Evocation, p.17
Evocation, page 17
Rhys ignored him, squatting down in front of the desk and peering up at the underside of it. He rapped along the belly of the desk with his knuckles, listening intently. The dull knocking of solid wood was his only reward.
“You’ve completely lost it,” David said, throwing himself down onto a chaise lounge. He covered his eyes with a hand.
Rhys hit a spot that echoed deep and hollow.
David sat back up.
“Is that some kind of compartment?” Moira wondered, wandering over to the desk.
Rhys’s roaming fingers slowed, finessing into every darkened corner of the elaborate piece of the furniture. He pressed and prodded until something clicked into place.
An otherwise invisible compartment on top of the desk hissed and popped open. It was a shallow, nondescript drawer, covered by a perfectly fitted piece of oak attached by hidden hinges.
A flush crept across David’s face as he swung his legs over the chaise lounge and approached the desk. Rhys tried not to notice his closeness, the way the dusting of pink across his cheeks made him look alive and excited and warm to the touch.
“Evgeni was private, but he didn’t keep secrets from me,” David said. “I was raised to know the location of every safe in the house, the contact information for every offshore banker who managed our quieter investments. There was no point in hiding anything from his successor. At least, I thought so.”
David leaned over the desk and looked inside the compartment, his hip brushing against Rhys’s thigh. The touch jolted through Rhys, and he tried to ignore the warm bloom of arousal in his stomach. This wasn’t the time. It would never be the time, but especially not now.
Rhys dug his nails into the palm of his hand and mentally ran through a Hail Mary to distract himself.
David scoffed through his nose. “It’s empty. Just a hollow drawer lined with marbled paper.”
“It’s probably a stationary compartment,” Moira said, pushing up onto the edge of the desk and crossing her legs. Her miniskirt rode up further on her thick thighs, and Rhys couldn’t help but trace the movement with his eyes, despite the circumstances. He hadn’t slept well or eaten right in days, too consumed by his research, and now he was starting to fracture. He was desperate to touch his wife, desperate to be closer to David, and so, so miserably ashamed for wanting all that at the same time.
“No,” Rhys murmured, running his hand along the inside of the compartment. He tried to steady himself, to focus on the task at hand. “This is custom-built to keep a secret. Can I have your pocketknife?”
Moira reached into her purse and produced a multitool on a resin handle with pressed flowers set in it. Rhys used it to slice a thin line around the perimeter of the marble paper, moving with a conservationist’s care.
He peeled it back to reveal a neatly folded document, pressed almost perfectly flat beneath the compartment’s lining. It was still crisply folded and pristine, without a whiff of mold, though Rhys had no idea how long that thing had been in there. Judging by the splotched ink and the yellowed edges, a very, very long time.
Rhys unfolded the document, then furrowed his brow. “Of course. David, can you read this?”
David moved in closer, peering over Rhys’s shoulder at the spindly handwriting. “I can read modern Russian, not creepy, ancient, handwritten Russian.”
“Do your best, please. And be careful with the paper.”
The paper was feather-light in Rhys’s fingers, and he could easily imagine it dissolving to ash under his touch. But the dark and the dry of the desk had preserved it well, and the document kept itself together as David held it up to the light streaming in through the window.
“It’s a legal document, I can tell you that much. It’s dated and it’s got signatures at the bottom.”
“What’s the date?” Rhys asked, his heart galloping in his chest. He hadn’t been this excited by something in ages, and he felt drunk on success. This is what they had been looking for during the last few weeks, and Rhys had found it. He had swept into David’s life and done the impossible, and now David was looking at him like he was the second coming. Rhys’s chest swelled with pride. Nothing felt like David Aristarkhov looking at you like that. Nothing.
“1514,” David said.
“Holy hell,” Moira breathed.
David peered at the writing, squinting at the garbled script. “Whoever wrote this thing up did it in a hurry. There’s plenty of words I can’t make out.”
