Illyria cocked her head, gazing at her reflection in the mirror. She followed the thread of a memory, one of Fred’s memories, her form bleeding into a likeness of Fred. She stepped out of the bathroom and into the half shadowed stillness of the bedroom. Connor lay sprawled on the bed on his stomach.
“I wish to celebrate the shell’s day of birth.”
Connor turned over slowly, dragging the sheet up to a decent position just above his hipbones. His face curled in disgust. “I told you not to do that.”
Illyria sighed. “I do not understand your dislike for the shell’s form. It is almost as bad as Wesley’s was.”
Connor grumbled, sat up, tugging the sheet even higher. “Another name not to be mentioned before, during or after sex.”
Illyria walked over to the bed and stood looking down her nose at Connor. “That would imply that I may never mention either the shell or Wesley.”
Connor glared at her. “I thought you’d catch on quicker, being a former goddess and all.”