“Hold on, mo chridhe, one at a time. First, draining the incubi’s power is the only strategy we’ve been able to come up with and try. The rest of the victims have been abducted quickly, to Hades, we presume, so the few encounters we or the guardians have had have been brief. Second, I went into the school to find out what’s going on and confirm whether we’re dealing with an incubus attack, and we are. I’m sorry my slipping is unnerving. I’m not disappearing, I’m simply able to move beyond the speed of light, so it just seems as if I’m disappearing.”
Show off. I hear her thought as if she said it aloud.
“I am not showing off. This, like many others, is one of the skills I’ve perfected over the ages.”
Tate looks at me as she smooths her blouse, grabs her notebook off the table and her black jacket off the back of her chair, and reaches for the door handle of the kitchen. “If it kills me, I’m going to figure out a way to get you out of my head.” But she smiles. She’s of two minds about my intrusion, but overall, she likes it . . . for now.
I grin, feeling another of those rare emotional moments. “Good luck with that. It hasn’t worked well for you so far.”
She jabs a small finger in the center of my chest and then shakes it, likely having found my chest more unyielding than expected. “We’ll be talking more about this later. Now, what kind of shitshow am I walking into?” She slips into her black jacket, and just like that, playful Tate goes away and headmistress Tate takes her place.
“Nothing you can’t handle.” I hold out my arm. She takes it, and I slip us through the vast halls of the academy to the door of the examination room. Tate squares her shoulders as I open the door. “Let’s hope your faith in me isn’t misplaced.”
Bedlam faces us as we step into the room. Tate lets go of my arm and heads for the table at the front. Caleb and Nameless, noting her arrival, take their usual seats on either end of the massive oak chair that occupies the center spot. She takes the ornately-carved chair without question. It doesn’t occur to her to ask, she simply assumes leadership, just as she always has. One of the many things that fascinate me in the study of life and the hereafter is just how enduring certain personality traits are throughout time.
Tate carefully places her faithful notebook and pen on the heavy oak table and examines the staff milling about, seemingly oblivious to our presence, though the eight academy guardians lined at the back of the room are focused on her.
“How many apprentices have to disappear before they get on top of this?”
“They have no fucking idea how to stop them.”
“Grab my ass again, asshole, and I’ll bust your balls.”
“Psst. She’s here.”
“Who?”
“The new headmistress.”
One or two of the thirteen instructors glance toward the table and start to take their seats. Others follow, and the din dies in the room. When all are seated, Tate stands. And smiles. And walks to the front of the table.
“My name is Tate Spencer, and I’m the new headmistress. I understand we have an apprentice abduction to deal with, and that’s top priority. But first, I’ll be more successful if I take a few moments and meet each of you and understand the strength of this team. We need strategies to fight the incubi and succubi, and our combined skills in this room could be key. We’ll follow that with a few minutes for you to ask me anything you’d like to know. Then, we’ll settle down to business.” By this time, she’s made her way down the few steps leading from the platform and stands in front of the high fae who runs the desire classes. She stands and elevates until she’s at eye level with Tate.
“Tate, hello,” Tate grabs her tiny hand between her own and shakes.
“Dixongan Le Morgan,” the cupid squeaks. I teach the desire classes.” Her pink cheeks flush, and her fine red wings flutter rapidly.
Tate squeezes her hand. “I should have guessed. You’re a cupid. I can’t wait to hear more about it. Do you have any insight into these abductions or special skills you can bring to bear?” Tate leans a little closer. “I don’t mean to put you on the spot, Dixong—”
“Dixie. Call me, Dixie,” Dixie squeaks out. “And unfortunately, my skills are desire related, much like an incubus, though not predatory, so I don’t think—”
“Browner.” This comes from somewhere back in the room.
Tate snaps to attention and scans the room. Her adrenaline spikes for a split second when she sees the woman who runs the dungeon, but quickly moves on until she finds her target. Tate’s gaze lasers in on the poor fool of a human named Reed, one of those who constantly reminds us he was someone important in past lives. A lawyer in his most recent. He teaches negotiation between sex partners.
