by Jenna Black
“Let me get this straight. You’re actually initiating conversation with me? Has hell frozen over?” Just because he didn’t seem to hate my guts anymore didn’t mean we were friends, and Jamaal was far from the talkative type. There was something of a dreamlike feeling to this whole conversation, and if I didn’t feel so physically and emotionally drained, I might have thought I really was up in my bed fast asleep. But there was nothing dreamlike about my exhaustion.
Jamaal ignored my half-assed teasing. “Remember, I know exactly how shitty you feel right now. You should be sleeping it off, so I figure you’re down here because something’s wrong.”
“Why do you care?” I asked, sounding pretty peevish even to my own ears. Getting bitten by jackals, killed, and brought back to life didn’t put me in the perkiest of moods.
Jamaal once would have met my flare of temper with one of his own. I’m sure I would have deserved it if he’d done the same now, but he didn’t.
“Because you’re likely the only one who can lead us to this guy so we can stop him. Unless we spooked him last Friday, which I doubt, he’ll be up to his old tricks again in about forty-eight hours. And if you push yourself too hard and are falling over with fatigue, you’re not going to do anyone any good.”
His words stung a little with their cold logic. It didn’t make a whole lot of sense, but I wished Jamaal cared about me, not about my special abilities. I guess it was a hint of neediness, left over from my years of foster care. I was luckier than the average foster kid, having found a permanent home at the age of eleven, but the warmth and love I’d found with the Glasses couldn’t completely undo the damage from the foster-care merry-go-round.
I grimaced and rubbed my eyes, tired down to the marrow of my bones. Yeah, coming downstairs had been a stupid decision. I could feel how my body was fighting me, telling me to stop being a moron and get some sleep. But I knew that the moment I closed my eyes, my mind would take me back to the darkness, and I wasn’t brave enough to face it.
When I stopped rubbing my eyes, I was embarrassed to find that my fingertips were wet. God, I was such a wuss.
“You’ll fall asleep faster than you think,” Jamaal said, his voice conspicuously gentle, something I wouldn’t have thought him capable of.
I blinked a couple of times, still trying to fight off tears. “Huh?”
“You’re down here drinking coffee because you’re afraid to close your eyes, right?” I didn’t want to admit the truth, but Jamaal wasn’t waiting for my confirmation, anyway. “That’s how I felt the first time. But your body will take over, and you’ll fall asleep before you can make yourself too miserable.”
I hoped he was telling the truth, rather than a comforting lie. “I guess I’ll have to find out whether it works the same for me. It’s not like I can stay awake forever.”
I was not looking forward to dragging myself back upstairs and was halfway tempted to simply curl up on the sofa. Instead, I put down my barely touched spiked coffee and used the arm of the sofa to help lever myself up to my feet.
I got so light-headed I almost fell back down, and I realized I might end up sleeping on the couch after all. I honestly didn’t think I could make it to the third floor without collapsing. But Jamaal shocked the hell out of me by rising to his feet and sweeping me off mine.
I gave an undignified bleat as my feet left the floor. “What are you doing?” I gasped.
He carried me like I weighed about twenty pounds. “What does it look like I’m doing?”
I didn’t know what to do with my right arm, which was positioned awkwardly between our bodies. I should have put it around Jamaal’s neck, but that felt way too intimate.
“You don’t need to carry me,” I said weakly as he made his way to the grand staircase in the foyer.
Jamaal ignored my words, which he had to know were more wishful thinking than fact. I’d have been lucky to make it to the base of the stairs on my own, much less to actually climb them.
Tentatively, I slipped my arm around his neck, because it just felt too awkward not to, like I was afraid to touch him or something. The beads at the ends of his braids tickled my arm, and I was hyperaware of the warmth of his body, the beat of his heart. He’d hated my guts for most of the time he’d known me, and any sane woman would have locked her libido in a safe and then buried the safe, but I couldn’t help the highly inappropriate little flutter in my belly.
