Page 17 of Veinblood
The fact he doesn’t reply is answer enough. I go into the kitchen, and open one of the cabinets. Taking down a can of soup, I empty the contents into a bowl and heat it up in the microwave. In the three minutes it takes to heat up, Sacha doesn’t move from his position in the center of the room. Once the timer dings, I take it out and place it on the small corner table in the kitchen.
“Come and eat. I need to run out and get you some clothes. Everywhere is going to shut down for the holidays soon. There’s a store a few blocks over. Stay here and warm up.”
He turns toward me, frowning. “What is that?”
“Soup.” I wait until he’s seated at the table, then move to the door. Before I open it, I look back. He’s studying the soup like it’s a wild animal, spoon in one hand.
“Eat. I won’t be long.”
I slip and slide my way through the snow and ice to the nearest store, grab a cart and move quickly through the aisles, selecting essentials. Shirts, sweatpants, thick socks. I have to guess his size. In some ways I know his physical form better than anyone’s, but I’ve never had to clothe him before.
At the underwear display, I stop dead. Of all the insane things I’ve faced—falling into a different world, deserts, towers without doors, shadow magic, and literal prophecies—thishas to be the weirdest.
What kind of underwear does a Shadowvein Lord prefer to wear?
The question, aside from his title, is so absurdly normal it makes me want to laugh and cry at the same time. I stare at the packages like they hold the secrets of the universe. Boxers seem too loose, briefs too restrictive. Boxer briefs might be a good compromise, but which ones? Black seems appropriate for someone who commands shadows, but maybe that’s too on the nose? I can’t see him in bright green, or ones with donut patterns, although my lips do twitch at the face he might pull if I presented them to him.
A woman browsing nearby gives me a knowing smile, completely misreading my crisis as a typical girlfriend shopping dilemma. If only she knew I’m trying to clothe a man who can melt into shadows and once fought off Authority soldiers with nothing but a blade made of darkness.
I grab plain black ones, then add boots in three different sizes to hopefully get at least one pair that fits, a heavy winter coat, gloves and a hat. I don’t bother with sneakers. I can’t imagine Sacha wearing them. But I do grab a pair of black jeans, and five t-shirts. The items pile up in my cart as I move toward the checkout.
The cashier barely glances at my purchases, but I find myself constructing cover stories anyway, and then have to remind myself that there isn’t anyone hunting us here. That I don’t need to justify my purchases.
I don’t even wince at the total, just hand over my credit card, pay and leave, hurrying back to my apartment.
Part of me fears that Sacha might be gone when I return, that I might have imagined his presence, or I might wake up from a dream, but when I unlock my door, he’s standing by my bookshelf.
“Clothes.” I set the bags onto the couch. “I wasn’t sure about sizes, so there are options.”
He puts down the book he was flipping through and walks over to the bags, examining each item with the same focus he’d give to maps of Meridian. His attention lingers on the underwear packages, one eyebrow lifting, but he makes no comment.
“Maybe you’d like to take a shower first, and warm up more?”
“A … shower?”
“I’ll show you.”
He follows me to the bathroom, fingers trailing over the countertop as he watches me pull back the shower curtain. Reaching in, I turn on the shower, adjusting the temperature until steam rises.
He watches the flow, interest lighting up his eyes, then reaches out to test the temperature.
“Interesting.”
“The left handle controls heat, the right changes the flow. There are towels on the shelf. I’ll go get you some clothes to change into.”
Steam fills the small bathroom. I should leave. Give him privacy. But my feet won't move from the doorway.
Chapter Six
SACHA
“In exile, we discover which hungers feed the soul and which devour it.”
Reflections on Captivity—Sacha Torran's Journals
The door doesn’t open,and Ellie doesn’t leave. Her fingers rest on the handle, and her eyes lift to meet mine through the rising steam. Then without a word, she steps forward, the space contracting around us as she comes closer. Her hands find the edge of my coat, and she pushes it off my shoulders. It falls to the floor in a soft whisper.
Her fingers move to the laced fastenings of my tunic, and she works each tie free. Her fingertips brush against my skin when she pulls it open, lingering with each contact. When she’s done, it joins my coat.
