Unsympathetic Magic - Laura Resnick [115]
I asked, “What’s the last thing you remember?”
“Uh . . .” Still rubbing his aching head, he thought about it. “I was going to take you outside to find a cab, but then . . . Oh, right. That idiot woman started throwing gunpowder into the brazier in a closed room full of people. So I went to stop her, and . . . and . . .” He shook his head. “That’s it. I don’t remember anything else.” Looking down at the burn marks scattered across his khaki pants, Lopez touched one and said, “I must have been standing too close to the next explosion, and I got knocked out. That must be when I got this bump on my head, huh?”
“Um, actually—”
“But why do I stink of rum? Did someone pour a bottle over me thinking it would wake me up?”
“You won’t like what I’m about to tell you,” I said.
“In that case,” he said with weary resignation, “I should probably pull myself together first.” He slid off the bed and stood up.
“Wait.” I was a little worried about him being on his feet only moments after regaining consciousness. “Are you sure you feel okay?”
Looking fairly normal, albeit tired, he said, “Yeah. Actually, for someone who was knocked out for two hours, I feel surprisingly good. But, uh, I need to get cleaned up.”
“Okay.”
He was familiar with my apartment, so he went down the hall, through the living room, and closed the bathroom door behind him. I sat on the bed with my chin in my hands, relieved that he seemed to be all right—and wondering exactly how much to tell him.
Everything, I decided. I should probably tell him everything.
He had made quite an impression at the Vodou ceremony. People were bound to talk about what had happened tonight. And I didn’t think Lopez would want to find out about his possession trance from a stranger or a suspect; he should hear about it from me. He still wouldn’t like it, but it was better than his getting broad-sided by someone else who’d seen him dancing half-naked around a Vodou altar with a bottle of rum and a fistful of hot coals.
Meanwhile, Puma was probably in danger, Biko was trying to kill Frank Johnson, and we thought the bokor had murdered Darius. With lives at stake, it seemed like it was time to pony up and tell Lopez what I knew, even though he wouldn’t like that, either.
He finished his ablutions and returned to the bedroom, using a hand towel to dry off his neck and face. Then he towel-dried the front of his hair, which was dripping a little. Still slightly damp, but now looking surprisingly bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, he stood in the doorway and smiled at me as I sat on the bed.
“Thanks for helping me out tonight,” he said. “Thanks to Max and Jeff, too. I guess they left after they carried me in here?”
His shirt still hung open and, staring at him as he stood in the doorway of my bedroom, I forgot what I had intended to say. So I just nodded dumbly.
He stared, too. After a long moment, he started to speak, stopped, cleared his throat, and tried again. “There’s something we have to talk about, but I can’t remember what.”
“Maybe the bump on your head made you forget?”
My voice was husky, and my heart was starting to beat harder. Since meeting him, after all, I had thought often of him being in this room with his chest naked and his gaze pinning me to the bed.
“No . . .” he said slowly, his voice soft. “I don’t think it’s . . . my head.” He took a breath. “We shouldn’t be in your bedroom.”
“Where should we be?” I asked.
“You shouldn’t be on the bed.”
“Okay.” I slid off the bed, joined him by the door, and looked up at him. “Is this better?”
His black lashes were wet and spiky, his blue eyes intense as his gaze moved over my face. “Um . . .”
Lopez started breathing harder as he dropped the towel and lowered his head toward mine.
His phone rang, startling me. He froze, scant inches away from kissing me. I could tell from his conflicted expression that he was going to have to take the call. I