“Just try,” Rhys said, crossing to David’s side. One of his hands hovered between David’s shoulder blades, perilously close to making contact. He needed to get a hold of himself. He was getting swept up in the thrill of the hunt. He wasn’t thinking.
When he was feeling particularly cynical, Rhys said he had only fallen in love with David’s money, not the man himself. It wasn’t exactly true. But at eighteen, being looked at by someone of David’s status like he was worth something, like he deserved to be taken to Gucci and flown first class to Italy for spring break, had been intoxicating. Loving David had felt a lot like drinking, actually. Like tottering on the edge of a blackout.
Right now, Rhys could still taste the hangover.
David made a choked noise, sounding somewhere between amused and enraged.
“What is it?” Moira asked, appearing at his side. She brushed her fingers along his knuckles, and David, surprisingly, didn’t draw away. He just stared at the document as the color drained from his face, too flabbergasted to put his usual distance between Moira and Rhys.
Rhys was reminded of a church triptych as they stood there holding their breath, waiting for David’s translation. Three figures with their heads bowed together, hoping for revelation.
“No,” David pronounced, folding the paper closed and tossing it onto the desk. “Absolutely not.”
Rhys felt like he would chew through one of the room’s heavy damask curtains if David didn’t tell him exactly what was written down there. Against his better judgement, he let his hands settle on David’s back, smoothing a line up the fine linen of his shirt. His skin was warm beneath the fabric, his muscles tense. On David’s other side, Moira jostled closer. Rhys could smell her perfume, intoxicating as ever, see the enticing gleam of her glossy lips. She was always the sort of perfect that defied description, but right now she seemed closer to a deity than a human woman. He ached to pull her close and bury his face in her neck.
“What does it say?” she pressed.
“David,” Rhys said, leaning in to look David in the face. His green eyes were wild. “Tell us what it says.”
David stepped forward, breaking the tight circle of their bodies, and paced a dazed, wide ring on the imported rug. He chuckled, raking his fingers through his hair, then shook a finger at the page like it had gotten the best of him.
“He wanted me to find that. He left that there to fuck with me. No getting rid of him, not ever.”
“David,” Moira said, flapping her hands. “You’re making me dizzy, what on God’s green earth is in that thing?”
“It’s a contract,” David spat out. “The contract. The goddamn Aristarkhov deal. He mocked it up.”
“Wait a minute, the deal with the Devil?” Rhys said, advancing a few steps towards David without even thinking about it. This was an old dance, one he knew the steps to, talking David down by rooting him to his body, to the here and now. “You told me–”
“It’s a fairy tale. A fable made up by people who couldn’t stomach my family’s success. People hate the rich, Rhys, so they gossip.”
“People hate inequitable distributions of wealth,” Moira corrected. “And landlords.”
“Why would your father forge a historical document just to mess with you?” Rhys asked.
“Who knows!” David exclaimed. “To keep me on my toes, as some sort of training exercise? I don’t know!”
“Will you please just tell me what it says so I can take down a translation?” Rhys pressed. “Even if you think it’s a fake.”
“I do.”
“It could be important, David. Humor me.”
Rhys flipped open his leather messenger bag and retrieved a notepad and pen. David refused to touch the paper, but he leaned over the desk and read aloud what he could make out. The language was stilted and archaic, and he kept losing every fifth or sixth word, but he could parse enough of it. The terms were general and matched the folktale, a human soul bartered for powers of persuasion and guidance in the study of sorcery.
“What’s the demon’s name?” Rhys pressed. “I’m sure it’s there, it has to be…”
“Baelshieth,” David spat. “Don’t you dare gloat.”
Victory rang like a church bell in Rhys’s head, but he swallowed his good cheer. David was distraught, and Rhys was starting to worry about him.
“What are the terms of the deal? Specifically.”
“These terms are set in exchange for the youngest Aristarkhov heir. Or something like that.”
“Youngest? That doesn’t make any sense,” Moira muttered. “Rather defeats the point of an heir, doesn’t it?”
