by Lois Greiman
“You are late.”
I squawked as I twisted to my right, then grabbed my ribs when Danshov rose like a mythical sea creature from the water. His wet hair, shiny sable in the morning light, was slicked back from his chiseled face. His shoulders were sculpted. A round scar marred the tight skin near his left clavicle, but beneath that his chest was perfect, his arms heavily veined and his belly as flat as Cold Stone’s granite counter.
And below that…I let my gaze slip lower. He was entirely naked. Not a stitch, not a thread, not a scandalous whisper of clothes. His hips were lean and taut his thighs muscular, and between them…I jerked my gaze back to his face, my own warming fast.
“Remove your clothes,” he said.
“Wh—what?” I asked, struggling to roll my tongue back into my mouth.
“Your clothes,” he said, and tugging drawstring trousers from a nearby tree limb, slipped into them. “Take them off.”
But why would I do that? Why, oh why, oh why? Especially now, when he was putting his on.
I shook my head. A growl issued from the right. I glanced frantically in that direction. Shikoku lowered her head and stalked me, but her master lifted a casual hand, stopping her advance.
He scowled. “Do you have a garment for swimming?”
I glanced down at my feet. “I don’t even have two shoes.”
For a moment, I thought he would question my reasons, but apparently he thought better of it.
“You may get wet,” he said instead.
I blinked, mind already doubting what I had seen just moments before. Had he been naked? Had he been hung like a centerfold in some black-market equestrian magazine?
“I think I already…” I stopped myself, not entirely sure what he was talking about. I realize that some people might think that since one eye was swollen shut and I had abrasions over approximately five hundred percent of my body, I wouldn’t particularly care about sex, but after my inadvertent sojourn in celibacy, that didn’t seem to be entirely the case. However, I was lucid enough to forestall my current dialogue and find something more culturally acceptable. “That’s all right,” I said.
He scowled. “Come here,” he ordered, and turned toward the water.
I swallowed. The mist was rising gently. I was quite sure that it would have been an inspiring vista if I had been in another frame of mind…or perhaps in an alternate universe. It would have been quite lovely on a postcard. But it was here right in front of me, and I couldn’t see the far bank. Turns out, I like to see the far bank.
“I’m not a strong swimmer,” I said.
He ignored me, which was probably just as well, since the truth was I could barely swim at all. A fact of which I’m not proud. But then I spotted the canoe. It was long and brown and tucked up between two boulders, reminding me uncomfortably of other things of considerable size.
“In,” he said.
I brought my attention back to him with a start and shoved down the unacceptable images. “What’s that?” I asked. Shikoku seemed to have chosen a spot at the front of the boat.
“Get in,” he ordered. I didn’t bother telling him I had never been in a canoe in my life. That much would probably be evident in a short while. And besides, how hard could it be? He stepped into the water, bare feet horrifically sexy against the sand. I pried my gaze away and toddled into the boat, managing, by sheer dint of embarrassment alone, not to upset it before we were free of the bank.
In a matter of seconds, we were slicing toward the open water. Hiro glanced back at me, brows low. I picked up a paddle. Muscles from every quadrant of my being screamed obscenities at me, but I mimicked his motions in a feeble attempt, while desperately trying to keep the movement from ripping off my limbs.
Still, my efforts yanked at every aching muscle, stretching hard across my back, but after a few minutes, I realized that I was required to do almost nothing. Hiro’s strong, sure strokes took us smoothly toward the center of the lake, where he finally drew his paddle from the water and turned toward me. I took a firmer grip on the wood in an effort to pretend I was a functioning member of the team, but he didn’t seem to particularly care. His eyes met mine, and in that second, I saw something in his gaze. Something almost hidden. Respect. True, I had failed last night, but I had fought valiantly, and because of that I seemed to have gained a smidgen of admiration. I waited for him to speak. To voice his true feelings.
“Last night was a mistake,” he said.
I didn’t say, “Hell, yeah”…just thought it.
