Whatever for Hire

by RJ Blain

  “Just don’t hack out a lung again. That’s gross.”

  I swallowed and fought a brutal war against my stomach until the pair left. I ended up on the floor, shaking and hugging my knees waiting for my nausea to ease.

  It didn’t, not really. Groaning, I got to my feet and emerged from the stall.

  They had left a trail of black and red smears on the tile.

  I had two realistic options. I could lock myself in a stall and refuse to leave, or I could retreat to Malcolm, kiss my dignity goodbye, find out if fainting from shock was possible, and hide for the rest of my life.

  Either way, I couldn’t avoid the stink. Shuddering, I sidestepped the mess, did my best to ignore the trail of spots leading to the door, and left the bathroom without throwing up.

  Salvation stood in the main terminal along the wall, far enough from the crowd I could spot him around the other travelers. Unfortunately, the hallway had turned into a corpse convention. If I wanted to escape, I’d have to push through a maze of rotters.

  Great. Fantastic. Not only would I have to smell them, I’d have to touch them, too. I could handle it, or I could hide in the bathroom until they left and hope none of them needed to touch up their makeup. Narrowing my eyes, I considered the decaying gauntlet and calculated my odds of reaching Malcolm and the relative safety of the terminal.

  It took me a moment to realize I no longer spotted my target, which dropped my odds to approximately zero. I’d hide in the bathroom, and if Malcolm wanted to find me, he’d have to come in after me, because there was no way in hell I was going to push my way through a bunch of rotters without a goal—or a living person witnessing me hit the floor in a faint.

  A hand touched my shoulder, and a startled roar burst out of my throat, which ended in a shrill scream. My fur stood on end, and before I could launch myself towards safety, a strong arm wrapped around my waist and kept me from entering orbit or climbing the nearest wall.

  “It’s just me.” Malcolm laughed in my ear. “I was worried. I bet you’d be green if you were in your human form.”

  “I didn’t throw up,” I hissed.

  “That’s impressive. I did.”

  Huh. I gave Malcolm a lot of points for making that confession. “If I get dead person on me, I will.”

  Malcolm’s living warmth helped, and I swallowed several times and took a few deep breaths, which settled my nerves—and stomach—enough that I relaxed against him. He kept his hold around my waist.

  Any other time, it would have bothered me, but he kept me on my feet, for which I was grateful.

  “I’ve never seen so many undead in one place before, not even at night.” Worry darkened his tone, and I wondered if I had moved closer to him or if he’d pulled me—or if we’d moved at the same time. “They’re congregating. But why?”

  “Are they like Zac?”

  Without releasing me, he pulled out his wallet, flicked it open and showed me several stained cards. I took them and confirmed they were from Wishing Well. “Seems like it to me. All got similar deals, too—at least the few I spoke to.”

  A suspicion stirred, and the thought chilled me. “And they all died suspicious deaths?”

  “Good guess. A lot of car wrecks.”

  “One food poisoning.” Taking care to breathe out of my nose, I looked over the gathering. After my roar and scream, people should have taken notice of me.

  No one gave either of us a second look.

  “I’ve booked us into a hotel not far from here. We’ll both feel better after a shower.”

  If he wanted me to make it to the gala, I’d need the hottest shower I’d ever taken in my life to cleanse me of the reek of death. “If I got anything on my dress, I’m screwed.”

  “We’ll figure something out if you did.” Malcolm slid his hand over my stomach before linking his arm with mine. “Let me handle this.”

  I found it intriguing he thought he could do something about the horde of undead jamming the hallway and spilling into the main terminal. What could—

  Malcolm stepped forward and dragged me along with him, and the sea of bodies parted as though they feared the man. A few glanced in our direction but quickly turned away, shuffling to give Malcolm more space. Even those with their backs turned to us made way as soon as Malcolm got within five to ten feet of them.

  Magic moved the dead; there was no other explanation for it. But what could frighten those who had already died? There was nothing angelic about Malcolm. Meeting Michael and Gabriel ensured I’d never forget what it was like to stand in the light of the high heavens.

