by Ford, Lizzy
“I hope you don’t spend enough time here to learn to use too much technology,” he said pointedly. “What’s up, Watcher?”
“The Grey God is coming.”
“The what?”
“I had to wait until you found your Oracle to tell you. I do apologize,” the Watcher said. “If you hadn’t found her, he wouldn’t come. But now he will.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“To contain the, uh, coaching being done, the Original Beings are ordaining a new god to act as a sort of referee here on earth who will have the ability to bridge the physical and divine worlds.”
“Y’all pissed really them off this time, didn’t you?” Damian said.
“Yes, ikir, I think we did.”
“What is this Grey God?”
“I can’t tell you, but you must be on the lookout for him. You have to protect him,” the Watcher said.
“Didn’t your Original friends give him god-powers?”
“It’s hard to explain.” Damian waited. The Watcher returned his gaze to his phone, reading a text. “Fascinating.”
“You gonna try to explain?” Damian prompted.
“No, ikir.”
He studied the small man infatuated with his phone. He’d hoped never to see the Watcher again.
“I’ve assigned you a ringtone,” the Watcher said in satisfaction.
“Didn’t think you Watchers liked us lesser beings contacting you.”
“In an emergency.”
“Is that your way of saying something bad’s gonna happen, and I’ll need to call you?”
“No, ikir,” the Watcher said, looking up. “But in case it does …”
“Right,” Damian said, not amused by the cryptic responses.
“Will you tell your team captains I may visit them?”
Despite his suspicion, Damian chuckled. “You can stop with the basketball analogies. You mean Dusty and Jule?”
“My apologies, ikir. I wanted to explain things to you in a way you’d be able to understand.”
“Yeah, we’re all idiots here on planet earth.”
The Watcher smiled in response, and Damian knew well enough his kind truly thought themselves superior.
“I’ll tell them not to kill you on sight, if that’s what you’re asking,” Damian continued. “But I’ll warn you as well: if you speak in riddles to Dusty, he’ll cut your heart out. And Jule may smile at you, but you better disappear fast if you tell him something he doesn’t like.”
“I understand,” the Watcher said. “I want only the opportunity to speak to Dusty, if needed. Jule’s still on what you might call the otherworldly shit list.”
Damian straightened, at his limit with the cryptic nonsense. “Anything else you wanna avoid telling me?”
“No, ikir.”
“Walk yourself out.” He strode away. He felt the Watcher’s presence disappear as he entered the mansion. His phone dinged again, and he glanced down.
Thank u, ikir.
“Just when things were complicated enough,” he muttered and retreated to his study for his evening telecon with Dusty and Jule.
They were both online already, swapping vamp stats.
“Dusty, do I need to send someone to Miami to fix your IT?” he asked as a message popped upon his screen.
“You know he’s a techno-phobe,” Jule said. “Still using stamps and envelopes.”
I prefer the personal touch to this e-shit, Dusty typed.
“Hey, there’s something I need to tell you guys,” Damian said grimly. “The Watchers are in town, and they may be dropping by to visit.”
There was a pause in activity before Dusty’s Uh-oh.
“You have no idea,” Damian said. “We’ll talk when you’re in town. Whatcha got for me tonight?”
“Okay, ikira, what do you See?”
She tentatively touched Pierre’s outstretched arm. He took his place on the sparring field, and Grande leaned close to her.
“He’ll win in seven moves,” she told him.
“Pierre for the kill,” Grande said, handing Han one from the wad of dollars in his hand.
“This is working too well,” Han said, eyeing her.
“If only you could touch horses,” Grande said with a sigh of exaggerated melancholy. “We’d be kings at the races.”
She was getting a better grip on her newfound talent and was now able to predict the winner of their rounds—without flashes of their deaths. Han motioned him away, and Grande shifted down a seat.
“Isn’t there a better use for your gift than lining Grande’s pockets?” he asked.
“I asked you the other day, and you weren’t at all helpful,” she reminded him. “If you have any ideas, let me know.” Her stomach growled loudly. She ignored Han’s knowing look.
“I win again!” Grande exclaimed as Pierre’s opponent went down. “Dos dolares, señor.”
“Enough,” Han said. “No more bets with ikira. It’s called cheating in the real world.”
“You have any other magic tricks for us?” Pierre called to her.
“Not today.”
“Magic tricks,” Han muttered. “In my day, Oracles were the most revered, most feared and celebrated. This generation has no idea. Including you, ikira. You’re all fucking idiots.”
“You’re no fun today, Han. What gives?” Sofia said, surprised. He grimaced in response. She touched his arm. “You’re leaving me,” she said, saddening. “Why?”
“Battle is what we do,” he answered then looked at her. “What did you see?”
Damian’s rules for Oracles returned to her.
“You’ll live,” she said. After your leg is broken next week.
He appeared relieved, and she felt guilty. And hungry. Always hungry. She chewed her lip and glanced at her own wrist. Did her blood taste half as good as Damian’s? She made a face, drooling at the thought of Damian’s blood again.
“I guess I’m done here,” she said and rose.