“I’m sorry. We interrupted you. What was it you were saying?”
The man squirms momentarily and then makes the mistake of taking the bully approach. He walks to the front of the room and towers over Tate at six foot three and over two hundred pounds. Tate widens her stance just a bit and plants her hands on her hips.
“I said she’s a browner because you’ve just started, and she’s already got her face so far up your ass she’s changing color, am I right?” He nods his head.
“Do tell, I’m fascinated.”
Reed searches her face, suddenly afraid she’s mocking him. Our Tate, because she is our Tate despite what Robert thinks, impresses me yet again as she hides the temper brewing behind her impassive face.
“No really, I’m serious. It’s obvious you have experience that you’re willing to share with me. I value that. Please, do go on. But first, what is your name?” She offers her hand and fights back the overwhelming desire to slap him across the face.
“Reed T. Bell, at your service.” The pompous ass actually has the nerve to pat Tate’s hand. If Tate had been a vampire, her fangs would have descended that instant.
4
— Tate —
There’s some really weird vibe happening in this staff room. Just what I need to add to the confusion bubbling in my system. One thing’s for damned sure, the narcissistic pissant with the complexion of an overcooked ham, towering over me, challenging my authority, needs to be put straight. Pronto. No one who shows this kind of disrespect is welcome at the academy. Not on my watch.
I resist the urge to snatch my hand away from his pudgy, moist palms. “Well, Reed T. Bell, please help us understand why Dixongan is a browner?” I slowly disengage my hand and give him what I hope is my best winning smile. What I really want to do is smack his smug face.
“Glad to, missy. Anyone who sucks up to the new boss the minute they meet has their nose so far up your ass their nose should turn brown. But I can see you like that, girlie.” He beams down at me.
I can’t even. He’s like an internet troll out in the real world. Well, in Bardo. I manage to peel my lips back over my teeth and nod as if I’m even remotely interested in what he has to say. He seems to take that as an open invitation because the troll actually chucks me under the chin with his ham-hock hand.
How dare you lay hands on me without my permission. On your knees, you bastard. Want to know how it feels if I grab your balls without your permission? I close my eyes and take a deep breath as I attempt to calm the shower of sparks exploding in my head. A sharp gasp reverberating through the room pops those lids back open. Reed is on his knees, clutching his balls and moaning. Less than a second later, Francis is at my side, murmuring in my ear, which totally distracts me. “Let him go, mo chridhe.”
I turn to let him know it isn’t me, but his cool breath tickles my ear again. “Yes, it is you. I’ll explain later. See?” Francis’s gaze falls on rotten Reed, who’s rolling on the floor. And as much as I hate to do it, Reed is one of my staff, so I’m responsible for his well-being. I kneel beside him.
He tries to scoot away, moaning, “No, I’m sorry. Don’t hurt me again.”
Time to see whether this healing gift the guys say I have really works. “Reed, I won’t hurt you. I’m g
oing to take your pulse. We need to make sure you’re okay. Okay?” I hover my hand over his wrist. He moans but nods. I grasp his wrist and feel for his pulse with the index and middle fingers of my right hand. A sharp pain replaces the jolt of heat flowing through my arm into his body as I absorb his pain. His pain feels like hot black tar clogging my system, and the dark threads circling over my unity brand start to form a pattern. I snatch my hand away and stumble back.
Francis quickly catches me. “I’ve got you. Do you need Robert?”
“No. Just give me a minute,” I whisper because that’s all I’m capable of right now. I take a few deep breaths and hug myself until the pain subsides. Slowly, rational thought returns, and I open my eyes to Francis’s worried gaze. He holds my arms, no doubt scanning me with his vampire abilities. “Excellent. Your healing factor is even stronger than it was when you healed Robert during his ascension cold fever.”
The episode of pain leaves me just a tad on the bitchy side. “Healing factor?”
