Heat Stroke by Rachel Caine Page A

“It’s still your middle name, isn’t it?”
    â€œWho was on the phone?”
    â€œLater.”
    â€œCome on, remember the whole mushroom thing? Who called?”
    He gave me a long, unhappy look, but he must have known he couldn’t just drag me around like a suitcase. “Lewis.”
    â€œLewis?”
    â€œHe wants to meet you.”
    â€œOh. Right. He . . . mentioned that, back there—you know, at the funeral.” I gestured vaguely over my shoulder in a direction that probably didn’t indicate the Drake Hotel. “Something on his mind.”
    He didn’t look any happier at that revelation. “Joanne, you have to—”
    â€œâ€”leave my mortal life behind, yeah, I know, but it’s Lewis. You know?”
    He did. And once again, no spikes on the happiness meter. I let the sheet fall away, looked down at myself, and frowned. Oh, the skin looked okay; evidently, I had the knack, just not the expertise yet to do it fast. No, I was thinking about clothes. As in the lack thereof.
    â€œUm . . .” I pointed at my breasts. “Don’t think they let me go out in public like this.”
    David crossed his arms across his chest and looked, well, obstinate. Cute, but obstinate. “You expect me to do everything for you?”
    â€œNo. Just dress me. Please.”
    â€œAnd what if I don’t?”
    Ah, he’d figured out a way to keep me out of trouble. Or so he thought. I gave him a warm, evil smile. “Then you’d better hope I can master that not-being-noticed thing really quickly, because otherwise me and the NYPD are going to have a beautiful friendship.” I swung my legs out and stood up, and started walking for the door. He stepped back, looked down at his crossed arms, then up and over the top of his glasses. Effective. He must have known how gorgeous he looked doing that.
    â€œSeriously,” I said, and clicked back the privacy lock. The hotel air-conditioning whispered cold overmy skin in places that didn’t normally get to experience a breeze; I shivered and felt goosebumps texturing me all over. “Going outside now. Clothes would be a plus, but whatever . . .”
    Okay, I was bluffing, but it was a really, really good bluff. I swung the door open, hoping there wouldn’t be some society matron with her poodle-dog in the hall, and stepped out with my naked feet on the plush carpet. Expecting clothes to materialize around me.
    They didn’t.
    It wasn’t that good a bluff, apparently. David raised the stakes.
    The door slammed shut behind me, slapping me like a barely friendly smack on my bare butt. I yelped, crossed my arms over my breasts, then dropped one hand down to make a totally inadequate privacy panel. Shifted from one foot to another and pressed my back against the wood and said, “Fun-ny, David! Come on, help me out here.”
    He didn’t sound amused. “You need to learn how to dress yourself.”
    â€œI will. I swear. Just—not right now, okay?”
    â€œNot okay. Either you admit you’re not ready and come back inside, or put your own clothes on. Out there.” Not a drop of sympathy in David’s disembodied voice. I pulled in a breath, leaned against the door, and struggled to concentrate. Clothes are tricky, when you have to create them out of air and energy and make them look, well, good. Although frankly at the moment, I figured I’d better settle for fast and ugly. Wal-Mart was okay by me.
    I squeezed my eyes shut and focused. Seconds ticked away. I started to feel the burn of panic because my mind was completely, utterly—
    â€œAny time,” David advised. His voice didn’t come from behind the door, it was in front of me. I peeked and saw him leaning against the opposite hall wall. No way to classify that particular smile except as sadistic—cute, but sadistic. He checked his watch. “It’s a