“They’ve asked me to perform a feat of magic.”
“So? Perform one.”
Grimshaw looked pained. “It’s not that simple.”
Why shouldn’t it be? Witches were so much more temperamental about these things. A good magician simply did as he was asked. Say the word and they’d have a mechanical man or a winged dog or a fire lizard standing in the courtyard with them. Witches always had some complicated rule about why they couldn’t do something that needed doing.
The old woman began to speak again. When she finished, she gestured impatiently to the dwarf figure who stepped forward with the diadem.
Grimshaw shook his head.
“What are you doing?” Strange demanded, moving forward.
He was grabbed roughly by the masked monks and dragged back. He could have broken free—it would be like snapping a handful of twigs—but Grimshaw called out angrily and Strange was released, though with obvious reluctance. Trying to move forward, he found his way barred again. Grimshaw spoke harshly, but although heads were ducked in presumed obedience, no one moved out of Strange’s path.
Slowly but steadily the courtyard was filling with people. Villagers? But from what hamlet? And what manner of folk were these? Strange thought he knew all the tribes of the Benhali Mountains, but the crowd joining the pool of black masks surrounding himself and Grimshaw, widening the gulf between them, were unlike any he had seen before. They were very tall, striking looking, with hazel eyes and bronze hair and skin that was just…unless it was a trick of light? No. Their skin was the palest, most delicate shade of…green.
Green.
Something in their diet, no doubt.
But…indisputably green.
Much like the stories told about the ancient ones of Nagara. He’d never believed those stories although he’d seen a few green-looking citizens on ancient murals and serving platters. Always figured it for artistic license.
Grimshaw’s horse moved restively and kicked out at the bodies beginning to hem him in. Monks and peasants hastily moved clear, and Strange was able to reach Grimshaw’s side, putting his hand on Caspar’s bridle, quieting him.
“Why are they so interested in you?”
“She’s suggested I might be the incarnation of her god.”
“You what?”
Grimshaw didn’t answer, and following his gaze Strange saw that a small cadre of burly men dressed in the black livery of monastery guards had appeared at the top of the stairs. Arms folded, they seemed prepared to resist any onslaught against the monastery. What kind of monastery kept a house guard?
“Does this god of hers answer to the name of Dakshi when he’s at home?”
There were exclamations from those standing near at the mention of Nanak’s magician.
Grimshaw sounded distracted. “I don’t know. Dakshi’s not a god. Not technically. But maybe they think…”
“What?”
In subdued tones, Grimshaw said, “I don’t believe she’s telling the truth. She knows I’m no god. But for some reason she seems to want me to think that’s what she believes. She suggests that I enter the monastery so we can converse in privacy.”
“No.” Strange spoke automatically, but then questioned his own reaction. He didn’t like it—it felt unlucky, unsafe—but there was no practical reason not to comply, was there? Beyond the fact that there was something going on here that he didn’t follow.
Grimshaw said quietly, “It might be the only way. She wants me to put on the diadem, but only inside.”
Strange shook his head, his eyes holding the gaze of the tall monk he’d dubbed Stork. “I don’t trust Stork over there. Make them bring it to you.”
In fact, he didn’t trust any of them. He looked around but did not see the elderly Crux anywhere.
Grimshaw tossed his helmet to Strange and thrust an imperious hand toward the monks. “Bring me the diadem.”
But now the monks seemed unsure. There was a hasty withdrawal and conference which lasted several minutes before at last the diminutive figure came forward again, proffering a small silken pillow faded with age. Strange stared at the intertwined metals of workmanship from a bygone age. One of the largest stones was missing, but it was still a strange and twisted amazement of gold and red gems.
The tall monk clicked and chattered at Grimshaw.
Grimshaw did not speak, did not move.
Never taking his eyes from the winking, blinking jewels, Strange asked, “Have they mentioned how the thing came to be here?”
“It’s a bit vague.”
