“Meaning?” Anya reaches for my hand then snatches hers back.
“It means you’re my chosen one.” Caleb turns toward Francis. “I’m telling you, she’s Gianna.” He turns back to Anya, a grin practically consuming his face. “Last time, we were friends, and you chose—”
“Caleb.” Francis’s voice cracks like a whip. “Even if she is the one, she’s not here as part of your process. She’s here as one of the chosen.
“Okay, okay. Jeez.”
“Last time?” She trains her gaze on Francis. “What does he mean by last time?” She shakes her head and rests it on her palms. “Chosen for what? Oh god . . . uh, gods, I thought adulting without my husband was hard. But this, I can’t even.” Then she looks up hopefully. “You’re aliens, right? You’ve snatched me, and we’re on the mother ship, right?”
I bark out a laugh. “You watch too many movies.”
Anya claps her hands together then points at me. “I knew it. You’re my Bob. I can feel it.”
I hate to burst her bubble. I reach for her hand again, but she pulls it away.
“Any connection we feel is from exchanging our ether during the healing. Think about it. Do I look like your Bob?”
“No, well, you did last night. Now you look like Joe Black, and he’s not real, is he?” Anya juts her chin at me, challenging me to dispute that claim. “And don’t try to tell me you’re Brad Pitt because he’s way older now.”
“I don’t look like Joe Black. He’s—”
“Why do I hear singing every time someone says your name?”
“It’s part of the cloaking spell,” Francis says. Caleb nods in agreement.
“What the hell is a cloaking spell?” Anya asks.
“A spell or charm designed to hide identities. It changes our appearance to each other. And it blocks us from revealing some personal information. That’s why every time you say something that might identify you, music turns it into meaningless words. We are all under the spell. Aphrodite did it so we would cease looking for our destined mates during this month and focus on our assignment fully. But so far, only you, Nameless, and Joe Bob, as you call him, seem to be saying things that are getting vetoed.”
Anya swivels her head a few times before looking up again. “I’ve figured it out. This is a drug-induced hallucination.” She sits back and folds her hands over those magnificent breasts with a resigned sigh.
I resist the urge to pull her arms off her chest and give my head a shake. That’s like something Caleb would do.
“It’s not a dream, and you’re not under the influence of any drug. You may be suffering the remaining side effects of ascension cold, but most of the fatigue is caused by your healing of Joe Bob,” Francis says.
Anya narrows her eyes. “Any other side effects I can expect?”
Francis looks uncomfortable. I watch with interest. I’ve been working with Francis for six months, and we’ve examined hundreds of souls, but this is the first one who asks such direct questions. Francis is a master of putting up a smoke screen. Or, as he’d call it, dissembling.
“We would not wish to influence your recovery. Better, perhaps, that you tell us what you are experiencing.” Francis puts a hand on her brow. “Are you quite well?”
Anya jumps as she did this morning. Francis looks momentarily stunned. “Ouch! What the fuck?” Anya says. She grabs her arms and moans. “Oh, dear gods.” She turns and grabs my shoulders. “Make it stop.” Those multicolored eyes beg for my help.
I drop my lips to hers. She whips into my lap and damned near sucks my tongue out of my mouth as she takes in my breath, bruising my lips with the force of her kiss. Thousands of electrical needles seem to penetrate my skin as I breathe in Anya’s pain. It’s as if someone brushed a supercharged electro-sex wand over my body. My cock goes rock hard. Anya moans into my mouth, pushes her breasts into my chest. After what seems an eternity that’s actually about two minutes, Anya’s kiss deepens to sensual. I grab her ass. She moans again, and her grip tightens on my cheeks. With what feels like incredible effort, she unglues her lips.
“I’m sorry. Are you okay?” Her eyes are alive with concern.
Francis snaps his fingers. “No, he does not need to have intercourse again to heal him. He will be just fine in a few hours.”
Anya jumps off my lap and faces him with her hands on her hips. “Don’t you snap your fingers at me. That’s so basic. I don’t care who the hell you are. So, you read minds. Awesome.”