  No, the undead feared Malcolm, and I didn’t understand why. I appreciated his ability, however. Within ten minutes, we escaped the airport, located a living cab driver, and left for our hotel. My stomach churned the entire time, but I made it to our room before surrendering to the inevitable.

  “Sensitive sense of smell?” Malcolm asked through the door.

  Damn it. I bet he’d heard every last sound of my misery, too. I gasped for air, bowed my head, and whispered, “I could taste it.”

  “Change of plan. Try shifting back to human. I can’t guarantee we won’t meet any more of them at the gala.”

  Malcolm sounded worried, and that made me hesitate instead of snarling at him for doubting my ability to compose myself in the face of decay.

  While part of me resented him telling me what to do, I obeyed. It took several tries to become human, as my body seemed determined to remain as Bastet, and once I succeeded at becoming human, nervousness swept through me until I transformed again.

  He wanted me human, but he was getting Bastet with wings instead, with a bonus pile of free clothing and accessories, an equal mix of Egyptian, Ruska Roma, and American—southern American, cowgirl style.

  Magic truly worked in mysterious ways.

  “Kanika? Are you all right?”

  I dug through the pile of Egyptian-centric apparel and picked a white silk kalasiris overlaid with a diamond pattern of silver chains, onyx and ruby beads, and gold accents. It barely conformed to modern standards, covering just enough of my breasts to classify as public appropriate. In a departure from ancient Egyptian standards, a slit up the right side offered me better mobility.

  Instead of sandals, I wore red heels, something I liked a lot.

  Malcolm tapped on the door. “Kanika?”

  “I’m fine. I’m getting dressed.”

  “Do you need help?”

  I curled my lip, not that he could witness my displeasure at his question. “I can handle it.”

  To a point I could—and did. When I only had my hair left to do, I opened the bathroom door and tossed my new clothes in the direction of the bed.

  It occurred to me the room only had one bed, one I’d have to share with Malcolm. I wasn’t sure what I thought about a mandated bed invasion, but I could improvise. I liked warm men.

  Malcolm counted.

  I thought about the bed for longer than polite. Mistake or intentional? Either way, I’d have to live with snuggling up and stealing Malcolm’s warmth, or I’d have to get another room. Considering I wasn’t about to waste a lot of money for no good reason, I’d have to cope with the tragedy of sharing a bed with a gloriously warm male who had tolerated my drug-induced sleepwalking with patience and grace.

  “I’m a blanket hog,” I warned.

  “I’m well aware of your blanket-thieving ways. It’s a risk worth taking, as long as you don’t try to kill me in my sleep. I’m expecting my uncle to snoop in my affairs, so we need to maintain appearances. He’ll hire someone from the hotel to look into this room, confirm we’re sharing it, and come to certain conclusions.”

  “That we’re sleeping together.”

  “And not in the restful sense, either. My family expects me to behave a certain way. They’ll bribe housecleaning to check for condoms, too—and evidence of birth control.” Malcolm held his hands up in helpless surrender. “I’m using their misconceptions against them.”

>   For someone who wanted to break his family’s curse so much he’d cuffed me with my own suppression bracelet, Malcolm enjoyed screwing with them. “You claim you want to break your family’s curse, but it sounds like you’d much rather feud with them.”

  “Why can’t it be both? My desire to break our curse is entirely selfish. I want a family of my own, one that isn’t stuck entangled in Stewart family affairs. That’s why I have my own business, and that’s why I do business as a Montgomery.”

  “And what about them inviting you to this gala?”

  “I’m considered a viable gene donor again.”

  I grimaced, understanding a little too well what it was like to be on the receiving end of that sort of treatment. “I’ve walked in those shoes before. I’m sorry.”

  Malcolm tensed. “You have?"

