“Son of a bitch!” I say.
“What?” His face hardens. “I get that you’re pissed with me, for good reason, but . . .”
I’m on my knees, fingers running over the floorboards as he trails off.
“What are you doing?” he says.
“I need your fingers,” I say.
“Uh . . .”
I glance up. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. Really?”
I’m pretty sure he’s blushing as he mumbles some unintelligible apology and drops to his knees beside me. I point out the extra-wide crack between the floorboards. He wedges his fingers in, and I do the same.
“Easy,” I say . . . and he yanks, boards cracking and flying into the air.
“So, when I say, easy, what exactly do you hear?” I ask.
He smiles sheepishly. “Pull really hard and open it easily?” He looks down at the broken boards. “I don’t know my own strength, being a werewolf and all.”
“Yeah, yeah. Well, being a fellow werewolf, I would love to challenge that statement with an arm wrestle at a more appropriate time.”
He grins. “It’s a date.” The smile falters. “I, uh, mean . . .”
“Elijah?” I say. “You are one fine package. I will not for one second deny that. While most girls appreciate a hot guy, they value the inside of the package even more.”
And on that count, you fail to meet expectations. I don’t say the last part. That would be cruel, and no matter how much he’s hurt me, I won’t retaliate. He still knows what I’m implying, and his gaze drops.
“Yeah . . .” he says. “I haven’t exactly shown my best side.”
“It doesn’t matter. You’re not interested. That’s all I need to know.”
He shifts his weight. “It’s not that—”
“Stop. Please. My ego doesn’t need reassurance. I wasn’t looking for a boyfriend or a hookup. I’m still not. You’re safe from me, so I’d appreciate it if you’d accept that and stop worrying you’ll say the wrong thing and give me false hope.”
“It’s not—”
“I have no hopes.” I meet his gaze. “No interest, either.”
His eyes shunt to the side, and his lips part in a faint curse before he says, “I’ve royally screwed this up, haven’t I?”
“Hey!” I say. “Did you notice we just broke open a secret passage into an equally secret basement level? Wow. I bet that would help divert us from any ongoing awkward conversations, huh?”
He grants me a quarter smile but then shakes his head. “I really do need to talk to you, Kate.”
I point down. “Secret passage?”
He sighs and eases back onto his haunches as we take a better look. There’s a hatch cut into the floorboards. Or there was before He-Wolf yanked it off and shattered two boards. Now it’s a gaping hole into darkness with pieces of the former hatch scattered around us.
“Looks dark,” Elijah says.
“Which is good, right?”
He glances up at me.
“Would you rather see a mysterious light in the distance,” I say, “leading us into the killer’s underground laboratory where she waits to slaughter us both?”
“She? Oh, because it’s witch magic up here.”
“No,” I say. “I’d never presume the killer is male.” I turn around and grip the edge.
“Whoa!” he says. “You can’t just—”
“Can,” I say as I step onto the first ladder rung. I descend two more. “Did.”
“It’s dark down there.”
“Also dark up here.”
“Shouldn’t you warn your brother before you go crawling into subterranean passages?”
“That’s your job,” I say. “I think he’s in the kitchen.”
“Yeah, I’d rather face whatever’s down there.” Elijah turns around and steps onto the ladder as I descend into darkness.
Chapter Three
Logan
Holly and I are in the kitchen, pretending to be searching but really just talking away from the others. Kate is exploring. Mason is doing Mason things. Elijah is . . . wherever. Allan was with us, but we set him on watch duty, ostensibly making sure the hounds don’t find a way in. Again, I just don’t want anyone overhearing this conversation.
“How dark is that magic?” I ask Holly as she peers into a cupboard.
She straightens and glances at the door. Seeing it closed, she turns to me, voice lowered so only a werewolf could hear.
“The darkest,” she says.
I motion her into the opposite corner where she hops on the table, perched there, her legs dangling. Straight black hair curtains her downturned face as she thinks. Sometimes, I meet a person like Holly, someone I like, have a lot in common with, even find attractive, and I wish I felt more. My brain swipes right . . . and nothing else does. Not my heart. Not anything lower in my anatomy, either.
The last part used to worry me more. I’ve been to parties, and I’ve had girls—and a few guys—offer me anything I want, no strings attached. Just a good time for all. Most of the guys I know happily jump on those offers, and when I don’t, I feel as if there’s something wrong with me. Free sex, what sixteen-year-old guy doesn’t want that? This one, apparently.
My testosterone levels are fine. Too fine, really. I definitely feel the urges, and I suspect I spend as much time taking long showers as any guy my age. I just can’t look at an attractive girl or guy and think, I want that. Which is good, I guess, considering what happens with some of those hookups where one person agrees it’s casual but is really hoping for a connection, and when that doesn’t happen, there’s anger and resentment and hurt. Not my idea of a good time.
But it isn’t just the sex. I don’t want to look at a girl like Holly and only imagine getting her in bed. I would, however, like to look at her, see our obvious compatibility and be intrigued, as Kate was with Elijah. With Holly, I only see someone I’d like to get to know better as a friend. Which is fine because I’m not getting any other vibes from her, either. It’s just . . . part of me wants to experience the rest, to fall for someone and go through the whole giddy, messy teenage infatuation thing I see all around me.
The thought passes with a brushstroke of regret and misplaced longing, seeing her sitting there, cute and sweet and very much a girl after my own heart, studious and quiet and thoughtful. And maybe that’s why there isn’t a spark. Also, I suppose, under the circumstances, that’s a good thing. We’re a little too busy for romance. I need only to look at Kate and Elijah to remind myself I should be happy I’m not distracted by that.
“Talk to me about the magic,” I say. “What are we looking at?”
She goes quiet, gaze still down, feet swinging. I’m about to interject and tell her not to worry about it if she doesn’t know. Holly said she was one of Paige’s “Sabrinas”—part of Paige’s cyber coven for young witches. Those aren’t the kinds of girls who know dark magic, and there’s no reason Holly should, even theoretically. When I open my mouth to say so, though, I catch something in her face, a stillness and a tightness that tells me she’s not being quiet because she knows nothing about dark magic.