“You were not ready.”
No shit, Sherlock.
“I pushed you too fast.”
Ya think? I remained demurely mute.
“I see now that we shall have to begin by improving your balance.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. Truth to tell, I would have been happier if he had told me he was going to drive to L.A., gun down the people who had treated me poorly, then return to cook me a five-star dinner. But you know us beggars.
“Stand up,” he said.
“What?” I was pretty sure I had heard him incorrectly. Brownie training 101 insists that you remain safely seated while aboard a vessel in open water. While 102 suggests you should try not to be a dumb ass. As you may have guessed, I didn’t get very far as a Brownie. “Isn’t that kind of dangerous?”
“You must learn to trust yourself if I am to help you.” His eyes were earnest.
I sighed. My desire to learn to fight was long gone, driven away by moaning deltoids and not-so-laconic glutes, but if I remembered correctly, I had been somewhat adamant about learning to defend myself. I rose slowly to my feet. “Okay,” I said, balancing carefully. “But don’t rock too hard or I’ll—”
I struck the surface of the lake face-first. It washed over my head in a shocking gush of cold. I screamed. Water streamed into my lungs. I closed my mouth and clawed, trying desperately to find the surface. It came at me sluggishly. But finally I burst into the air, gasping gratefully for every breath. A wave washed over me, driving me back under. Kicking frantically, I pushed myself back up. Danshov was already fifty feet away and paddling steadily toward the shore.
“Hey!” I yelled at him, but it was a poor effort, impeded by choppy water and sluggish muscles. I tried again, but waves slapped at me. I slipped under and came up sputtering. “Help!” Dirty water sloshed into my mouth. I coughed spasmodically.
By the time I recovered, the anti-Hiro and the damned phallic boat were almost out of sight.
Rage, as ferocious as a grizzly, was the only thing that got me to the distant shore.
By the time I dragged myself onto the sand, I was too exhausted to stand. I lay there for an eternity, trying to build up my strength. Finally, I rose to all fours and emptied my stomach onto the beach.
In the end, it was the seething need for revenge that made me limp toward the Home Place. I was going to live long enough to kill Hiro or die trying.
Chapter 23
Perhaps the fact that there is a highway to hell and only a stairway to heaven tells us something about the anticipated traffic flow.
—Father Pat, upon being privy to a conversation regarding the comparative merits of classic-rock artists
“What happened to you?” The man I referred to as Blinky voiced the question. He was twitchy and snaggletoothed, with a purple birthmark over his left eye and a comb-over that would make Donald Trump snazzy enough for a New York runway.
How bad did things have to be for Blinky to question my appearance? I wondered, and plopped his coq au vin on the table in front of him.
“I cut myself shaving,” I said, ignoring the sympathetic glance Professor Holsten sent my way.
“You—” Blinky began, but I was already shuffling back toward the kitchen. It was 3:54 in the afternoon. I had been on the clock since eight a.m. In another six minutes, I fully intended to crawl into a hole and die. The sweet promise of revenge that had gotten me through the morning hours had been voided by the grinding ache that bit
ched in every living fiber. Revenge would have to wait, sweet, sour, or extra spicy.
“Eggs Florentine,” Danshov said, and slid an order into the serving window.
I glared at him for all I was worth, but it wasn’t my best effort. It takes a surprising amount of effort to glare properly, and I was one eye short.
“Drop dead,” I said.
“Fifteen minutes,” he countered.
“What?”
“You will get another chance to kill me in fifteen minutes. Meet me by the stables.”
I delivered three more orders, all the while silently swearing that I had had enough. I was through. After this shift, I would demand payment, inform the Hughes clan that they were all a bunch of backwoods trolls, and march…or limp…off to…somewhere. Anywhere would be better than this. Even the morgue held a certain amount of appeal.
