Page 9 of Touch

“No,” Andrew antagonizes with fondness.

“Well, instruct your bank account to do something about that.” She picks up his novel, featuring artwork of a bloody longbow. “Expect my critical thoughts when we next meet.”

Andrew bows his head. “Looking forward to it.”

“Thank you for the shelves.”

“Hey. Never thank me.”

The lady’s cheeky veneer fades. She smiles with affection and says in a low tone, “Your father doesn’t deserve you.”

Andrew pauses. “Stepfather,” he corrects over his shoulder, then leaves.

Ah. So that odious elder at the house is a relative by law. Though, from the looks of it, the wraith is in Andrew’s care for additional reasons.

Love trails him home while summarizing the information she has amassed. Andrew is possibly researching her, which will get him nowhere since he’s limited to mortal texts. The ones not written by him at least, which make too many false conclusions about deities.

Beyond that, Love’s sensory connection to Andrew has waned. Not to anyone else. Just him.

A half mile into the walk, the essence of combativeness and spite clash like acid and vinegar. Andrew has taken a different route, perhaps a scenic detour, through a park. He passes two men reeking of whiskey, both of whom halt in the midst of tipping back a bottle of amber liquid when they see him. The larger of the pair possesses beefy arms that shift beneath his jacket, and the trenches in his face make him look brutish. His eyes prowl Andrew, the second figure sneers, and Andrew pins his gaze ahead as if he doesn’t see them.

But he knows. Love knows that he knows.

The landscape is fraught with cold. There’s no one around except her human. And these drunkards, who peel themselves from the shadows and proceed to follow him.

4

Men are stupid. That’s all there is to it.

It happens at the edge of the park, near a rusted bench. Far too many sensations assault Love at once that it’s difficult to sift through them. The only ones that stand out are the stenches of territoriality and resentment.

Behind Andrew’s back, the brutish man pauses beneath the glare of a streetlamp. Love narrows her eyes.Contain yourself, brutish man.

The troll at his side is a nonentity until she notices his wicked leer and paddle-sized hands, which are out of proportion to the rest of him.

The brutish man treks toward his prey, with his troll skulking beside him. They flank Andrew quickly. Humans can be fast when they want something.

“Hey,” the brute greets while the troll flicks his cigarette at Andrew’s feet.

Andrew skewers his gaze toward him. “Griffin,” he sighs.

Like a temptation, the longbow weighs heavily across Love’s back. She resists and closes her eyes, hunting for emotional signs from her mortal. Again, she encounters a wall, impenetrable to her powers. She does, however, locate his pulse, a steady heartbeat that drives Love crazy during the split second she hears it.

They will not touch him.

Yes, they will if they wish to. Though from the throb in his temple, Andrew will touch back if he must.

Love should feel reassured by this. Except she’s too busy picking a rock off the ground and crushing it to powder.

It’s against immortal law for her to interfere with human dealings unless it relates to matchmaking. Taming brutes is Anger’s job, though Evershire isn’t his jurisdiction. He’s stationed in one of those cities overrun by traffic, where he’s pacifying the hysterical tailgaters of this world.

“Not trying to run?” the brutish man named Griffin patronizes. “Pretty brave.”

“You’re drunk.” Andrew tapers his eyes at the other man. “Take him home.”

“That’s all you got to say?” Griffin slurs, alcohol lacing his breath like toxic fumes. “I thought we could be friendly, but see? I don’t understand some stuff. Like why you got a problem with my woman.”

“Jesus,” Andrew mutters with a humorless laugh. “Go sleep it off.”

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