  He’d told me enough willingly, so I saw no reason to hide the truth. “My mother’s Egyptian. My father’s not. Gypsy, of the Ruska Roma bent, from what I’ve been told.” My magic had done most of the telling, although Malcolm didn’t need to know that. “I was shipped to America. Egypt doesn’t issue birth certificates for illegitimate children. The United States government adopted me as a refugee, gave me a birth certificate, and granted me citizenship. That’s why I don’t have a last name. No one told the government officials what it was, just that my name was Kanika. I lived with my aunt until she tried to marry me off to the highest bidder. So, here I am, doing whatever people need so I can scrape by. Today, that involves helping you.”

  I glared at the bracelet around his wrist, but I found it hard to wake my anger. I was so tired of being angry all the time.

  Malcolm remained silent.

  Sighing, I shrugged. “You really could have just hired me, you know. I would’ve helped you.”

  “Even through a blood test and questioning?”

  Laughter rolled out of me, surprising us both. “I’ve spent my entire adult life trying to convince people I’m actually a sphinx. Not even the CDC cares. They register me as a shapeshifter most of the time. DNA tests show enough human DNA they’re willing to ignore the inhuman bits. I’m not worth studying.”

  “Most would be happy with that verdict.”

  My laughter died away. “It’s all I have. And before you say a word, remember how you looked down at me because I never finished high school. I have a job to do, and right now, that job involves helping you. Try not to get in my way.”

  Malcolm nodded, and I thought I saw something akin to regret in his expression, especially in his eyes.

  Chapter Sixteen

  With a little help from Malcolm, I finished my transformation into a winged Bastet. It took us two hours to braid and bejewel my hair to match my accessories and kalasiris, which left Malcolm scrambling to get changed into his costume.

  A king’s circlet suited him, as did the polished suit of armor and crimson cloak. The sword, however, made the man, and I gaped at him in his full glory. Maybe I resembled a goddess, but when he stepped out of the bathroom, he carried the same gravitas as the Lord of Lies.

  Right down to the scabbard, which featured dueling dragons on a black field, he’d become something far more than what he’d been before stepping into the bathroom.

  When he drew the blade, the metal sang. I knew little of swords, but if I were to want one, it’d be one like his, the long blade tapering to a point, a promise of death wrapped in silvered beauty. Instead of a straight groove down the center of the blade, runes decorated the weapon, Celtic in origin, although I couldn’t decipher what they meant—if they meant anything at all.

  “Excalibur isn’t real, at least as far as I know, but if it were, it’d look like this. A plain enough blade, ironically, but clad in trappings fit for a king. This sword is named Heart Song, for the metal likes to sing, and it was quenched in the heart of the first man it killed, fresh from the forge, wielded by the man who’d made it. Its owner is a friend of mine—well, as much a friend as elves get. He owed me a favor, and elves hate to be beholden to anyone. When I told him about the gala, this is what he chose for me.” Malcolm returned the weapon to its sheath, adjusting the belt on his hips so the pommel wouldn’t jab him in the ribs.

  For a sword with such a violent birth, the pommel stone seemed such a gentle, warm, and living blue. “Sapphire?”

  “No. Diamond. The stone began its days clearer than the purest rain, but time and magic changed it—or perhaps its owner did. Elves are even more mysterious than magic.”

  I found that hard to believe, but I wouldn’t question Malcolm on it. “An elf.” I considered the blade, and the weapon confirmed everything I had decided based on speculation and myth; elves were to be avoided and treated with wary regard. “Elves aren’t good enemies to have.”

  “No, they’re not. The only good enemy to an elf is a dead one.”

  Maybe I wouldn’t ask anything else about the blue stone, but some questions I couldn’t ignore. “How did you befriend an elf?”

  “Very carefully.”

  “Define very carefully.”

  “It involved a fight, the destruction of my clothes, and more bruises than I care to think about. After I broke his nose, he dragged me to a bar. We got drunk, and—”

  I decided I didn’t want to know. “I’ll take your word on it. What now?”