Francis sits beside me on the floor and pulls me into his arm. “Well, you can heal others, as you know, but it seems you also have some ability to heal yourself. Methinks you’ve been holding out on us, mo chridhe. Would you like me to help you feel a little better?” Behind the coolness in Francis’s iridescent eyes dances humor, warmth, and caring.
I can’t help but respond. I lean into his solid bulk. “Shouldn’t I be doing that to myself?”
“You’re tired. I will use mental inducement, which some think of as emotion manipulation. It’s one of the powers I’ve perfected over the centuries,” Francis says.
So maybe I’m not really horny, maybe he’s doing it to me.
Francis laughs. “I will never do something without your expressed consent.” He puts his right wrist, and the fresh unity brand pulsing on it, over his heart, then pulls me closer, cups my cheek, and turns my head so I’m looking directly into those luminous eyes. And every pore in my body wants to kiss him as warmth floods me. Suddenly, I feel a lot like how I did when I drank that lovely mead the other night or as if I’ve just had a huge hit off a bong. What? I went to university. I lean into the pull as if drawn by a magnet.
Francis chuckles and whispers into my hair. “Now’s not the time, mo chridhe. Back to work. We’ll talk later.” He stands, does the leg shift thing that straightens the leg of his suit pants, and shoots his cuffs. The din in the room comes crashing back.
“Did you see that?”
“Looks like you don’t want to fuck with her.”
“Where are they taking Reed?”
“Shh. She’s standing up.”
I take my time getting to my feet while I try to assemble my swirling thoughts. What the hell happened? And what am I going to do with that Reed character? Because one thing is for damned sure—he isn’t staying here.
Four of the eight guardians carry Reed from the room, muscles bulging under their black uniforms, weapons of all kinds strapped to their chests and thighs. Caleb follows them.
I turn to the staff, confident that Caleb will ensure the fool is kept under guard until I can figure out how to get rid of him.
“My apologies. I don’t know what happened.”
“You zapped the fucker.” A voice rings out from somewhere in the room. This time, I decide the best strategic move is to ignore it. I desperately want to go back to my chair but need to finish what I started.
I step to the person standing beside Dixie and stop dead in my tracks. Michele! My bestie, Mick. I thought I saw her before then tossed away the idea as wishful thinking. I knew she must be in Bardo but had no way to know what level she was at, so I’d been keeping my hopes bottled. I start the Herculean task of hiding my emotions, aware that everyone, including Francis, watches me as if I’m a very interesting specimen needing dissection.
I smile at my bestie and extend my hand, fairly certain I’m hiding my reaction well. I’d love nothing better than to grab her and hug her for all I’m worth. That’s how much I’ve missed her during the three hundred days she’s been gone. To have lost both her and Bob in the same year brought me to my knees. But, having no idea of the politics in this place—and one thing I’d learned really well during my earthly career is that there are politics everywhere—it was best to play it safe. Having them both back made happy dancing a requirement at the first possible moment.
“I’m Tate, and you are?”
“My name is Michele Soper, and I’m the head of our practical training in the form of a sex club. We do things hands-on here.” She grins at me and follows my lead, the twinkle in her eyes assuring me I made the correct tactical move.
Good grief, I’m starting to sound like Francis. I throw a quick look his way and catch that damned smile. Focus, Tate.
“Fascinating. Have you been here long?” Now why the hell would I ask her that? I know precisely how long she’s been here, three hundred days, ten hours . . .
My eyes widen as I feel the mental finger snap reverberate through my head, but my Mick hasn’t moved. Weird.
“I’m a relatively new addition to the staff, but I tackled the mess they called the dungeon and got it shipshape in no time. Now, Bacchus House, that’s what I call it, is a place where apprentices practice their newfound skills and use their new knowledge to help decide on their next earthly life. I insist on risk-aware, consensual kink, even here in Bardo.”
That’s all I need to hear to know she remembers our life together. Remembers our trip to Seattle. Remembers our dream to open an elite kink club called Bacchus House. My Mick had an all-consuming love affair with wine, and there’d been no other option for the name of our club. Now, here she was. My happiness quotient went through the atmosphere. Mick would know just what the hell is going on here.
