The Last Necromancer

Chapter 6, Part 1

After several minutes of repeating the moves, he opened a casket on the bookshelf and removed an object. Or was it two? It appeared to be two handles as long as his hands with the end of one connected by a chain to the end of the other. He returned to the clearing and began his moves again, this time incorporating the contraption by flicking it out and back, up and down. Blows from the metal device would cause a lot of damage to exposed flesh. It was something to remember, as was the place where he kept it.

I continued to watch, fascinated by his smoothness and speed. He exercised for an hour, not once stopping or looking my way. It didn't seem to bother him that he had an audience. Perhaps he liked it. When he finally finished, after almost two hours, his face was a little flushed and the hair at his temple damp, but he otherwise seemed unflustered. I would have been flat on the floor panting.

Without a word, he padded back to the casket and placed the weapon inside, then returned to the bedroom. He re-emerged after ten minutes wearing nothing but a towel around his hips and carrying another that he used to dry his hair.

His lack of attention to me allowed me to take in the sight of his chest and shoulders, the left one with a bandage covering it where I'd shot him. The youths in the gangs I'd been in had never had bodies like that. Fitzroy's shoulders were broad, with bulges of muscle rippling down his arms and across his chest. The sprinkle of dark chest hair tapered off before reaching his ridged stomach. From a distance, it was difficult to tell if it was curly like the hair on his head. I found myself wanting to find out.

Not really aware of what I was doing, I untucked my feet from beneath me and set them on the floor. He looked up and a small furrow connected his brows. I swallowed and reopened my book. I hoped my fringe covered the blush burning my face. Beneath my thigh, the knife point dug into me. I'd forgotten about it. I probably should have used his inattention during exercise to throw it at him.

Fool. Foolish girl. Surely he must know my secret now. Surely he could see my interest in him. No boy would stare like that. Good lord, I hoped I hadn't drooled. I wiped the corner of my mouth on my shoulder, just to be sure.

"It's late," he said, tossing the towel he'd used on his hair over the back of one of the chairs. He dragged his damp, tousled locks off his face, and my heart kicked in my chest at the way it somehow made him more handsome.

"And?" I prompted.

"Aren't you tired?"

"Aren't you?"

"I don't need much sleep." He sat at his desk. Wasn't he going to dress? His semi-nakedness was a distraction.

I rearranged myself on the sofa so that I faced away from him. "Nor do I." It was the truth. Staying awake and alert was just one way I'd kept alive and safe for years.

He emitted a soft sound, but I wasn't sure if it was in humor or derision. I refused to glance at him, and instead slumped down into the sofa, placing my head on the armrest and stretching my legs out. I held the book close, to see the words in the poor light, and I was soon lost in the story, swept into the world of Sherlock Holmes and his puzzling mystery.

Some time later, Fitzroy deposited a candelabra on the table behind my head. My breath caught as I waited for him to say something, do something. When nothing happened, I turned my head. He was once again at his desk. He still only wore the towel and he seemed lost in the paperwork spread out before him.

I fell asleep at some point and awoke in the morning in the same position, the book splayed across my chest and Fitzroy looking down on me. The nightmare that had woken me drifted away as we regarded one another. Had I said something in my sleep? Cried out? It was difficult to tell from his blank face.