It didn’t matter that he sometimes bore a disturbing resemblance to a raving lunatic; Jamaal was hot, hot, hot. And there was something about him that called to me, that always had, even when he’d been half-mad with hatred. Something that told me that he and I were a lot alike, that we’d both gotten a raw deal in life, that we both felt terribly alone, and that we lashed out at those around us because that felt safer than letting someone get close.
In short, we were both totally screwed up.
There was no particular tenderness in the way Jamaal carried me. He was just helping me because it was the practical thing to do. I’d certainly seen no sign that he’d ever noticed me as a woman. But that didn’t stop my pulse from tripping or my skin from tingling.
Steph had once told me she thought my tendency to fall for inappropriate or unavailable men had something to do with my quite understandable fear of abandonment. As long as I fell for men I knew from the beginning could never work out, I never had to risk having someone walk out on me unexpectedly. She made this diagnosis on the basis of having been a psych major in college, but though I always told her she was seeing things that didn’t exist, I had the secret suspicion that she was right. And if I ended up pining for Jamaal, it would just be more of the same.
He carried me all the way to my bedroom in silence, not setting me down until we’d reached the bed. I felt almost unbearably awkward, having no idea what to say to him at a moment like this.
I finally settled for a mumbled thanks as I tucked my legs under the covers and lay down with a sigh of relief. Instead of leaving, Jamaal sat on the edge of my bed.
“Go ahead and close your eyes,” he said, looking at his clasped hands, rather than at me.
I wondered what was going on, why he hadn’t left yet, but my eyelids had grown heavy, and asking questions seemed like too much effort. Despite a shiver of dread, my eyes slid closed.
The moment my eyes closed, the darkness descended on me, pressing on my chest, smothering me, making my pulse race.
“Just focus on the sound of my voice,” Jamaal said, so softly I had to strain to hear him.
And then he started to sing just as softly.
His voice was a rich, low baritone, so warm I wanted to wrap myself up in it. I didn’t recognize the language he was singing in or the melody, but if I’d had to guess, I’d have said the song was a lullaby of some sort. It had a lilting, soothing quality that wrapped me in a cocoon of warmth and somnolence.
There was no room in my head for anything but the sweet sound of Jamaal’s voice, no room for thoughts of death and darkness. I focused on that sound, losing myself to it, letting my muscles relax one by one.
When sleep pressed around the edges of my consciousness, I wanted to hold it off just a little while, wanted to preserve this moment when I felt so serene and peaceful. But my exhausted body had other ideas, and I faded away before the song was finished.
It echoed in my dreams that night, keeping the nightmares at bay.
ELEVEN
When I next awakened, the sun was high in the sky, the light pouring through my windows telling me I’d slept until almost noon. I yawned and stretched, then pushed myself into a sitting position and waited to see if the effort made me dizzy.
When a minute passed without any hint that I might be about to collapse, I slid out of bed and cautiously stood up. My head felt fine, and there was no telltale quivering in my knees.
I showered and dressed and even blow-dried my hair, and still I felt pretty much normal. Maybe a little weak but not enough to interfere with my day. Sleep ha
d obviously done me a world of good.
I smiled when I remembered the sound of Jamaal’s voice singing me to sleep, feeling somewhat bemused by the gesture. Clearly, there were sides of him other than the bitter, angry, dangerous man I thought I knew. Sides I had no business being intrigued by, I warned myself.
Whatever redeeming qualities he had, Jamaal was bad news.
My mood faltered as I made my way down the stairs toward the kitchen in search of a late breakfast. Sleeping till almost noon might have done wonders for my physical woes, but it meant there were now only about thirty-six hours before the killer was likely to strike again. I had to tell Anderson what I’d found out about the victims and their resemblance to Konstantin and then hope that Anderson could pry the killer’s identity from his archenemy’s lips. And that learning the killer’s identity would help us find him. Oh, yeah, and that we could actually stop him if we did find him.
