Chapter Thirteen
“NATHANIEL, I WONDERED when you’d show your ugly face.” Draven greeted his old friend with good-natured teasing.
The giant male slapped his hand into Draven’s and shook it soundly, clapping his other hand against his bicep. “Who are you calling ugly?”
Nathaniel was about as ugly as any of the Watchers, and that meant not at all. At six foot six of brawny muscle and a clean-shaven head, he was, without a doubt, one of the more intimidating. Added to that his penchant for black clothing, and he wasn’t the type of guy anyone would pick a fight with. His expensive tailored suit and Mediterranean skin tone gave him the appearance of someone who had walked straight out of a mafia movie.
“What are you feeding me?” Nathaniel asked, licking his lips before flashing his signature, blinding smile.
Draven opened the chrome fridge behind him and pulled out another wrapped steak, waving the pack in Nathaniel’s direction. He also grabbed a clear glass bottle, three-quarters full of an amber liquid sloshing around inside. The bottle contained wine, although of the angel variety, much stronger and drunk like brandy or whiskey. His fully-appointed kitchen was probably a little over-the-top as far as home kitchens went, but it was sort of a comfort zone to him. That was particularly important since he didn’t enjoy going outside much. He liked to cook and he liked to eat, so preparing food relaxed him. The large space would have put any medium-sized restaurant to shame, and his glass-fronted cabinets, filled with equipment and supplies, proved he made good use of the kitchen.
“Excellent. You remember how I like it?”
Draven went back to the island in the center of the room, over which a large frame held a myriad of pots and pans. He continued with the salad he had been preparing before Nathaniel’s arrival interrupted him. “Skin it, gut it, and slap it on the plate while it’s still mooing.”
Nathaniel laughed, a booming sound that seemed to rattle the cupboards. He sat down on one of the high stools, fixing his steel blue eyes on Draven, and rubbed his chin with his thumb and forefinger.
Draven had been expecting this visit from his old friend, and frankly, he was surprised it had taken him so long to show up. “When did you get into town?” Draven smirked, tossing the towel over his shoulder and retrieving two glasses from an overhead cabinet.
“Just got here. I didn’t think you needed another complication.”
Draven nodded, getting back to slicing onions. “It’s been a long time.”
“Fast approaching twenty years.” Nathaniel snatched up a slice of potato Draven had prepared to sauté. “I’m guessing she’s still pissed?”
Draven paused and looked at his friend. He raised his eyebrows and barked out a laugh. The guy might be a man mountain, but he was delusional if he thought he could scare Ananchel.
Nathaniel frowned, creasing up his brow. “Shit.”
Draven laughed. “She’ll get over it, but you shouldn’t have left without saying goodbye.”
Nathaniel shrugged off his suit jacket and dropped it on the stool to his right. His sweet musk aftershave irritated Draven’s nose. The fragrance didn’t mix well with the aroma of food and spices already circulating through the warm room.
“She never would have let me leave, you know that.” He kept his eyes on Draven as he unbuttoned his sleeves and began turning them up over massive corded forearms.
“True.” Draven shrugged and did a double take. Although huge, somehow Draven remembered him being even bigger. The Nathaniel of his memory existed as over seven feet tall. He thought it funny how the mind worked. Even their minds, with infinite memory to both comfort and torment them. Vistas seemed less spectacular, fading like a sunset into darkness, parties less crowded when only the important guests were recalled. Pain dulled like an old knife, and people existed as giants, only to shrink to proportions that were more lifelike in reality. Maybe that was why humans seemed so obsessed with photographs and video recordings, their way of freezing moments so they never changed. Yes, a freeze-frame of time, something he had no use for. Draven preferred his memory, flawed as it might be, and his painting. His art was his vision of the world. Who was to say the real thing was better?
Draven sensed the direct honesty rising off the man in front of him, something of a rarity in this world. Nathaniel had always been more like Draven than Ananchel, going out of his way to avoid conflict unless necessary and embracing it with gusto when it was—so unlike Ananchel, who courted divergence. She wasn’t happy unless she was butting heads with someone, and unfortunately for Nathaniel, it was often him.
“So how is England?”
“Wet.” Nathaniel grinned. “But I’ve been happy there. Manchester is a lot different now than it was when we were there together.”
“And the shelter?”
The huge smile faltered, and Nathaniel brought one hand up to rub his bald scalp back and forth slowly. “Business is booming, I’m sad to say. There are a lot of folks struggling and many others who don’t care.”
He was referring to a joint venture of theirs. A place for anyone to go to when they found themselves in trouble. The grand old eighteenth century building at the edge of the garment district in the city had once been a textile mill and on the verge on demolition when they had come across it. The place looked more like a hotel after restoration. Red brickwork and large paneled windows took up a corner of an up-and-coming neighborhood. Ironic, since the proceeds of an extremely swank hotel on the far side of the city funded it. They overcharged the pampered rich to take care of the needy.
“So why come back?”
Nathaniel frowned, his thick brown brows creeping together like caterpillars in a race. “Who’s running the show here?” he asked, ignoring the question.
Draven calmly placed his knife down and ground out a breath through his nose. He closed his eyes and laid his palms on the counter, absorbing the coolness of the marble through his skin and allowing it to abate his temper. “Five minutes inside my door, and you are questioning my decisions.”
His friend remained silent while Draven watched the past play out behind his eyelids, the arguments with Ananchel right here in his kitchen about his decisions. The meetings with Payne about the child promised to save them. Nathaniel had been around for it all.
“You were wrong.”
“Oh, come on, Draven. You don’t want to admit the truth because you think if Ananchel has gone off the rails, then you must be a little bit too.”
He hung his head and looked at his friend across the island through his eyelashes, trying to get a read on what he was feeling. Nathaniel’s pulse remained slow and steady, and his breathing matched. “Nath—”
“I didn’t come all this way to dredge up old arguments,” he said, cutting Draven off. “I came because I see the way this world of ours is going down the sewers, and I’ve been hearing things.” He picked up the bottle, poured two fingers of liquor into each glass, and turned his piercing gaze on Draven. “Is the gossip true? Did you actually attempt to claim a Nephil as a mate?”
“I had a strategy, and it worked. Payne’s daughter loves Sebastian.”
“Well, there’s no accounting for taste,” Nathaniel quipped dryly.
“More importantly,” Draven continued regardless, “Sebastian loves her, enough to play nice on the playground for a change.”
Nathaniel narrowed his eyes, measuring him. Draven caught a flash of gold in the blue of his eyes. When Nathaniel appeared to deduce whatever he was eyeballing him for, he clucked his tongue and handed Draven a glass. “Yeah, that was the other thing I heard.”
Draven realized immediately he’d have to try harder to bury his personal feelings for Candra. If Nathaniel could see it, others would too, and his friend was right: he didn’t need any more complications.
Nathaniel raised his glass. “Here’s to love in its many forms, old friend…and the crazy things we all do for it.”
Draven knocked his own glass against it and poured the warming liquid down his throat in one loud gulp.
