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“Telekinesis, I think, or something to do with the fact that time and space have no meaning for him. I don’t know.” I shrugged. “You seem very calm about it.”

Dylan raised his eyebrows and then laughed. “Calm? I’m anything but calm. My life used to be so wonderfully dull.” He shook his head. “Right now, I’m wondering if we should all leave and stay in a hotel overnight.”

“No! There’s no need for that. This isn’t a horror film.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yes.” I was as emphatic as I could be. “It’s cool. He’s gone,” I lied.

Dylan eyed me thoughtfully. “Okay, if you say so. Besides, I don’t know where we’d go and I’m too tired right now. I’m not sure if we should tell Lulu about this. In fact, we shouldn’t. She’ll freak out.” He paused. “You seem to have come down with a bump. How are you?”

“Okay. I have a headache, and my feet and jaw are sore.” I looked down at my knotted fingers. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? I’m not sure if ‘sorry’ cuts it, Emily. I don’t think you should go out if this is how you’re going to behave. Lord knows what could have happened to you.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t do it again.” He grasped my chin to force me to look into his cold blue eyes. “I mean it, Emily. Street drugs are contaminated with all sorts of dangerous substances. I think you’ve escaped relatively lightly. You were lucky. If you do it again, you may not be so lucky. I will beat the living shit out of you.”

I gasped.

“I mean it,” he said. “Now go to bed.” He leaned forward and kissed my forehead, then released me.

Chastened, I turned and limped out of the kitchen. The clock read 3:35 a.m.

Chapter XVIII Tea

When I opened the door to my bedroom, Tristan was standing by the fireplace, tensed and coiled for a fight. His eyes raked over me with hostile censure.

“Hey,” I whispered.

“Don’t you ‘hey’ me,” he snapped and fisted his hands at his side.

My frayed temper shattered. “Look here, mister. If I want to get hammered, stoned, whatever, that’s entirely up to me and it’s nothing—I repeat, nothing—to do with you.” My voice went from diminuendo to crescendo. My head was pounding.

How dare he?

In a flash, he was in front of me, and we were nose to nose. “It’s everything to do with me,” he growled, his eyes green fire. His intensity stunned me and sapped my anger.

I stepped back for room to breathe. “Why?” I whispered.

Tristan stood upright, chastened I think, by my reaction.

“You look like shit, Beauchamp. Get into bed.” His voice was much calmer.

I gazed at him for a beat, trying to decide what to do.

“Bed!” he said again with more emphasis.

Wry humor won out. “I may look like shit and I certainly feel like it, but I need to get changed.”

“Oh.” His lips twitched with an embarrassed smile and he disappeared, reappearing a nanosecond later by the windows. “Get changed,” he said and turned his back to me.

I stripped off quickly, then dragged my dad’s T-shirt over my head and collapsed into bed. The moment I did, he was beside me, lying down with his head propped up on one elbow.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Terrible,” I whispered, and as the word left my lips, the enormity of what had just taken place hit me. I crumbled. I turned away from him and began to cry into my pillow.