“Nuh-uh-uh.” Caleb claps his hands. “You’re breaking the rules. Our turn. What’s your favorite position?”
I decide to be deliberately obtuse. “Sitting in a good ergonomic chair in my office, and speaking of which, where is my office?”
Caleb looks as if I’ve spoiled his birthday party.
“A tour of our quarters is part of your orientation and will be held later this afternoon,” Francis says. I’m getting used to his formal dialect, and he’s just so good to look at with his reddish-blond hair and sculptured face. His eyes fascinate me, pull me to him. I stare into red pupils, circled by cornflower irises so light they’re almost colorless, and circled again by a shimmering band of gold. His eyes are like a magnet. They make me feel as if we’re linked.
“It would seem so,” Francis says. “Something that requires further exploration. Is there anything else you would like to ask before we turn this over to you?”
That I dare ask, you mean? That thought makes his mouth twitch, so there’s a sense of humor in there somewhere. And boy, can that man carry off a suit. And it isn’t just his long, lean, muscular body, it’s his poise, too. Then I think of what that pale skin looks like naked. The fire ants perk up, making my flesh flush with desire. In self-preservation, I study my note pad, presenting Francis and his stare with the top of my head while I search for some semblance of the confident businesswoman I am.
Get your mind back, Tate. It’s not like you’re a teenager awash in hormones and too much to drink at a raucous party. Well, it’s kind of like that, but I refuse to dwell on that. I can’t have the hots for four guys. Can. Not.
It was bad enough when I had to choose between my Bob or Nathan, a very cute, very sexy musician who I’d dated in university. Okay, I confess, dating is misleading because we rarely left the bedroom. The three of us, Bob, Nathan, and I had shared a two-bedroom apartment. When Nathan moved in, Bob bunked with me. Not that I minded. After several months of Bob playing hard to get and driving my sexual frustration through the roof, Bob and I had finally become fast and firm fuck buddies.
Meanwhile, feelings had been brewing across the hall. After confessing his undying love, Nathan and I had embarked on an intense affair that marked the busiest month of my life. When Bob left for school in the mornings, Nathan would crawl into my bed, or I’d crawl into his. We’d make love for hours. He worshipped my body. Not that Bob didn’t, but they were very different lovers. With Bob, sex was steaming hot and fierce. The act itself was foreplay, and he took great pride in his endurance. That man could suck and fuck with the best of them, but it was always a fast burn.
With Nathan, foreplay was more important than the actual act. Sex with him rarely got to medium burn. It was slow all the way but sexy as hell. Exploring each part of my body was an adventure that took hours. And all the while, he talked to me, alternating between sweet nothings and concern for my well-being. So sweet . . . but it drove me absolutely nuts.
Now Bob might have been light on the romance side of things unless the mood struck, but once he set his mind to the task, his one mission was to drive my body to the heights of passion and beyond. Once he learned I was multiorgasmic, there was no stopping him. So, that’s how I spent my nights before I fell into exhausted sleep.
Like I said, busiest month of my life. The boys were relentless. Something had to give. My pinkish parts were enjoying the ride, but it was overwhelming. I had to choose.
I chose Bob. He was the best lover and my best friend. Nathan begged and pleaded, but as hard as it was, and as much as he meant to me, I remained firm. He moved out the next day and didn’t speak to either of us again. And this march down memory lane hasn’t helped dampen the heat churning inside me one bit.
Right, my ninety-day plan. That’s what I need to focus one. I stall for time by holding out my mug to Caleb and batting my eyelashes.
“When will I see the school?” I ask.
“Next week. Tell us about the first time you had sex with this beloved of yours,” Nameless says.
“Haven’t you heard the saying about discretion? Do you talk about anything other than sex?” Whoops. I hate it when my temper walks out of my mouth before my brain engages. I should have asked about the tour, why next week, but I’ve reached my ping point.
Four sets of eyes pivot in my direction, each beaming their own individual version of you’re-kidding-me-right. Yeah, yeah, I got it. Sexy Sins Academy.