“Or why they pretended they didn’t know what we were talking about?”
The crowd had fallen silent, waiting. The dwarfish figure nearly overbalanced in an effort to raise the pillow to Grimshaw’s outstretched hand. Fingers closing around the diadem, Grimshaw placed it gingerly on his forehead.
There were a great many gasps and ducking heads as light caught the glitter of jewels. The crowd fell back. The monks began clicking furiously to each other. The elegant green folk, too, were talking in weird trills that reminded Strange of birds. He heard the whisper start and blaze through the crowd like fire through dry grass.
“What are they saying?”
“Apparently only Dakshi can wear his own diadem and live.” Grimshaw added, “Now they tell me.”
Strange bit back a fierce grin. Hand on his revolver, he was waiting for something—anything. Matters had already moved far beyond their control. They were badly outnumbered, surrounded. They might still triumph—the fact that Grimshaw was still sitting there alive and unharmed wearing the diadem of a god was greatly in their favor. The crowd, still reeling with shock and awe, were beginning to drop down on their knees, touching foreheads to stone.
Grimshaw jerked his head, and following his nod, Strange saw that the monks were in conference again—the Crux had reappeared at the top of the monastery stairs, apart from the others, watching them with her odd gold-brown eyes. He turned sharply back to Grimshaw as the younger man caught his breath as though in pain.
“Alright?”
“Oddsblood…” Grimshaw swore faintly as though he had just made an astonishing discovery, eyes closed, hand at his forehead, his fingers pressed against the diadem.
“Grimshaw?”
Grimshaw didn’t reply.
Strange wasted no more time, stepping over the bodies and going to his horse, grabbing the bag of gold he’d brought. He pushed his way back to the monastery steps and tossed the bag down. It spilled open, gold coins flashing in the sun. The monks drew back as though it were poison. More clicking and clacking of tongues.
“Time to go,” he told Grimshaw.
Grimshaw opened his eyes. He looked dazed.
In three steps Strange reached Balestra and mounted. He threw a look back to see Grimshaw wheeling his mount, a hand going to the diadem to steady it.
A shout of protest went up from the monks, and the temple guards rushed forward even as the previously prone worshippers were on their feet, hands grabbing at Grimshaw’s stirrups and bridle. The mob closed in about him dragging horse and rider back in a relentless surge toward the great carved doors standing wide and waiting. Not trained to be a warhorse, Caspar allowed this, balking only slightly.
Strange spurred Balestra forward, trying in vain to intercept Grimshaw. The younger man was kicking at those hanging to the chestnut’s bridle. He planted a boot in one chest, knocking the man down, but another was there to take his place. Ahead of them, Strange glimpsed painted, swinging lanterns, and walls carved with the faces of demons and monstrous beasts.
The clamor was deafening as his own bridle was caught and he was dragged in the opposite direction.
Balestra landed a hard bite on the monk leading him and shook his head free. Strange reached for his pistol but hesitated. So far they were unharmed. If he tipped the balance toward violence, Grimshaw might be the first to pay the price. He spurred Balestra forward again, trying to ride through the crush of bodies, but
there was no room to maneuver as the screaming, chanting crowd swept Grimshaw along, hauling witch and horse up the steps and into the great hall.
The heavy doors swung shut behind.
Sensual overload can be a tactical disadvantage.
Somatesthesia
© 2010 Ann Somerville
Devlin Grace’s experience with child exploitation cases lands him a new assignment with the Special Crimes Investigators unit of the Federal Justice Agency, plus a new partner who could make the job tougher than expected. Connor Hutchens possesses incredible, scientifically enhanced senses…and zero social skills. Word on the street is that his last partner left under a cloud—and it was Connor’s fault.
Connor blames himself for losing his previous partner, and wants to do right by his new one. But Devlin confuses and frustrates him, and he struggles to cope with Devlin’s swift intelligence, quirky humor and teasing sexuality.