“I look forward to hearing more about it.” I shake her hand and move on, but my body thrums with excitement at the prospect of spending time with her.
Francis studies Michele with that intense concentration of his, no doubt wanting to fuck her . . . because every red-blooded man we’d ever met wanted to fuck Michele. Not really my type. Francis’s voice plants itself in my head.
I roll my eyes at him for being in my head.
Then stop being a wee eejit.
Hmm. We’d have to chat about this later because I just didn’t believe it. Mick is built like what Caleb calls a brick shithouse. Magnificent mammaries if you like them that large.
I prefer the French idea. If it doesn’t fit in a champagne glass, it’s too big.
Francis, get out of my head, now. He gets the stink eye now. Something I usually reserve for Nameless.
Fine. Thankfully, his voice subsides.
I make my way through the remaining ten staff without incident—but unfortunately also without any eureka moments about how to fight the incubi and succubi.
I take my position at the desk at the front of the room. “Okay, thank you all. I appreciate your time. I’m sure you’re all wondering what’s going on with these abductions, and I want to assure you we’re going to get to the bottom of this. I’m about to have a quick meeting with our apprentices, then I’d like to meet individually with all of you, working around your schedules, of course.” I check the mood in the room. More curious than fearful or intimidated, which is a good start. “What time do you usually break for lunch?”
The staff look around at each other, all except Mick, who sits back with her arms folded below that chest of hers, a mischievous grin on her beautiful face. Dixie shyly raises her hand. I beam her one of my broadest smiles. “Please don’t feel you need to raise your hand. I’m sure we’re all respectful of each other here, right?” Well, everyone except for that bastard Reed. I look around the room. Several heads nod.
“We don’t have a set schedule, Miss.” Dixie’s beautiful blue skin turns navy. “I’m sorry, may I call you Miss?”
Francis leans close to my ear. “She’s a submissive, go easy.”
Uh, thanks? What the hell does that mean for me as her bos
s? Am I supposed to let her call me Miss?
Not necessarily. Know that she’ll take anything you say very seriously. Use your gentle side.
Thanks for the tip.
Francis smirks. You’re welcome.
I send Dixie my gentlest smile. “I’m fine with you calling me Miss if you prefer, although I prefer Tate. Miss makes me feel like an old-fashioned school marm.”
Dixie’s wings flutter like mad. “We have no schedule.”
My eyes widen. I scan the gathering. “No schedule?”
The tall, pale, absolutely gorgeous and haughty creature who introduced himself as the elf Elyon Pamoira stands and clears his throat. His voice soothes in the way of tubular bells. “It’s been some time since we’ve followed any kind of schedule, Tate. The last headmistress was very much a go-with-the-flow kind of person. Everyone marches to their own drummer around here.” He looks around the room as if he owns it as he resumes his seat. I want to slap that haughty look off of his gorgeous face and reward him for speaking up all at the same time.
Elyon’s hand jerks to his cheek. He stands and looks around the room. “Who did that?”
What the hell? “Did what?” I ask, not at all pleased with the interruption.
“Slapped me. Who slapped me? Whoever did it, confess. I won’t stand for any of your sneaky games.” Elyon’s voice takes on a nasty edge. “I’ve had enough.”
Murmuring breaks out in the room.
“Oh, sit down, Elly. No one’s playing games with you. You just have a very overactive imagination,” Michele says.
I stand. The room goes instantly silent. Good. “It’s obvious that there’s a lot going on that I’ve got to get a handle on. Heads up that I’m not much of a go-with-the-flow person, and I love schedules. After the apprentice assembly, we’ll break for lunch. That will give you each time to come up with a list of courses you teach, your recommended schedule, and any further insights into the infestation or thoughts about how to manage it. I’d like to hear what each of you thinks we should tackle first to bring order back to the academy. I’ll see you one-on-one starting at two o’clock. I’m assuming I have an admin assistant?” I look at Francis, who nods.
Tate's Task Page 3