I study the bold floral pattern in the circle rug at my feet until I’ve beaten my child ego state into submission. When I have myself back under control, I give Nameless my most imploring look. “I’m so sorry. There’s no call for rudeness. That was hugely unprofessional of me.” And besides, the only memorable thing about it was that it happened at all.
Francis smirks.
I flip him the bird again mentally.
Caleb, eyes swiveling from Francis to me, says, “What, what?”
Francis and I share a look. As if we share a secret.
Francis: I know what you’re thinking.
Me: If it kills me, I’ll find a way to get you out of my head.
Francis: Good luck with that.
I shake my head in a vain attempt to push him out. His eyes don’t move from mine. Caleb hovers around the edges.
Me: I will not be having sex with any of you. Well, okay, maybe Joe Bob. But, no one else. The rest is some kind of spell or virus.
We shall see. Francis’s voice rings in my head, and I’d swear I hear laughter.
I will not!
Then why is sweat prickling my skin as I squirm in my seat?
A remarkable change comes over Anya, and she becomes all brusque business. I don’t know what the hell went on between Francis and her during their staring contest, but whatever it is makes her shut down the heat pouring from her. So much like Tate.
She carefully places her mug on the coffee table and stands. “If you won’t take me on a tour of the school, I’ll find it myself.” She heads toward the door.
Francis is at the door in a zeptosecond. “We would be more than happy to show you the staff quarters. Sadly, we are quarantined for seven days. The tour of the academy will have to wait until the gods lift the quarantine.”
“Quarantine?” Anya’s eyes widen. “Have I got Earth germs or something?”
Caleb and I burst out laughing. Francis’s lips twitch.
I answer before Francis can. “After ascension cold fever, you’re in a weakened state. It would be far too easy for an incubus to take you. The quarantine will make sure you’re at your strongest when you begin your assignment.”
“And that’s also why I need to be chaperoned at all times,” she says, the weariness in her voice telling me she’s looking forward to having some independence back.
Holding the door open, Francis says, “After you, mo chridhe.” He offers Anya his arm.
Caleb crowds through the door after Anya and Francis, which isn’t unusual. When I’d first arrived, I thought there was a thing between the two of them. When I’d asked Caleb about it, he went on about Francis’s destined mate being the woman he’d imprinted with. According to Caleb, it didn’t matter if their beloved Gianna, the imprintee, returned his love. She was and is all he cares about, and he’ll love her even if she rejects him . . . again. And now that he’s decided Anya is his imprintee, he follows her around like a rather large puppy dog.
Francis steers the tour to the remaining general quarters we all share: a plush home theater room, a fitness room, a dance studio, a recording studio, a very large library, and a very elaborate kink room. Anya gapes when she looks through the door but doesn’t say a word.
“And that ends our—”
“And what’s behind this door?” Tate has wandered farther down the hall and taps her fingernail against a door I’ve never seen before.
My voice low, I turn Francis aside. “The hall is longer than it should be.” I don’t want to scare Anya. Bardo can be an unusual place.
; “Aye. And that door is new,” he replies under his breath. “Let me open it, mo chridhe.” He does and then clears his throat, casting Caleb and me a look. “Aphrodite.”
We peek in.
“What do you call this room?” Anya’s eyes aren’t as wide as they were when she saw the kink room, but they are certainly open and taking a good long look at the enormous bed, and couches, and several other padded, interestingly shaped items very obviously designed for . . . sex. With room for more than two participants, shall we say. “I’d call this the play room.”
Am I imagining that her voice is husky?
“What do you call it?” She turns to face us.
“We call it the play room, too,” says Caleb without missing a beat. “Great minds think alike.” He hits her with a wolfish grin, and she flushes up her neck.
I’m not part wolf, but I find myself suppressing a growl.
Anya and Francis lock eyes, and she crosses her arms in what looks like defiance. She shakes her head, nostrils flaring as if she’s been challenged. After a moment, Francis chuckles, breaks eye contact with Anya, and closes the door to the mysterious play room. She marches off.