“Anatoly was the youngest of seven sons,” David replied. “The demon wanted to make sure he didn’t swap his soul out for one of his brothers’. Demons will squabble over contract terms until they wear you down. They’re like corporate lawyers.”
“But Anatoly is dead, David,” Rhys said gently. His fingers itched to grasp David by the shoulders, to steady him and make him look Rhys in the eye. “So are all of his brothers. There’s no reason for Baelshieth to be hounding you if he already got the soul he was after.”
David threw his hands into the air. “I don’t know what you want me to say! That some medieval demon is knocking me out trying to suck my soul out of my body?”
“I’m simply acting on the evidence presented to me,” Rhys said.
“Don’t take words out of my mouth,” David said, jabbing a threatening finger in Rhys’s direction as he yanked up his coat.
“You need to take this seriously, David. You asked me to find out what was going on with you and this looks like writing on the wall.”
“And how exactly am I supposed to take it seriously?”
Rhys took a deep breath, bracing himself for the backlash. If there was one thing David hated, it was being told to slow down. “You need to stop working so hard. I would put your mediumship practice on hold, for starters, maybe take a couple days off from work. Go visit your sister, or get out of town, anything that would help you rest…”
David shook his head rapidly, brushing past Rhys on his way to the door. “Never going to happen, Rhys. I need air.”
“Hey, hey,” Rhys said, catching David as he passed. David froze as soon as their skin made contact, every muscle taut. Rhys circled his slender fingers around David’s wrist, applying steadying pressure.
“Let me go,” David said, voice deathly quiet. But he wasn’t pulling away. He was standing so close that Rhys could feel his breath tickling at the collar of his shirt, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.
Rhys swallowed hard and slid his hand along the underside of David’s wrist. He rubbed a tiny circle into the palm of David’s hand with his thumb. The effect was immediate. The tension melted out of David’s shoulders. If Rhys was a better man, he might have felt guilty about pulling such an old trick.
“Stay,” Rhys said, and David’s breath caught in his throat. The world felt suddenly wonderful and dangerous, like standing in the middle of an electric storm, and Rhys allowed himself the guilty indulgence of letting his eyes travel over David’s face, from his strong brows to his cleanshaven jaw. The last time they had been this close, they had been in bed together, mapping the contours of each other’s bodies with fingers and mouths.
“I can’t…” David began, but the rest of the sentence died on his lips. Rhys waited, feeling for all the world like David had cracked open his ribs and was cradling his heart in one hand, very gently. David shouldn’t have that effect on him, not after all these years. But Rhys was too far gone to turn back now, and he would accept having to confess the illicit thoughts racing through his head the next time he saw his priest if it meant a few more moments of refusing to let David go.
Moira drifted over cautiously, as though approaching a spooked bird, and settled her small hand on one of David’s shoulders. Her touch broke the taut line of sight between David and Rhys, and David’s eyes snapped over to her.
“When’s the last time you ate anything?” she asked.
The last bit of fight left David’s body in a shaky rush. “I don’t remember,” he admitted.
Moira pulled her cellphone out of her purse, clucking her tongue. “I’m ordering Thai. Sit down, David.”
“I–” he began, his last attempt at an argument.
“Don’t run from this,” Rhys said. “Whatever’s going on, we’ll figure it out together, alright? Promise me you’ll try.”
David withdrew his hand. It might have been a delusion of Rhys’s overheated brain, but he thought he felt David trail his fingers along Rhys’s, making the contact last as long as possible.
“I’ll try.”
“Let’s all just have something to eat and take a lap, alright?” Moira asked. “I think there’s been more than enough excitement for one day. I want you both to take the night off. Witch’s orders, you hear me?”
David covered her hand with his own for a moment, and that surprised Rhys most of all. The balance between them had tipped, and something new was taking shape, something he didn’t have words for.
Moira pressed David gently down on the chaise lounge by the shoulder, effortlessly, with so much grace it was breathtaking. He bent under her touch like a sapling under punishing rain, and Rhys was left winded by David’s wordless submission.