“But you feel like having sex, right?” Caleb damned near hops off his chair. “Me next?” He looks so hopeful it’s sad.
Anya backs up a step, grabs my hand, and holds on.
“You’re frightening her.” I train a very direct gaze on Caleb. He gives me the “sorry, man” hands-up gesture and sits back in his chair. I squeeze Anya’s hand. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”
“I have no intention of doing anything I don’t want to do.” She blows out a breath. “Okay, let’s take it from the top. I’m in Bardo. Have I got that right?” She looks at me.
I nod. “The realm—”
“Between realms,” she finishes. “I remember Hera saying that, now. So, I must be dead. And if I’m dead, then where’s my Pvk?” The sound of her husband’s name is meaningless and swimming in music notes. “Have you seen him?” She looks around eagerly as if he’ll magically appear. “I get to see him, right?”
“You’re not dead. You’re in stasis, which is just our fucking luck.” Nameless opens his mouth to speak again, but Francis gives him a shut-up-or-else look. Nameless subsides but if looks could kill . . . Francis glances my way before returning his attention to Anya.
I give her hand another small squeeze.
“All right. This is getting just a bit too chaotic for me. One thing at a time. Gods, this is a lot to take in.” I look at Francis. “Is there such a thing as pen and paper up here? We are up, right?” I snap my jaw shut to stop the babbling. And try to ignore the fierce hunger telling me to tear Joe Bob’s clothes off and fuck him right here in front of all these guys. Or whatever the hell they are because Francis is no normal guy.
The words are barely out of my mouth when Francis places a notepad and a couple of my favorite pens in front of me.
“Thank you. Now, I’m going to back things up. Let’s see if I’ve got this straight while I make my notes like a proper headmistress.” I start a list by writing a number one, punching the period into the paper harder than necessary. “I’m not dead—I’m in Bardo.” I drawl the words slowly as I write them down. Then, I write a number two and punch another period after it. “I’m not under the influence of drugs or your ascension cold fever thing. Aaand . . . number three, I’ve been chosen to be headmistress of your Sexy Sins Academy for a month after which I’ll be returned to my life on earth.” I scrawl a number four but pause my pen. “You guys are my orientation team.” I look at Francis on this one.
“Very perceptive of you. I’m sensing you also have the gift of intuition.”
Gift? We’ll see about that.
I focus back on my notepad. “And finally,” I say, pen flying across the paper, “I have some kind of healing power that seems to involve sex, but I don’t have to have sex if I don’t want to.” I underline that last part.
“But you want to, right?” The guy named Caleb acts so much like a cute puppy wanting attention, I have trouble bursting his bubble—the chances of me having sex with him are slim to nil. I roll my eyes instead and continue. He sticks his lip out in a pout and crosses his arms over his massive chest.
Ignoring him, I look at Francis. Have I got it all down correctly?” I ask, giving my best fake-sweet smile.
“How come she keeps looking at you?” Nameless looks pointedly at Francis. “It’s not like you’re the boss here.”
“If you have something to say to me, please do me the favor of addressing me directly. At least while I’m in the room.” I bite back the rest of the diatribe that wan
ts to rush out of my mouth and try to soften my tone. If there’s one thing that gets on my nerves, it’s male privilege.
Nameless studies me like a predator who’s about to make a kill. “If you insist. Why don’t you let us all know why you’re treating Francis like he’s King of the Universe? Of any of us, wouldn’t that honor go to the man you just fucked?”
The eye-roll I gave Caleb gets upgraded for Nameless to a look of full-fledged reproach, a look I’ve honed to a fine polish while running schools. I train it on him, a deliberate bite in my tone. “I’m going to ignore that disrespect for just one moment while we determine the power differential here. Once that’s determined, we’ll talk. Until then, I expect you to give me the same courtesy you gave to the last headmistress.”
Nameless sits straighter and points a finger in my direction. “Your predecessor’s respect was earned.” He opens his mouth to say more, but Francis’s hand snaps in the air and musical notes and nonsense come out of Nameless’s mouth instead. Nameless’s mouth clamps shut although his glower intensifies.