Anya wanders through the rooms, inspecting everything, and we keep pace, answering her many questions.
Francis, being one of the senior residents in Bardo and the Sexy Sins Academy, designed most of the school to reflect his noble Scottish upbringing. There are a lot of large rooms, fireplaces, and stone walls covered with tapestries and art. The library rivals that of the Thomas Fisher Rare Book Library in Toronto. A small alcove off the main room holds the books we’re allowed to touch, books Francis deems beneath the dignity of his massive library. Almost all genre books, with the exception of a few classics, line the shelves. Actually, it’s one of my favorite rooms with its cozy chairs and the smell of ancient paper and leather coming from the adjacent room. I’ve spent many hours passing the time with a good suspense story in this very room.
Caleb designed the fitness room, so it simply oozes testosterone. Beyond the weight circuit is a large room with floor-to-ceiling mirrors, and along one long wall, a metal bar runs the width of the mirror at mid-height. Nameless insisted on a special suspended floor, and this is his sanctuary. This and the music studio he built. When he wasn’t obligated to work, you’d find him in one of these rooms. No one else is welcome, though I happen to know that Francis often indulges himself by watching his recording sessions. We all share a love of music and movies, although we have differing tastes.
“I’m shocked there’s no pool,” Anya says.
“Would you like one?” Francis asks. He’s on Anya’s left side while Caleb is eternally attached to her right.
She looks up at him, speculation in the cock of her head. “You can do that?”
“I can get it done,” Francis says. He’s never one to boast about his special gifts.
She laughs. “Cool superpower. I’ll keep that in mind, but no thanks on the pool. I’m not much of a swimmer.”
When we return to the study, Anya takes the desk. We each assemble in the four chairs flanking the desk. The queen and her entourage. I have no idea why that thought flits through my mind, but it suits. Anya opens her notebook, pen poised.
“Help me understand how things work here,” Anya says. “For example, who does the cooking and cleaning?”
Caleb sits forward, his large frame dwarfing the ornate chair he’s sitting on. “The silkies. They take care of everything. It’s super terrific. We don’t need to do anything we don’t want to. But I like to cook, so I do some of the cooking. And your Joe Bob there likes to keep things tidy, so he’s always cleaning up behind us.”
Anya makes a note on her pad. “When do they come, and how are they paid?”
“They come at night while we’re sleeping. We leave them a token of our appreciation in the form of some fancy treat.”
“Our brownie team really likes chocolate. They go over the moon for my chocolate mousse,” Caleb says.
“It is imperative that you never refer to our small gifts of appreciation as payment, or they will abandon us.” Francis puts on his stern scholarly voice. Brother.
“Yeah, and they’ll take all their good luck with them.” Caleb nods sagely.
Anya makes notes in her book and looks up brightly, the sharp edges of her corporate self softened by her curiosity. “So, I can compliment them, but I can’t pay them. Got it. I’m all about positive energy.”
Gods, she reminds me of Tate. The need to talk to Tate consumes me, and this is the moment I’ve been waiting for. I don’t need to worry about Nameless or Caleb—they’ll take my explanation at face value. But Francis is another thing. With that damned preternatural empathic perception, if he’s focused, he can sense a lie before I even think it. Then it occurs to me—that’s his Achilles’s heel.
I stand and pull down my sweater sleeves. Now for the final test. As the angel of death, I get the vibration in my bracelet about an incoming soul long before anyone else knows about it, even Francis. I’m hoping to use that to my advantage. I clear my throat.
“There’s an incoming summons that a soul is hovering. I’m going to check it out. I’ll be back in a flash with my report.”
Francis looks at me speculatively for a moment.
“Need any help?” Caleb asks. His adventurous spirit is always eager for an adventure. He really has turned out to be a very good friend. “Nah,” I say. “This one’s pretty routine. Feels like her family won’t let her go. I’ll check it out.”
I hazard a glance back before I head out the study door and head for the portal between this and the earthly realm. I block out all emotions—they might signal Francis—and keep my mind on the goal. I’m going to see my precious Tate again. I refuse to think about what will happen if the gods find out I’ve gone to see her. They have strictly forbidden that, said I have to wait until she comes to Bardo naturally, which could take a half century.