  He chuckled. “We grab a quick bite to eat and head to the gala. Your job’s simple. Socialize, keep an eye out, and play nice with the other Stewarts. You can get as rowdy as you want with me, but stick close. Few will want to annoy me too much, so they’ll be nice to you to keep from pissing me off. Expect job offers. You can tell them you’ll think about it, but don’t accept or decline any of them. It’ll drive them insane, especially when you refuse them all.”

  “I can do that. And if they ask about us?”

  “Use your judgment. Stick to the truth, though; my family isn’t above asking an angel to confirm your words. If they do and you tell them we’re living together, it’ll help out my cause. You’re the first woman to share my home with me, so that’ll get their attention.”

  Since we were living in his house together, and I’d even invaded his bed several times while drugged, not even an angel could truthfully deny my claim. I could even say we’d slept together, misleading them into believing sex was involved.

  I’d never blame another woman for assuming a man like Malcolm plus a bed equaled sex. No matter how annoyed I got with him locking my own damned bracelet around my wrist, I thought about him and a bed for things other than a good night’s sleep.

  “And how will your family react to this?”

  “They’ll pry. That’s their nature. We’ll have to play it by ear, as it depends on who shows up. My uncle will want to know everything about you. My father will, too, but he’ll be more interested in your personal life more than your professional one. My uncle’s the opposite; he’ll want to know about your professional life more than your personal one, especially since Bubba Eugene’s already been gossiping about you.”

  “How many other relatives do you have?”

  “I’ve got six other uncles, and most of my great uncles are still around, too. I wouldn’t be surprised if they all show up.”

  I couldn’t bring myself to ask why Malcolm avoided mentioning his mother or any of his aunts. What happened to the Stewart women? Were all of his uncles from his father’s side of the family? Malcolm’s mother wasn’t a Stewart, technically, but beyond his father attempting to marry out of the curse and failing, I realized I didn’t know half the story.

  Was the curse an issue of fertility, or was there something more nefarious behind their inability to sustain their family line? How old were his uncles for him to have so many despite the curse?

  I wanted to know, but I couldn’t force myself to ask—not directly. Not yet. “Anything else I should know?”

  Malcolm’s expression darkened, and he gripped the hilt of Heart Song so hard his knuckles whitened. “If Caitlin shows up, she’ll start troubl
e.”

  One day soon I needed to find out if there was more to that story than broken trust and a threesome gone wrong. The man’s eyes, shadowed from emotion, told me there was, but once again, I quelled my curiosity. “And if I start trouble back?”

  “Everything I own I would lay at your feet but for one chance to see her suffer as she made me suffer.”

  Yep, there was definitely more to the story than I knew. Revenge and anger I understood, and I stared into the stormy eyes of a scorned man. “I can’t promise you that, Malcolm. If you truly want revenge, there’s only one way to get it.”

  His eyes narrowed. “How?”

  “Live happily ever after without her in your life. Love someone else. Move on. You won’t need revenge at that point, because she’ll no longer mean anything to you. When someone says her name, don’t care. Since she won’t mean anything to you, she can’t hurt you.” The truth hurt, as I needed to do the same in my life. I’d moved on in body, but I still resented my mother abandoning me for being inconvenient. My aunt’s attempts to sell me didn’t help, either. “It’s easier said than done,” I confessed.

  “Any other pearls of wisdom you wish to impart?”

  “Yeah. Don’t make a deal with the devil. It’ll bite you in the ass.”

  “Or with Wishing Well.”

  I grunted. “Deals are nothing but trouble.”

  The grin Malcolm flashed me sent shivers down my spine. “I like your sort of trouble, so keep dealing. I want to find out how deep this rabbit hole goes.”

  For some reason I couldn’t identify, Malcolm’s words unsettled me far more than the deals I had made with the Lord of Lies.

  Unfortunately for us, the newly dead left the airport and converged on New York City, resulting in the brutal murders of our appetites. We fled to the American Museum of Natural History, hoping to avoid most of Wishing Well’s clients. The stench of decay lingering warned me we weren’t finished with walking dead quiet yet.