He had bent that easily for Rhys once too.
“Fine,” Rhys said, his chest tight with so much guilt and longing he thought it might kill him.
The dining room was imposing and too large by half, so they threw pillows on the ground and sat around one of the coffee tables in the library. Moira sent Rhys to the corner store to pick up a pack of Singha beer and a liter of sparkling water for David, and by the time he got back, Moira was unpacking takeout containers of pad Thai and green curry, arranging them just so on the table.
An hour later, Rhys was full and satisfied, leaning back on his pillow with his long legs tucked up underneath him. The light outside the house was low and orange through the big windows, wrapping them all in a sunset glow. Moira knelt close to David, cradling his hand.
“I don’t think I believe you’ve never had a palm reading before,” she said.
David laughed, the sound a bright ribbon in the darkening room. “I’m serious!”
“Well, I’m not the best at it myself, so don’t expect the moon and stars.”
“I’m a complete novice, so I’ll be impressed by whatever you do.”
“And what do I get in return for my trouble?” Moira asked, her dark eyes sparkling. She radiated the gleeful mischief of a child trying to wheedle sweets out of an adult.
David laughed again, and Rhys couldn’t remember the last time he had been treated to so much of that irresistible, golden sound. David barely smiled these days, let alone laughed.
“I’ll teach you some Russian, how’s that?”
“Aw, come on, that’s his out for every trade,” Rhys said, unable to repress the smile crawling across his own lips. He had been wound so tight for the past weeks, wrapped up in so much research that he could barely remember what day it was. But Moira hadn’t been kidding when she told him and David to take the day off, and putting him at ease had always been part of her particular magic.
“I think it’s a fair trade,” Moira decreed, and then leaned forward to peer at the lines etched into David’s palm.
Rhys watched David watching Moira, noting the soft curve of a smile on the medium’s lips. Something between David and Moira had shifted that Rhys couldn’t quite put his finger on. But the ice between them had definitely melted, and the resulting effect was startling. Rhys couldn’t think of two people more opposite than David and Moira, but when they weren’t sniping at each other, they fit together surprisingly well. It sent a strange ache through him, to see them so comfortable together.
“A strong head line straight across here,” Moira said. “That indicates a sharp, analytic mind. And there’s a little hiccup in your life line, but otherwise it suggests a long, full life. I don’t see any children in your future, but I do see love throughout your life.”
“Is that so?” David asked, arching a playful brow.
A troublemaking grin spread across Moira’s face. She was up to something. “Oh, yes, I see a man in your past. Dark and handsome.” She shot a sly glance to Rhys. “Though maybe not very tall.”
Rhys blanched. “Moira,” he pled. He wasn’t sure he could live through the embarrassment of his ex and his wife discussing his past relationships in his presence.
Moira turned back to David’s hand, resuming her work. When she spoke, it was with a calculatedly blasé tone. “What happened between the two of you, anyway? Or am I not allowed to ask?”
David’s eyebrows shot up towards the ceiling, and he looked over to Rhys for an out. Rhys just shrugged, as baffled as David was. Moira did what she wanted, and she did it with a bluntness that was hard to wriggle away from.
“Hasn’t he told you?” David said, his smile faltering.
“Not much. I don’t have to tell you he’s private. Hm, your fate line is a little faded. That could mean you’ll change professions often, or that you’ll divert from the career path your family laid out for you. So. Why didn’t things work out?”
Moira was very deliberately asking David, not Rhys, even though she knew full well she could get the information out of her husband much easier if she had asked in private. She was testing David, seeing if he would shoot straight with her or clam up at the first mention of the past. Maybe she was testing Rhys, too.
David thought for a moment. This was the part where he would usually find a way to shift the blame onto Rhys, or act like the breakup had been no big deal instead of a shattering event that had wounded both of them badly. Rhys braced himself to be pissed about whatever it was David came up with this time. But to his great surprise, David was honest.