With the dangerous, perplexing case facing them, there’s no one Devlin would rather have at his back than Connor. But the longer they work together, the higher the sexual tension rises—until attraction boils over and puts everything at risk. Their careers, the children they’re trying to save—and any chance of lasting love.
This book has been previously published.
Warning: Violence and non-graphic reference to mutilations. But also snarking, teasing, why-won’t- they-get-a-clue syndrome, and kittens in barns.
Enjoy the following excerpt for Somatesthesia:
“I’m taking the weekend off,” Devlin said after their order had been taken. The little vegetarian café
had become a regular haunt for them because the food was excellent and the dining area private. The owners now saw them as favored customers and enjoyed trying new dishes out on them, to Devlin’s delight. Connor had no strong preferences in food other than it be healthy, so he was happy to let Devlin choose where they ate. “I’m going squirrelly.”
“The case isn’t solved.”
“And it’s not going to be solved over the weekend without a breakthrough, and hey, we get one of them, I’ll be back like a shot. I just want to do some sight-seeing, go dancing, get laid. You know, normal stuff.”
Connor ignored the provocative parts of that sentence. “But we’re still on duty.”
“Yeah, and I can be reached by phone or message any time. Chicago’s not that big. I can be in any part of the city in an hour, and seriously, if I don’t see more than the hotel, this joint and the station, I’m going to go nuts.”
“You’ve been to Raj’s house and his workshop.”
Devlin rolled his eyes. “Where we talked about the case. Come on. I love you like a brother, Connor, but I need a change of scenery.”
“Er…right.” Connor’s face heated up at this honest declaration. “I’m sorry I’m not—”
Devlin held his hand up. “Don’t apologize. It’s not your fault. You should take a break too. Go visit the aquarium or the zoo or something.”
“Oh, I don’t think…”
“I won’t tell if you don’t.”
“We’re being paid.”
“Yeah, and I’ve worked every day for the last four weeks. I’m not going off duty. Just being on duty somewhere different.”
“Dancing.”
“You don’t have to sound so medieval about it. My phone works just fine in a club, and I’ll even take my gun with me, Agent Hutchens.”
Connor opened his mouth to object, then realized he was simply repeating his father’s line, which he didn’t even agree with. “Then enjoy yourself. I might go to the aquarium as you suggested.”
“Now there’s a good little SCI. Trust me. You’ll be a lot fresher. Maybe even come up with a new wrinkle from that high-powered brain of yours.”
“I might at that.”
It was Thursday night. Devlin made it clear that as from five on Friday, he would do his own thing, within limits. Having agreed to it, Connor quite looked forward to a bit of sight-seeing, even if he’d have to conceal it from his father. How nice it would be not to have to, but he feared Otou-san was at a stage in his life where he would no longer change. Connor would have to bend, since Otou-san wasn’t capable of doing so.
Another habit they had fallen into was going to the gym together, or swimming, as their fancy took them. It provided much delicious torture for Connor, for Devlin had not a trace of body shyness, and changed in the lockers without resorting to towels or cubicles. Nor should he. It was only Connor who felt somehow he should hide himself—not to conceal his body, but his reaction to Devlin’s. He couldn’t bring himself to suggest they exercise separately. What possible excuse could he give?
Devlin paid the bill, and stood. “Gym or pool tonight?”
“Uh…gym?”
“I don’t mind if you want the pool.”
“No, the gym. Definitely.”
Devlin frowned. “You okay, buddy? You’re a little stressed.”
“Um. I think…yes, I need a break. You’re right.”
“I am. Don’t burn out on me, Connor. I’ve just broken you in all nice and comfortable.”
He grinned at his own joke, and Connor smiled at his expression. He couldn’t resist the man’s smiles, or much else about him. He was terribly afraid of where this predilection could lead.
