Page 72 of Salt Magic, Skin Magic
“Don’t tell me! I’ll never be able to fuck on a bed again.”
“Promises, eh? I’ll have you over that chest in a bit. That’ll give it something to think about.”
Thornby smiled. “Well, I’m not dressing you again. When you made me button your shirt, I really thought you were going out. You absolute cad.”
“That’ll teach you to dive into the sea and forget about everything.”
“I didn’t say that. I forgotIwas once human.”
“Isn’t it the same?”
“No. It’s not.” Thornby lifted himself up on one elbow. John’s face was bruised and cut and there were lines of strain etched upon it. He needed to shave. “John, don’t you realise? I forgot about myself. And Raskelf, and everything. I’d have stayed in the sea forever, probably. But I remembered one thing; I rememberedyou.”
John’s eyes widened, and, at last, the wariness in them melted away. “Me?”
“Just you.” It came out in a whisper, and his breath hitched at the end. He wanted to say something else, to make it clear, to make John understand what it meant, but his voice seemed to have deserted him.
But perhaps John understood anyway, because he touched Thornby’s cheek. With his thumb, he traced the swell of Thornby’s lips and the line of his jaw. And he looked the way he did when he was working magic; serious, intent, possibly a little frightening. And to be touched like that, so tenderly, with those listening hands, was as precious and as heady as freedom.
Presently, John’s eyes closed and he fell asleep, his face pressed against Thornby’s chest. Thornby lay with his arms around him, and listened to him breathe. He was nearly asleep himself when he noticed that each slow breath John took was in perfect unison with the waves that broke outside on the shore. He’d have sworn the surf had been pounding faster not long ago, and thought it an odd coincidence.
Or perhaps it was not a coincidence at all.
If one has a selkie’s affinity for the sea, and the man lying next to one is a magician with an affinity for salt—perhaps, when you are both at peace, even the ocean will sleep.
Chapter Fifteen
John half-woke. Thebed was warm and comfortable, and sleep swept over him again in a gentle wave. But noises from outside kept bringing him to the surface; the rumble of a cart, footsteps, men’s voices, the hum of London waking up. And yet, there was something not right. There was a high, shrill yelling, as though some careless theurgist had summoned something that was not yet under control. Perhaps he should go and—no, it wasn’t a new-conjured imp; it was seagulls calling. And he wasn’t in London, he was in Yorkshire, somewhere on the east coast.
Everything came flooding back. Soren. Raskelf. The whole world telling him its secrets.
Soren. He reached out, but his hand met cold sheets. He opened his eyes, taking in the bare expanse of pillow, the crumpled edge of the sheet, pale grey in the dimly-lit room. Perhaps Soren had gone out to relieve himself. Perhaps he’d be back any minute.
John could count on the fingers of one hand the times he’d slept in a bed all night with a lover. Generally, he didn’t take the risk. After sex, it was safer to go home to sleep alone. But Soren had engineered last night’s opportunity, and John had been too tired to protest. In any case, he had not wanted to protest. It had been bliss to fall asleep with Soren’s arms around him. John had slept, feeling that if anything happened, Soren would deal with it. The sense of safety had been so profound it had been like something from childhood, when he’d still believed his parents invulnerable—his mother all-wise, his father all-strong.
He waited, trying to cling to last night’s contentment, while the minutes lengthened. He could hear the sea. Half-asleep, he’d mistaken it for the distant sound of the city, but now its quiet, ceaseless rhythm was unmistakable, like the pulse of a lover when you laid your head on his chest.