“We’re the school’s examiners,” Joe Bob says. I must raise my eyebrows or something because he rushes on to add, “Well, not yours precisely. We examine souls in stasis, much like your own, who have completed all but this level of enlightenment. We determine whether they’re ready to ascend to Bardo or must remain in the earthly realm.”
Like a true headmistress, I like fuller answers. “Please expand on that explanation for me. If I’m going to work here, I need to know more about the institution and its realm.”
Caleb takes this on. “In normal circumstances, the gods notify Joe Bob when a spirit is snuffed out prematurely. First, we help the apprentice remember they do the work in Bardo that determines who they’ll be in their next life. Think of Bardo as a large university with eight different faculties. To graduate, you have to earn a degree from each faculty. If a soul is sent to the academy to examine, they’ve already earned the first seven degrees.” Caleb obviously does a good job of making apprentices feel comfortable. “After the apprentice accepts his or her return to Bardo, we explain the examination process, which mainly consists of several days of questions and discussions that help us guide the apprentice in deciding whether they’re ready to take the schooling needed to be ready for the next life or whether they need to finish learning on earth.”
I frown. “So, if they’re not ready, they’re sent back? Like when someone dies in the ER and they do CPR for forty-seven minutes before some grave-faced doctor finally calls it. And they’re just about to raise the sheet and cover the face, and the person gasps and chokes back to life. Like that?” I pantomime the whole thing, and Joe Bob can’t seem to help but laugh.
“Like that,” Caleb says.
“This is no laughing matter,” Nameless says.
“Leave her alone, Nameless. Her enthusiasm just might help her get through this.” Joe Bob’s protectiveness warms me.
I open my mouth to speak, but Francis turns his attention to me, and the heat of his gaze drives out all rational thought.
“As I was saying, you have the gift of intuition. We are your coworkers. There is no power differential here,” Francis says.
I so want to stick my tongue out at Nameless but settle for a brief look of satisfaction with a dash of I’ll-get-to-you-later thrown in. Then, I pick up the pen, draw intersecting lines on the pad to make a four-square grid, and write Nameless’s name above my first bullet point: Asshole. A low chuckle comes from my right as Job Bob no doubt reads what I’ve written. Just the thought of him shoots quivers through me. Stop that! I will not let my body overrule my logical mind ever again.
“You’ll learn very quickly that absolutes matter not here in Bardo,” Francis says.
I throw a reproachful look in his direction now. Oh yeah, my eyes are getting quite a workout with this crowd. “So, you read minds, too?” I feel as if I already knew that.
The edges of Francis’s mouth quirk in what’s starting to look like his version of a smile. “Not precisely. I have preternatural perception.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I have enhanced senses, particularly those that pertain to empathic perception and honesty. For that reason, it’s my job to determine whether our apprentices are being honest about their sexuality.”
There they go again, talking about sex. I jot down the words honesty and enhanced senses in Francis’s box. More to give me something to do just in case there’s outward manifestation of the increased wattage happening inside me. The shock from Francis’s touch making me attack Joe Bob was bad enough, but the lingering tingles have just jumped my body into overdrive. I want to devour someone. Any one of the four guys will do. I can’t remember hearing a gods-damned thing about sex in the hereafter when I studied world religions in university. Grab the reins, Tate.
So I can look at Joe Bob without jumping on his lap again, I pull up my big-girl panties—metaphorically speaking, of course, since the knickers I did decide to wear after all are crotchless and pulling them up could get windy. I clear my throat. “And your job, Joe Bob?”
“I identify an apprentice’s sexual appetite,” Joe Bob says, an I-know-what-you-look-like-naked smile firmly in place. My traitorous pinkish parts turn to instant goo. Of course you do. Just my luck. I bite my bottom lip to keep from reacting. “And precisely how do you do that?”
Joe Bob’s grin gets even wider. “I’d be happy to show you.”
Yes, please. “No, thanks. Words will suffice for now.”
“We run each apprentice through a series of interviews.” Joe Bob’s blue eyes twinkle with mischief. My notepad becomes the subject of great interest once again. The word interviews with a question mark gets jotted in Joe Bob’s square.