But as I delivered my thousandth order of the day, my gaze fell on Gizzard Manks. He held his steak knife like a spear in one meaty hand and had, as always, ordered his tenderloin extra rare. Blood ran down his grizzly chin. I felt my stomach seize up. If there was no other reason to leave this God forsaken place he would be enough. But in the back of my mind, I knew the truth: The world was filled with Gizzard Mankses. I could maybe escape this one. But how long would it be before I ran into another? With my luck, it would be soon. Probably before sunset.
Stripping off my apron finally, I limped out the door and down the trail toward the barn I had discovered while relieving my bladder. That little nugget of embarrassment seemed like eons ago, but really only a few days had passed since…
My musings snapped to a halt as a horse galloped into the clearing ahead. It was as black as onyx, arched and elegant and noble. Sliding to a stop, it reared slightly, tossing its ebon mane onto its rider’s hands. Its rider, who sat as straight and tall as a…
Hiro Jonovich Danshov. I recognized him, snapped my mouth shut, and narrowed my eyes.
“Mount up,” he ordered.
His voice was low and somber and stirred something deep in my primordial gut. Yes, I still hated him. He was a murderous son of a bitch with bad manners. But my sweet Westley, he looked good on that horse. Still, I wanted to ride with him about as much as I wanted to strip naked and sing the Redneck National Anthem at the Gator Bowl.
“Why?” I asked.
“Perhaps, following this morning’s performance, you believe your balance to be impeccable?”
I eyed his mount, realizing for the first time that he was bareback. “I’ll need help getting on,” I said.
He scowled down at me as if I had lost my last dinner roll, then nodded to the left. “Your mount is there,” he said.
I didn’t even have to look to know he was talking about Josephine, the donkey with the ass-splitting spine.
I shook my head, first at Danshov, then at the donkey, silently denying he had suggested I ride such a beast, but I knew it was true. Sitting on a broken-down burro while he was mounted on an animal sent by the gods was just about the way my luck had been running for, oh…my entire life or so.
I stared at him for a second, wondering how hard it would be to pry him off the horse and beat him to death with the donkey.
In the end, I decided it would be more trouble than it was worth. So I gave the ass a jaundiced once-over. She was a mousy brown color, with a fish-tank head and a spine that rose from her motley back like the Sawtooth Mountains. To top it all off, she was staring at Hiro’s mount with what I could only assume was hero worship.
“I can’t ride that,” I said.
“You cannot swim either,” he said. His voice was deadpan, his body still as his horse danced a mincing minuet. “Yet you remain alive.”
I gritted my teeth at him, venomous hatred rising to the surface like boiling lava, but he spoke before I could scald him with my justifiable vitriol.
“The decision is yours,” he said. “You can become flexible in mind and body, skilled on multiple levels, or you can, once again, hope to find a man to save you from harm.”
The world went silent. His fantasy stallion pranced in place.
“Which will it be?” he asked.
“I’m thinking,” I growled, then on a wave of foolish independence, I turned and untied the donkey. Leading her to a nearby fence, I climbed carefully onto her back.
“Do not fall behind,” Hiro ordered, and reined his mount toward the gnarly woods.
I was contemplating a half-dozen counter-comments about his behind when he nudged his mount into a trot. Josephine, longing to be with the fantasy horse, bumped into a hair-raising gait behind him.
I can’t even begin to guess how long that went on. Sometimes it’s difficult to judge time when you’re performing a balancing act on the edge of a scapula while riding through perdition. But just when I was certain I would die if we trotted another step, Danshov and the dream horse broke into a gallop. Josephine, ugly little ass that she was, galumphed after. I grabbed for her scraggly mane, but my body, already tortured to the limit, could take no more. I slipped to the right. The ass went left. I hit the ground with a bone-jarring jolt and remained where I was, fully intending to rip Danshov’s possibly nonexistent heart out when he returned to gloat.
Past performances, however, suggested killing him might be somewhat challenging. Instead, I thought, as I closed my eyes and settled more comfortably onto one tortured hip, I would pretend unconsciousness. Then, when he approached, I would roll over and kick him in the eyeball. But it only took me a few minutes to realize the truth.