By the rules of my role, I have the ability to open the portal between Bardo and Earth, a power only high angels have. I talk my way past the high fae guarding the portal; okay, truth be told, I give him a hefty bribe. The only thing high fae like better than sex is chocolate.
Sex and sugar—what all the realms have in common. No one can ever get enough of either.
I crash through the portal and land on something soft. It takes several moments for my body to adjust to the switch from corporeal to energy particles and back to corporeal. I’m lying on our bed. Our empty bed. In an empty house. I wander through the house, checking the rooms. There’s no hint of Tate. The place looks as if she just left it for work . . . a week or so ago. Four newspapers are stacked neatly on the hall table along with the mail. Maybe our neighbor still looks after the place when she’s on a working trip. That’s it. I sit at the hall table, thankful Tate hasn’t gotten rid of our landline, and call the private school she runs.
“Thank you for calling the Titan Institute. How may I direct your call?”
“Tate Spencer. Please,” I add as an afterthought.
There’s a long, pregnant pause followed by, “I’m sorry. To whom am I speaking?”
Shit. I fiddle with the mail on the table. “Joe Bob Black, a friend of hers. I’m in town for a conference and thought I’d check in and say hi.”
Another pause. “Where did you say you know her from?”
I turn on the charm. “I’m VP Academic at Royal University. We’ve been friends for a long time.”
“I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but Miss Spencer is in the hospital. There was a shooting—”
But I don’t want to hear the details. “What hospital?”
“Mount Sinai. She’s in intensive care.”
Fuck!
I focus on the lobby of Mount Sinai Hospital . . . and wait. I try again. Nothing. I take a moment to collect myself. Normally, when I come through the portal, the gods give me the power of teleportation. Looks like, without an approved mission, I don’t have
my power. Dammit. I go to Tate’s office, hoping against hope she’s kept her Hopes and Dreams jar. She got a kick out of saving spare change for our dream vacations, and I pray she’s kept up the habit. I’m in luck; there’s fifty dollars in bills, more than enough to get to Mount Sinai. I take a taxi to the hospital and find my way to the ICU.
One of those righteous sergeant types greets me at the desk before I have time to identify the four forms lying around a central desk. I have to pour on the charm and add a bit of a muddle spell so she doesn’t see widow when she checks the chart. She eventually points to one of beds, and I step behind the closed bed-curtains.
Tate lies still, hooked up to a ventilator with several IVs, tubes hooked to monitors, and drainage tubes. Lackluster black curls with auburn highlights frame her beautiful face. Her skin color is almost a pale gray. I grab her chart from the foot of the bed. Gunshot to the head. Prognosis poor. Fuck! I take the chair beside the bed.
“Tate, my Tate.” I rest my head on the bed rail, clutch her cold hand. “Without you, my life has been nothing but sorrow and pain.”
Time to think! Tate was shot the same day another Tate, our Anya, arrived in Bardo. All shooting victims on death’s door, with the exception of suicides, come to us for examination. So, if Anya isn’t my Tate, then where the hell is her spirit? My Tate is Anya. She has to be. There’s no other explanation. I cup Tate’s still cheek. “I found you, sprite, and now I’m going to claim you.”
I take a moment to plan my next move. I need to meet with Aphrodite and demand to know what’s going on. It makes sense that they’d recruit Tate to clean up the management of Sexy Sins. She is . . . was the director of the Titan Institute, a private arts college, and she’s very good at it. But why keep her identity a secret?
I kiss Tate’s cheek. “Don’t worry, sprite. It’s all going to be okay. But I have to go now. I love you.”
Leaving would be so much harder if I weren’t convinced of the truth. And on a mission for answers. As luck would have it, Aphrodite and Hera are waiting for me as I crash through the portal. Fingers of burning cold lick at my extremities. Ascension cold fever? I fall to my knees in front of the two very pissed-off gods.
Tate's Tale Page 8