“One step at a time,” I muttered to myself, picking up my pace as the sense of urgency increased. I’d have skipped breakfast entirely, except I was hungry enough to eat a whole elephant, and I feared if I ignored my body’s needs, I’d end up weak and sick and useless again.
The scent of what I guessed was pizza wafted on the air as I neared the kitchen, and I figured that meant some of Anderson’s Liberi were having lunch. However, when I stepped into the kitchen, there was only one Liberi in sight: Emma.
She sat at the kitchen table, a slice of pepperoni pizza drooping in her hand, her eyes glazed and vacant. I expected her to blink and come to herself the moment I came into view, but she didn’t. I took a couple of tentative steps closer, but she still didn’t blink or move.
“Emma?” I queried, just in case she was lost in thought and hadn’t noticed me, but she didn’t react. She might be present in body, but her mind was taking a break, wandering off to wherever it went when she entered this fugue state. It had been happening less and less often as she continued to recover from her ordeal as Konstantin’s prisoner, but obviously, she still had a ways to go.
Most of the time, I couldn’t stand her. She was jealous and possessive, bossy as hell, and sulky when she didn’t get her way. But when I saw her like this, I still felt a twinge of pity. No matter how much of a bitch she was and no matter how miserable she made Anderson, she didn’t deserve what had happened to her.
Not that I thought for a moment she’d appreciate my compassion.
The pizza box was still laid out on the kitchen counter, so I helped myself to a slice. It was ice-cold, fresh from the fridge, and if Emma hadn’t been sitting there, I’d probably have nuked it. However, I preferred to be gone when she snapped out of it, so I merely grabbed a paper towel to serve as a napkin and munched on the cold pizza—breakfast of champions!—as I made a quick getaway.
It showed how little I wanted to face Emma that I left the kitchen without even getting any coffee.
Still stuffing my face, I headed back upstairs, hoping Anderson would be in his study. I got lucky for once and found him right where I wanted him. Unfortunately, the sight of his usually pristine workspace brought me to a jerking halt.
Papers and books lay strewn on the floor, along with a smattering of pens, a stapler, and enough paper clips to supply a high school or two. One of his guest chairs was lying on its side, and broken glass from an overturned lamp peppered the carpet.
Anderson sat at his desk, his head bowed as his fingers pinched the bridge of his nose. Everything except his computer had been swept off the desk, but based on how scattered it all was—and on the damage to the chair and the lamp—I didn’t think it was Anderson who’d done the sweeping.
Putting this scene together with Emma sitting vacantly in the kitchen, I figured the two of them had just had one of their epic battles. Ordinarily, I’d have had the good sense to retreat, but the urgency was still riding me. I rolled the stale pizza crust in the paper towel and cleared my throat.
Anderson slowly raised his head. I tried not to gasp when I saw the angry red furrows that crossed his cheek, but I was too shocked to mask my reaction entirely. He frowned and looked around the room as if noticing the damage for the first time.
“This isn’t a good time, Nikki,” he said, sounding as exhausted as I’d felt the day before.
“Yeah, I can see that. But I’m afraid this can’t wait.”
He muttered something I presumed was a curse under his breath, then shoved himself to his feet, practically sending his desk chair rolling into the wall. With swift, jerky movements, he circled his desk and picked up the fallen guest chair, setting it upright with enough of a bang he was lucky it didn’t break. Then he stalked back behind his desk and sat down, clasping his hands in front of him and spearing me with a look that made me want to tuck my tail between my legs and run.
“What is it?” he snapped impatiently when I hesitated.
I didn’t like finding myself caught in the crossfire of a domestic dispute, and the awkwardness had made me hesitant at first. However, I can only be tactful so long when someone’s being an asshole.
“If whatever you and Emma are fighting about is more important than catching the killer, then tell me to go away. Otherwise, I’d appreciate a little more common courtesy and a little less misplaced hostility.”