He wasn’t going to return for me.
Fine, I thought. Perfect. I’d just limp back to the Home Place, eat my weight in Eli’s kitchen-sink scramble, and…
A growl rumbled through the woods. I opened my eyes, breath trapped in a throat already paralyzed with fear, and glanced over my shoulder. Shikoku was coming toward me, head lowered, fangs bared.
I stumbled to my feet, simultaneously backing away, and in that second she lunged.
Chapter 24
Whoever slipped the S into “fast food” was one sneaky little entrepreneurial genius.
—Chrissy, while ingesting a burger the size of her refrigerator
Shikoku snapped at me, missing my arm by a scrawny hair. I twisted away with a screech and careened back down the path. Up ahead, a spiny Joshua tree grew beside the trail. I leapt toward it, planning to scramble up its tortured limbs, but Shikoku was already there, legs spread wide, hackles bristled. I stumbled backward with a rasping gasp.
The barn was light-years away. Still, I had little choice but to race toward it. If I could reach it, perhaps I could slam the door before I was torn to shreds. I torpedoed down the trail, legs pumping, mile after mile, until I felt like my lungs would explode, my heart would burn from my chest. But finally, up ahead…the barn. Just a few more yards.
My foot snagged on a root. I fell, tumbling sideways. Already feeling fangs tearing at me, I rolled onto my back.
“Eleven minutes.”
The words were low and steady. I shifted my trembling hand away from my face and scanned the woods through which I had just flown. No killer dog was leaping through the underbrush to tear me limb from limb. I looked right. Hiro Danshov stood not six feet away.
“How did you—” I gasped a shuddering breath as a noise sounded behind me. Twisting toward it, I skittered back on hands and feet as Shikoku loped into view.
“Even with incentive…” The devil dog trotted casually past to settle at her master’s feet. A lopsided grin split her canine features. Her silver eyes laughed merrily. Hiro set a long-fingered hand on her head. “You did not break a ten-minute mile.”
Grasping a nearby branch in one unsteady hand, I rose to my feet, momentarily forgetting that the dog could still eat my face. “You fu—”
“I am quite certain Daiki could do better.”
“And I’m quite certain I can rip your head…” I stopped. “Daiki?”
“You have heard of him?”
I felt sick to my stomach, weak in the knees. “The leader of the Black Flames?”
“The dragon master, yes.”
“How do you know about him?”
He didn’t deign to answer. “He is twenty-four years of age.”
I stood staring at him.
“In peak condition.” His gaze slipped over me. “You are not.”
My hands were shaking, but I raised my chin, mad enough to tear out his spleen given half a chance. “I’m not dead yet.”
“At an eleven-minute mile, I am certain he will help you achieve that goal soon.”
“Yeah, well…” I licked my lips, feeling faint. “I plan to shoot him long before we hit a full mile.”
“So you are a marksman.”
I didn’t bother to answer. “What else do you know?”
He raised a half-interested brow.
“About…” It was difficult to say the name. “Daiki. What do you know?”
“Loyalty is of great importance to him.”
“So who’s his second-in-command?”
I’m not sure what was going through my head. Maybe some really dynamite plan about kidnapping his lieutenant or something. But Hiro’s next words disabused me of that fantastic idea.
“Bingo.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“They called him Bingo, but he is already dead.”
I waited for the second shoe to drop, but suddenly I knew. Knew the truth without being told.
“Rivera killed him,” I breathed.
“No. Daiki killed him.”
“He killed his own gang member?”
“He killed his brother.”
Admittedly, I’ve considered offing my own siblings, but I have not yet done so, and I’m certain I’ve had more provocation than most. “I thought Daiki was loyal.”
“In the world of the Black Flames, loyalty insisted that he perform the execution himself.”
“Good God,” I breathed.
He nodded. “Perhaps you should pray more often…and when you meet the dragon master, aim for his heart,” he said, and turned away.