She placed a checkmark next to the first of her ideas for learning to use her power. She wandered the mansion as she often did, restless and starving. She found herself again in front of Damian’s door. She’d been there twice before today and only knocked once for fear he’d answer. And then she’d tried to eat chocolate and ended up in the bathroom even weaker and hungrier.
I don’t want this! Her stomach growled. Angry, she turned to leave when Damian’s door opened. He was dressed again all in black, a color that should have minimized his size but just amplified how ripped he was beneath the clothing.
“You need something?” he asked with a casualness that pissed her off, as if he didn’t know why she was there.
“No.”
“Alrighty then.” He closed his door. He was messing with her—he knew she was hungry!
He promised! She sighed and knocked. He answered.
“You need something?”
“Yes,” she grated. “I do.”
He pushed the door open. She entered and saw car keys on the table near the door.
“Are you going to town?”
“Yep.”
Bet he’s got a girl in town.
“Figures,” she muttered.
“Pardon?” he asked, looking up from the wallet he rifled through.
“Nothing.”
“You finish your thoughts out loud pretty often.”
“Bad habit,” she said.
Maybe I do, he said into her mind.
“That is not cool,” she told him.
“The girl or the ability to read minds?”
She gritted her teeth and turned to go, trying not to think of how jealous the idea of another woman made her.
“There’s no girl,” he called after her. “You can stay.”
“I wasn’t—”
“Yes, you were. Sit down.”
He was amused and she fumed, her emotions scattered by his mere presence.
I have no right to be jealous. If he has a woman, he has
a woman.
“Sofia, stop thinking and sit down.” She obeyed, embarrassed. “There’s no woman, though I’m flattered.”
He sat beside her on the couch. The sight of the knife in her hand still made her squeamish.
“I keep trying to entice you, but you seem immune to me,” he teased. “No other woman has been able to resist me. It’s fascinating.”
“I appreciate you trying to make me feel less nervous, but you shouldn’t lie to me,” she snapped.
“I can have any woman I want. I wouldn’t bother with you if I didn’t want you.”
The edge of arrogance surprised her. She looked at him. His look was intent, the gold of his irises swirling.
“Let’s get this over with, so you don’t miss your hot date,” she said coolly.
He lifted her chin with one finger. His lips brushed hers, and she felt something within her melt at the simple touch. Hunger for him—not just his blood—roared through her. He kissed her gently, tasting her, savoring her. At his prodding, she opened her mouth. His mouth was hot, his flavor as addictive as his blood. He nipped at her lips, his tongue darting in and out of her mouth. He pressed her back against the couch, and she yielded, her hands touching his face, his soft hair, his neck. Touching him sent warm energy racing through her blood. Maybe he had a harem of women at his beck and call, but she couldn’t see herself with any other man. Ever.
“You believe me now?” he whispered against her lips, pulling away.
She sighed in response.
“The offer’s always open,” he assured her. “Now drink.”
He placed his bloodied wrist to her mouth. She closed her eyes, body on fire as she drank from him while imagining what his mouth could do to the rest of her body. When she was sated, she pushed his arm away. He had turned away again and was chewing his knuckle.
“Why do you do that?” she asked, embarrassed when her voice came out husky. “Are you in pain?”
“Not the kind you’d understand.”
“What do you mean not the kind I’d understand?” she persisted, standing. “I don’t want to hurt you, Damian.”
His eyes were closed. He gave a husky laugh at her words. “I mean, when you do that, I want to fuck you, and if you don’t leave like, NOW, I’m gonna drag you into my bed and—”
She ran before he finished, emotions roiling and high off the kiss and his blood. Though she couldn’t see her own fate, she began to suspect which direction it’d take her in.
“Any day now!” he shouted as he passed her room to leave.
She stood in a dark, cold place, gazing at the hunched form in the corner. She couldn’t tell if he was human or beast. While afraid, she knew whatever he was, he needed help. Her help.
Darian stirred, pushing himself farther into the corner. She approached and knelt a safe distance from him, trying hard to see into the darkness of the corner. She couldn’t make him out.
“What do you want from me?” she whispered.
“Free me.”
While his form was large enough to be a man the size of Damian’s Guardians, his voice was terrified and gravelly, as if he hadn’t ever spoken to anyone.
“Are you okay?” she asked, creeping forward.
He began to cry, the soul-deep weeping of a man who’d lost all and spent his tormented life in a level of hell she’d never be able to imagine. The sound made her gut twist and her chest tighten. Tears formed in her eyes at the heartbreaking sound of his pain. She moved closer and held out her hand. He reached for her, but his scarred hand passed through hers, as if all that remained of him was a ghost of the man he’d been. She made out the shape of the bottom of a tattoo on his bicep, what looked like a half-sun. The rest was shrouded in darkness.
Darian wouldn’t leave her alone. The scene played over and over in her thoughts, growing stronger until he was as vivid during daylight as he had been at night. She rubbed her temples and issued a challenging glare to the contents of the pantry, furious once more she could eat none of the wonderful things it held.
“Gods. She does this a few times a day. She can’t eat food, but she refuses to admit it to herself,” Han explained to Pierre. “Since you’ll be her new—”
“Babysitter,” she interjected.
