had every reason to believe that I’d be able to inject him with an initial dose of his medicine, Malachy knew that he was going to temporarily lose his ability to reason, and that I was going to see him in that irrational state. That would be shaming for anyone, but particularly so for a man like Malachy, who prized reason above all else.
I put my hand on Mal’s, wishing I knew how to comfort him. To my surprise, I felt a surge of warmth at this small contact, and then Mal closed his fingers over mine, and my breath caught. I hadn’t meant for him to interpret my touch as sexual, but I didn’t know how to take my hand back. His green eyes glowing like a lycanthrope’s, Malachy slowly stroked his thumb across the surface of my palm, sending a current of electricity right through me.
He looked different, I realized as I watched his face. Younger. Healthier. More vital. There were fewer gray strands interlaced with his wiry black curls. The medicine that controlled his disease had also been poisoning him. In its absence, his control might be weakening, but his body was growing stronger.
I had to remove my hand. We were holding hands now, and anyone could see, Red could see—Red—and then I gasped and pulled away as a stabbing pain lanced through my left arm.
“What is it, Abra?” Malachy took my arm in his hands and turned it over, inspecting the scar. The thin scar from the bonding ceremony looked inflamed, and it was throbbing unpleasantly. “What have you done to yourself?” He sounded annoyed, like his usual self.
From the table to our right, the young man looked up from his laptop. “She has not done this to herself.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
“I beg your pardon?” Malachy said, turning to the young man seated in the corner, with his back to the wall.
“Forgive me for interrupting,” the young man said in an accent identical to Magda’s. “But this scar was given to her.” He pushed up his old-fashioned, wire-rimmed spectacles. In his mid- to late twenties, he had a pale, narrow, serious face. In his button-down shirt and wire-rimmed spectacles, he had the look of a scholar from a previous century, but this was clearly not the case: I could see enough of his laptop’s screen to make out an aerial view of our village.
I realized that he must be one of Magda’s brothers, doing reconnaissance. Nodding at my arm, he said, “You are mated, yes?”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t recall either of us asking your opinion,” said Malachy shortly. He had the British knack for making “sorry” sound like a synonym for “deeply offended.”
“Forgive me, I interrupt your conversation.” The young man smiled a little wistfully, more at me than at Malachy. I had a feeling women usually forgave him anything and everything. “But I thought you should know, because you are touching her, and she belongs to another.”
“Well, you should mind your own bloody business.” Malachy turned his attention back to me. “So, is this boy correct? You and Red are mated?” He gave the last word ironic emphasis.
I nodded, feeling as though I’d just admitted something vaguely shameful. I glanced over at Magda’s brother, wondering if I should say something, but he was back to working on his laptop.
“Well, I suppose congratulations are in order,” said Malachy. “What does this mean, precisely: You and Red are setting up a den together?” Malachy’s sardonic tone was what I would have expected, but there was something in the set of his face that gave the words a different emphasis. He wasn’t amused; he was annoyed.
“Yes, that is what it means,” our neighbor said.
Malachy glowered at the young man in a way that had reduced both interns and residents to stuttering imbeciles. “I think we can conduct our conversation without your assistance.”
“At least, I believe that is what it means,” the young man said, frowning as if confused by something. “But your scent …” he turned, looking at me with undisguised interest. Masculine interest. “You are not entirely mated, are you? There is a trace of … you are still available, I think.”
And then