Smoke, p.7
Smoke,
p.7
That was for the best.
Teddy had been smart enough to take the bottle into the bedroom with him. Not that Saalik could have done anything with it. But if Wyatt were to find them, it would have been easy for him to reclaim Saalik himself.
“What’s this? It looks expensive.” Teddy stood in the doorway. He no longer held Saalik’s bottle. Instead he held the framed painting from above Abel’s dresser in his hand.
“It’s a painting.” Saal wondered if he could take the bottle and distract Teddy long enough for Wyatt to come home. But then, this was his big night. And he’d been with Samuel.
“I know it’s a painting, but what painting?”
“That is Portrait of a Young Man.” These Calder men needed to brush up on their art history. “Painted by Raphael.”
“That’s a guy? I thought it was a homely girl.”
“That guy is worth more than a hundred million dollars.”
“No fucking way?”
“Yes, fucking way.” And that was just the reward money. Saalik pointed to where he held it. “Don’t touch the canvas, you’re going to damage it.”
Teddy instantly changed his grip so he only held the frame.
“You know, there’s nothing you could wish for that selling that piece wouldn’t allow you to afford.” Saalik left out the part about the piece being stolen from the Czartoryski Museum.
“What? You don’t like me?” Teddy leaned the painting against the table in the entry, before grabbing a throw off the couch to cover it. “Okay, I have my first wish.”
“Great.” Saalik sat on the sofa and folded his arms. “I was getting bored.”
“I wish for a car.”
“Okay—”
“Wait, I’m not finished.” Teddy tapped his head, to demonstrate that he was using his brains. “I want a brand new, not stolen, working car, with a tank full of gas. And the keys. I want the keys.”
“You’re a clever one.”
“And absolutely not double parked so that when I walk outside there’s a cop giving me a ticket.”
“Got it.” Saalik smiled. “Was there a certain kind of car you want?”
“Oh, yeah.” He thought about it for a few minutes, and then smiled. “An Alfa Romeo. No, no. A Lamborghini. They have bigger backseats.”
Saalik met Teddy’s eyes, and blue smoke began to swirl around him, creeping from his mouth to crawl over the skin of his neck and arms, dancing along his fingers, and Teddy stepped back, startled by the spectacle of it.
“A brand new, not stolen, Lamborghini, keys and a full tank of gas, absolutely not double parked on the street.”
Teddy nodded.
“You’re the boss.”
Chapter 19
“Stop here. Here.” Wyatt slapped on the driver’s seat, leaning forward to tap Vanessa’s card against the reader the moment the guy slammed on the brakes. “Thanks.”
He was out of the car in moments and ran up the steps of the house, nearly colliding with Mrs. Cain in the front entry. “Sorry.”
The sound of Azua’s barking interrupted whatever Mrs. Cain was going to say, and Wyatt took off up the stairs.
He found the apartment door unlocked and followed the sound of the dog’s whining. Wyatt freed her from the bathroom, holding out hope that he’d find Saal in the bedroom. But he wasn’t there. And neither was his bottle.
“Saal?” He called his name and checked the other rooms before going back out to the living room to find Azua scratching at the front door.
He pulled the door open, and instead of running down stairs like he’d expected, Azua bolted up to the third floor.
Wyatt didn’t hesitate, running up behind her to Mr. Walters’ place were the dog clawed at the door, growling.
He tried the knob, and when it wouldn’t work, ran back downstairs into his apartment and into the kitchen to climb out onto the fire escape.
He pounded his way up the metal stairs, using his shoulder to smash in the third-floor kitchen window when he found it locked, and stepped through.
For a moment, the house seemed to let out a whining noise, shifting below his feet as if the whole place was going to buckle underneath him.
He almost fell, but managed catch himself on the wall and stumbled into the living room, and stopped dead at the sight of his brother pinned against the door by a lime-green Lamborghini, yelling and Saal looking pleased with himself.
“Now I have to waste another fucking wish.
“Saal?” Wyatt ran, grabbing him and hugging him to his chest. “Are you okay?”