Whew.
Too bad.
Traitor!
“I’m eager to start yours.”
Dear gods. *mentally fans self*
“The gods have nothing to do with this,” Francis says. All eyes swivel in his direction. He seems oblivious with chin in hand and eyes trained on some distant universe. “Or, then again, maybe they do.”
Huh? I look at Joe Bob, who says, “Ignore him, he does this. Fancies himself a scholar.”
“I am a scholar.” Francis sits immobile. I’m not even sure his mouth moved, but words came out.
“Back to you, mo chridhe.” The way he says those two words in that Scottish accent of his almost brings me to my knees.
I stare at Francis, but he remains immobile, eyes closed. I clear my throat. I seem to be doing a lot of that here. And that’s another thing . . . Dammit, Tate, focus. I shake off my distracting thoughts and look at Caleb, who’s sitting forward as if he just can’t wait to tell me all about his job. I can’t help but smile back at his infectious enthusiasm.
“And how about you?”
“I’m a werewolf, and that gives me special powers. Like knowing all about dominance and submission in a wolf pack. Francis and I—” Caleb stops short as Francis interrupts.
“Stick to the subject at hand, Caleb.”
Werewolf. Unfucking believable. A million questions swim around in my head, but it seems I’ve got a job to do, and first impressions mean everything. These guys need to understand this is going to be all about business and none of this sex stuff. Any spare time will be spent looking for my Bob. I look pointedly at Nameless, who for once isn’t strumming that damned bass guitar of his. He, in turn, shoots a look of malice at Francis. Without opening his eyes, Francis raises then lowers his hand. Nameless circles and cracks his wrist. Ouch! Then he turns that malevolent gaze on me.
“I measure an apprentice’s repressed or sublimated desire for BDSM.” Nameless smirks and then assumes a mock teacherly tone. “That stands for bondage and discipline, submission and dominance, and sadism and masochism. It didn’t take long to see that you’re one of those vanilla babes who thinks she’s into kink because she’s let her partner blindfold her and maybe even use wrist restraints. Have I go
t you pegged right?”
And the bastard found just the right button to press. Probably the only thing I’m insecure about is my sex life. It took years before Bob could convince me that my sex drive wasn’t abnormal—that to him, my high sex drive was desirable, not shameful or irritating. Even then, the constant dread that I wasn’t adventurous enough to satisfy his needs as they’d evolve throughout the life of our marriage never disappeared. I lost him too early to find out.
“Interesting,” Francis says. This time when I look up, those shimmering blue eyes are trained on me.
“Would you stop that?” I wrest my eyes from Francis and look to Joe Bob and Caleb. Management first steps: make allies. “Is there something I can do to make him stop?”
“Ask him to stop,” Caleb says. “Then, he has to respect your wishes.”
I shoot an exasperated look Francis’s way. He sends back one of charming innocence. “Will that stop you from reading me, or will it only stop you from commenting on it out loud?”
Francis’s chiseled smile actually widens. “What do you think?”
“No, thanks. I’d rather know what you’re thinking. Now, can we get back to business?”
“Certainly, your wish is our command.” Francis is back to being the courtier. I flash to a fantasy of me riding his cock. I look hastily at my notepad . . . No help there. I clear that frog again, this is becoming a habit.
“And precisely what is it that you’re examining? How does this work, anyway?” Anya does her best not to look the least bit intimidated by four guys, three of whom are very strange looking from a mortal’s perspective. Then there’s me. She seems to think I look like the lead character in Meet Joe Black. I can’t deny I’m flattered. I remember that movie. It had been one of my Tate’s favorites. That guy had been so damned good looking that I would have fucked him myself if I were inclined that way.
I was just an average-looking guy. I have to admit that, on a subliminal level, I knew I had some appeal . . . I’d never had trouble getting laid. My Tate had said I was much better looking than the character Joe Black. The only fib she told worth a damn; otherwise, she couldn’t lie to save her soul.
Tate's Tale Page 4