“Exactly. You’ll be holding her hair for her in the bathroom several times a day.”
“She cannot eat?” Pierre asked with a frown.
“No. She’s blood bound.”
Pierre’s look turned from disappointed to approving.
“Bien.”
“I want real food,” Sofia said with a sigh. Damian hadn’t returned the night before after their last interaction. She wondered again whether or not he had a harem elsewhere. That thought coupled with her nightmare made her even angrier at not being able to eat.
“Go eat,” Han grumbled.
“No.”
“Fine. Let him sleep. He had a rough night anyway. I know you’re mad at him and thought you’d like to pester him.”
“Why was his night rough?”
“He had a run-in with a whole bunch of Czerno’s goons.”
Concerned, Sofia turned to face him. “Is he okay?”
“He’s fine. Cranky.”
“Then I definitely don’t want to see him,” she said, eyes going to the ceiling.
He’ll be too sleepy to tempt me. If he doesn’t refuse me because he’s tired.
He promised.
She returned her gaze to the Pop-Tarts.
“Damn you all,” she muttered and closed the pantry.
“Go. Eat.”
She didn’t acknowledge his order but headed toward the stairs. Her daily debate about drinking blood made her pace in front of Damian’s room until he wrenched the door open and stared at her, bleary-eyed and bare-chested.
“Either come in, or go think somewhere else!” he snapped.
“Good morning, sunshine!” she said with false cheerfulness.
He muttered a curse and flung his door open. She smiled, pleased to see him as pissy as she felt. It was his turn to be ticked at the world—she was sick of being alone and angry. She closed the door behind her.
“Han said you were out doing battle last night,” she said, noticing the shredded T-shirt on the floor.
“This world is so fucked up I don’t know why I bother.” He flung himself back into bed. Irritated, Sofia pulled open the curtains to his windows overlooking the bed.
“Sofia!” he snarled, burying his head under a pillow.
“You promised,” she reminded him, enjoying his misery. “The kitchen is always open.”
He flung out an arm.
“I’m not going to cut you,” she objected.
“Then you’re not going to eat.”
“Fine. Your precious Oracle will just starve to death,” she snapped and started toward the door.
“Stop!”
She turned to see him pull a knife from under his pillow. He rolled onto his side.
“C’mere.”
“Did you win your battle last night?” she asked as unease swept through her again.
“I’m still here, aren’t I?”
She waited at the edge of the bed. He sliced his forearm and tucked the knife beneath his pillow once more, closing his eyes.
“Are you going to get up?” she asked.
“No.”
The sight of him in bed made her blood surge. His head remained shoved under a pillow, and his body relaxed, as if he were falling back asleep. Turned on and starving, she gingerly crawled across the bed and settled beside him on her belly, pausing guiltily before lapping up the bubbles of blood. She drank until full.
“Thank you, Damian,” she whispered and placed a small kiss on his elbow.
His other hand snaked out and rolled her onto her side beside him. He looped one leg across her hips so she couldn’t move.
“Damian—” she protested.
“Hush.”
The curtains closed at his silent command, and sh
e lay still, waiting for him to make some move on her. He tucked her against him and fell asleep. The sense of peace descended upon her again, and she relaxed against him, content to her soul to be surrounded by his scent and heat.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Usually when he awoke with a hard-on and a woman in his bed, what happened next was pretty straightforward. He rolled onto his side, watching her sleep. Her cool beauty turned haunting in the moonlight that slid through the curtains. She lay sweet and vulnerable on her back, her lips parted and warm body tucked against his side. He touched her face and trailed a finger down her neck, between her breasts, and rested his hand on her stomach.
There were many things he thought of doing to her. He couldn’t risk alienating the woman in his bed, partly because she was still too delicate, too new to his world to take the next step and partly because he was still leery of the powers of an Oracle.
“Damian?” Her voice, thick with sleep, ratcheted up his hormones another level.
“I’m here, kiri,” he said. He brushed stray hairs from her face and replaced his hand on her stomach. The simple movement took discipline Dusty would be proud of.
“Do you think I’m a monster?”
“No, kiri. I think you’re a lost angel.”
“I know where I am,” she said with sleepy stubbornness that made him smile. She roused herself and lay on her side, facing him. His hand shifted to her hip, and he felt the absence of her warmth to the bone. Her eyes glowed and spun. They gazed at each other for a long moment.
“You’re always welcome in my bed, kiri,” he said, satisfied when her pupils dilated and her face reddened. She looked away, embarrassed.
“You shouldn’t say those things,” she whispered.
“Why not? You’re mine already. You just haven’t realized it,” he said.
She gave him an agitated look and rolled onto her stomach, twisting her head away from him.
“Will you answer something personal, Damian?”
“Shoot.”
“What are you? And don’t tell me a divine spirit of sorts. That doesn’t make sense to me.”
He pulled her into his body, even as she refused to look at him. She didn’t resist his touch. She never did, and yet she never surrendered either. It was an odd mix that warned him she’d not yet accepted her place in his world.