They had now been working out together long enough that they moved through their routines seamlessly, Connor spotting Devlin and Devlin spotting him like sports partners who’d trained together for years. Connor had to admit it was a comforting feeling, like being back at college, with Andrew and Steven, runners like him.
As usual, when Connor finished his treadmill segment, Devlin was ready behind the bench press to help him. “You’re going to look like King Kong if you keep this up. No one’ll believe that Clark Kent cover of yours if you’re bulging out of your shirts.”
“Clark Kent?”
“Connor, do you ever watch anything that’s not educational?”
“I see films. Sometimes. At college, quite often.”
“And you don’t know who Superman is?”
“Of course. Oh, that Clark Kent. All your references are so last century.”
“Superman’s immortal. He’s not stuck in any century.”
“If you say so.”
Bench pressing with Devlin so close to him was an exercise in self-control as much as strength.
Connor always tried to concentrate purely on the lifts, but his attention too often wandered, as it did tonight, to Devlin’s arms and Devlin’s scent and how very lucky he was to have Devlin as a partner. At least he managed to finish the program without making Devlin worry he was slipping into a sensory zone out.
When Connor finished the routine, and his workout, Devlin straightened and wiped his face with the hem of his shirt. “Must be some nice thoughts you were having there.”
“Excuse me?”
Devlin looked downwards in a pointed manner, and Connor realized what had drawn his attention. He flushed hot and sat up, trying to discreetly adjust his suddenly far too small gym shorts. “That’s a very personal observation, Devlin.”
“Well, I figured you wouldn't mind since you keep checking me out.”
“I don’t.”
Devlin arched an eyebrow.
Panicking, Connor took refuge in hauteur. “This is an inappropriate conversation for two agents.”
“We’re off the clock. Nothing wrong with finding your partner attractive.”
“I don’t!”
Devlin raised that exceedingly irritating eyebrow again. “You don’t think I’m attractive?”
“Of course. I mean, no! I mean…do you even understand the meaning of privacy?”
“What’s the big deal? We’re both gay, Connor.”
Connor stalked over to his towel. “Actually, I’m bisexual, and I’m asking you to refrain from this topic.”
“Sorry. Forget I said anything.”
“And that will be so very easy, won’t it? Do you eve
r filter anything that comes out of your mouth, or does it dribble straight from your brain?”
“Wow. You can overdo the bitchy personality thing. Just saying.” Damn the man, he was grinning.
“And you can be too blunt. I don’t wish to talk about sex or attraction or anything else. This borders on sexual harassment.”
Devlin held his hands up, no longer smiling. “You’re right. And I really am sorry.”
“Apology accepted. I’m going to shower.”
He stalked off, glad Devlin had no superpower to detect rank hypocrisy when it was this thick in the air.
Back in their room, he stripped off and got into the shower. He ran the water ice-cold as a punishment, and hoped desperately Devlin would deal with his eruption of temper by ignoring it as he ignored Connor’s other foibles. But really, Connor wasn’t showing his best side here. If Devlin would just back off a little, accept his lack of openness on personal subjects as a warning to stay off them, it would be so much easier. Devlin had taken Tom Pacey’s remarks about partners and spouses a little bit too much to heart. And considering the way Connor’s thoughts had been running, the last thing he wanted was to encourage that. Damn it, they were on a case, and had to work together. Getting “it” out in the open was the last thing they needed.
When he came out, Devlin was waiting, but the man only slipped past him into the bathroom with a murmured “Excuse me”. Connor dressed in clean underwear and climbed into bed, pulling the covers around him in a way that he hoped indicated he did not want to talk about it. Especially not “it”.
For a few minutes after Devlin came to bed, there was blessed silence. But he wasn’t asleep, and sure enough, he spoke to Connor’s obdurate back. “Still mad at me, huh?”
“No. I simply don’t wish to talk about it.”
“I get that. It’s not a big deal though. You’re hot. No big secret there.”
Would he ever stop talking about it? “You think I’m hot?”
The Balance of Silence Page 13