He glared at me a moment longer; then the tension suddenly drained out of his shoulders, and he laughed weakly. “I think I liked it better when you were intimidated by me.”
I snorted as I pulled back the chair and sat down. “Yeah, I’ll bet.” If he thought my snappish response meant he no longer intimidated me, then I was happy to nurture the illusion.
“I apologize for my manners. It’s been a lousy morning.”
I swept the room with a quick look. “No kidding?”
He frowned at my attempt at humor. “Keep the commentary to yourself.”
I pondered the possibility of telling him that Emma was sitting in the kitchen having an out-of-body experience but rejected the idea because it smacked of getting in the middle again. But Anderson interpreted my silence as a different kind of commentary altogether.
“Don’t judge her,” he said as he reached up to rub the healing scratches on his cheek. “She’s having a really hard time readjusting to normal life, and I’m afraid I’m not making it any easier for her. Every time she does something out of character, I get furious at what those Olympian bastards did to her. Then she thinks I’m angry with her, and … she doesn’t take it well. None of this is her fault, and I wish I knew how to help her.”
Maybe I was reading into the situation, but it seemed to me Anderson was trying to convince himself more than me. Emma had suffered atrociously, but I didn’t think her suffering justified all of her behavior. No matter what she’d been through, surely she bore some responsibility for her actions. But Anderson was never going to see it that way, and he was perfectly happy to make excuses for her.
“Now, what did you need? You said it was important.”
I told him about the similarities among our killer’s victims and watched the shift in his face as the harried husband became the leader of a band of Liberi once more.
“That son of a bitch,” Anderson said when I was done, shaking his head in disgust. Then he sighed. “Well, we suspected Phoebe wasn’t telling us everything, so I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”
“Do you think Konstantin will tell us the whole truth now that we’ve partially figured it out?”
Anderson laughed. “You don’t know him very well.”
“And I don’t want to. But if he can tell us who the killer is …”
“He won’t. It’s just not his way.”
“But—”
“Phoebe, on the other hand, I might be able to talk into being practical.”
My mouth snapped closed on the protest I’d been about to raise. Of our two Olympian visitors, I would have thought Cyrus was the more likely to give us straight answers. “Not Cyrus?”
Anderson shook his head. “There’s a re
ason Alexis was Konstantin’s right-hand man instead of Cyrus. I don’t know how many of his own children Konstantin has killed over the years, but it’s a lot. He can’t ever bring himself to trust them, no matter how loyal they are. He wouldn’t share any sensitive secrets with Cyrus.”
I probably shouldn’t have been surprised that a man who had no qualms about slaughtering whole families would be willing to kill his own kids. It would forever be beyond my comprehension how someone could be so cold-blooded.
“And you really think Phoebe knows something?”
“She’s in love with him. Has been for decades, God only knows why. He treats her like garbage. But if anyone knows what he’s hiding, it’ll be her. And since I presume he’s sicced us on the killer because he knows he’s in danger, Phoebe might decide she has to confide in us for his own good.”
There was more uncertainty in this scenario than I felt comfortable with, especially when the clock was ticking so loudly in my mind.
“I’m going to invite her back to the house for a debriefing this afternoon,” Anderson said. “I’ll want you there, and I’ll want Blake.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Me I understand, but why Blake?”
Anderson’s smile was cold enough to make me shiver. “Because Phoebe won’t set foot in this house without her goon, and I need someone who can keep the goon occupied from a distance if things get antagonistic.”
My nose crinkled with distaste as I figured out what Anderson meant. “You’re going to ask Blake to seduce the goon?” I knew that Blake didn’t have any qualms about using his power against men, despite his clear preference for women, nor was he hesitant to use sex as a weapon, but still …
“When you’re fighting Olympians, sometimes you have to get dirty.”
“We’re supposed to be the good guys, remember?” I said with more than a hint of disgust in my voice. I’d probably have been okay with just conking the goon on the head but not with subjecting him to what amounted to rape, even if it never went that far.