“What about me?” Teddy sounded furious. “I think he broke my fucking leg.”
“Oh, please.” Saal turned away to yell back. “Your leg’s not broken, you big baby.”
Wyatt ignored his brother, using his fingers to turn Saal’s face to meet his, and dropped his voice to a whisper. “Where’s your bottle?”
“In Abel’s bedroom.”
“I need to get it, and if you’ll let me, I want to wish you free.”
“But what about the nice apartment, and your success? What about the money and interviews? What about a book of your work?”
“It won’t mean anything if someone steals you away from me.”
“What about Samuel?”
Instead of answering, Wyatt kissed him.
* * * *
Wyatt would have freed Saal the moment Teddy had wished his car downstairs and Wyatt had reclaimed Saal’s bottle, but Saal’d had a wish of his own. And now the two of them lay in bed, wound around each other as the sun was just starting to come up, and blue smoke still danced around them.
“As far as wish granting goes,” Saal said, his head resting on his chest, “You’re not half bad.”
Wyatt laughed.
“So?” He gave Saal a final kiss before sitting up. “Are you ready?”
“I think so. Are you ready to get kicked out of the apartment for being behind on your rent?”
“I never liked it here anyway.”
Wyatt scooted back toward the nightstand, sitting cross-legged, and encouraged Saal onto his lap and to wrap his legs around him. As terrified as he was, Saal no longer seemed to be, and that helped Wyatt be brave.
“I wish.” He kissed Saal’s mouth and his neck, hugging him tightly to his chest. “Saalik free of his vessel and free from me.”
When he smashed the bottle to the floor, his hands only shook a little.
Epilogue
Highgate Cemetery was a lovely tangle of wildflowers and old-growth trees in the north of London.
Wyatt had wanted to stop by the office to ask for directions, but Saal had wanted to wander, sure that somehow he’d instinctually know where Elizabeth was buried.
They’d been searching for more than an hour, Azua tugging at her leash, impatient to explore.
“Are you sure you don’t want to ask?”
“Just a little longer. I know I’m getting warmer.”
Wyatt agreed, of course—never wanting to deny Saal anything—and grabbed his hand, tangling their fingers together as they made their way up a hill and toward the back of a large monument. It was one of a man and a woman on the far side of a sea of obelisks and angels.
They passed someone kneeling on a blanket, with rice paper and charcoal, taking a rubbing of an ornately decorated stone with the family name of Dankworth.
“That’s beautiful.” Saal was never shy about speaking to strangers. “Is it a family monument?”
“It is, on my father’s side.” The woman looked up at Saal, smiling, and then her faced changed. “Do I know you?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Yes, I do. You were in the news. The guy who discovered that missing painting. I always remember a handsome face.”
“I’m afraid you have me confused with someone else.”
But Saal was a terrible liar and the woman didn’t believe him, but she smiled. “My mistake.”
They continued through the stones, Saal singularly focused on the large monuments at the other end. Unlike most of the other figures, she wasn’t an angel, or he a soldier, just a man in a suit and a female draped in fabric holding a vase.
As they got closer, it became clear to Wyatt that it was a very distinctive vase.
Saal laid the flowers he carried at the foot of the stone, quiet for a long moment before he smiled at Wyatt, happy to have done what he’d always longed to do.
“Now what?”
“Now.” Saal walked over and leaned up to kiss him. “I’m finally going to start that new life. I was just waiting for you.”
THE END
ABOUT AMY SPECTOR
Amy Spector grew up in the United States surviving on a steady diet of old horror movies, television reruns, and mystery novels.
After years of blogging about comic books, vintage Gothic romance book cover illustrations, and a shameful amount about herself, she decided to try her hand at writing stories. She found it more than a little like talking about herself in third person, and that suited her just fine.
She blames Universal for her love of horror, Edward Gorey for her love of British drama, and writing for awakening the romantic that was probably there all along.
Amy lives in the Midwest with her husband and children, and her cats Poe, Goji, and Nekō.
For more information, visit amyspectorauthor.com.
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Amy Spector, Smoke
