Rush glances over his shoulder and sees that the helicopters are on fire, and that is what gives him light. As soon as he realizes that, they spin in the air and plummet. The scene is dark again. He hears muffled shouts from the hotel lobby, but no one exits.
Tossing his weapon aside, Rush scoops up Park in his arms. Park groans, and Rush murmurs, “I’m sorry, man, I’m sorry, it’ll be all right, you’ll get better,” in a sing-song voice, and stands in the darkness. A snake of fire twists through the night around him, giving him light again. Looking to what is now his right, where the men had been standing, Rush expects to see the whole team, but the only person there is a tall, slender Indian guy with too-long hair plastered to his head in the rain. Rush swallows. It’s Bohdi Patel.
Bohdi’s wearing some weird-ass long baby blue silk coat that is nearly the same color as the magic stitches in his neck. At the moment, he’s also sucking on a lollipop. In either hand he’s got a Glock. It’s hard to explain, but Rush knows the pistols are magic, too. It’s like they’re the percussion in Bohdi’s mad orchestra. Some magical beings are more powerful than others; Bohdi’s one of the strongest Rush knows, and the magical pistols are giving him extra charge. Magical objects act like batteries for magical beings like Park, Rush, and Bohdi. They also tend to amplify particular talents. Bohdi Patel is a computer programmer whose talent, Rush has been told, is chaos. As far as Rush is concerned, Bohdi’s talent is death. It’s totally unfair that such an awesome magical ability would go to an undisciplined, disorganized, disinterested person like Patel, but the universe isn’t fair.
“Let’s get out of here,” Patel snarls, striding over the bodies toward him. One of the North Korean guys spread out on the ground shifts, and Bohdi spins toward him fast. His lip curls up, and he looks like he’s about to growl, or cry, or both. The Glock goes off, the man goes still, and Bohdi wipes his eyes with his sleeve—he is crying. The dude has a twisted relationship with his talent.
A second later, he’s shoulder-to-shoulder with Rush. “Don’t hold your breath,” he says.
In Rush’s arms, Park groans, and Rush on instinct pulls him closer just before everything disappears. Light, heat, oxygen, the universe—they’re all gone. There is only Park in his arms and Bohdi at his shoulder. Patel can tear a hole in anything—even the space-time continuum.
A second later, Rush is blinking under fluorescent lights. He smells linoleum and burnt plastic, and hears Park moaning. He doesn’t have to look to know he’s back in Chicago, in the Department of Magical Security, in the hallway just outside of the office of Director Larson. Putting Park on the floor, Rush roars, “Where is Lewis!”
He hears the voice of Larson saying, “She’s in India, she’s coming.”
“I kind of wish I was dead again,” Park says. His teeth are chattering.
Rush calls to Larson in dismay, “He’s going to go hypothermic!”
“Over here!” Larson calls outside his line of vision, and Rush hears him run off.
“Why didn’t you take us to medical?” Rush says, looking up at Patel.
Bohdi has stepped away from Park, a look of horror on his face, and Rush realizes his mistake. Patel destroys people, things, worlds … he doesn’t like to go into hospitals if he can help it.
“Not your fault … forget it, Hadji,” Rush says, using the nickname he uses for Patel sometimes. It’s affectionate, sort of. Got to keep the Angel of Death on his toes, not let him get too full of himself. Park is shivering, and he’s softly hissing at each convulsion. Rush starts cutting away his sweater. He tries to pull it away from Park’s body, but Park gives a muffled cry of agony and grabs his hand.
Rush doesn’t know what to do, but then a moment later, there’s medics and a stretcher beside him, and Larson is saying, “Where’s Lewis? Get him to medical.”
In a daze, Rush backs away as they sweep up Park and then haul him away.
… And then it’s just Rush and Bohdi in the hallway, staring down at the bloody spot on the floor. Rush puts his hands behind his head, feeling sick to his stomach, remembering Park’s pained cries. They stand there in silence for several long minutes with no word from Larson, and no sign of Lewis. Rush paces up and down the hall a few times, and then on his third pass by that pool of drying blood, Rush can’t take it anymore. Stamping his foot, he curses, “That woman, Hung Sun Ahn, betrayed us. Seriously, what were they thinking, trusting her? A woman … one without even any military training? Set us up, chickened out, and left us to be captured and tortured. Oldest teenagers in the room … that’s all women are. They aren’t loyal, they can’t be trusted, they aren’t cut out for war—”
Bohdi makes a dangerous-sounding growl.
“And where the fuck is Lewis?” Rush snarls.
“I left her at my cousin's wedding in India,” Patel says, his voice hushed. “But she’s coming.”
“Typical!” Rush blurts. “Why help a man who’s dying when you can be out wearing a pretty dress? Selfish. Shallow.”
“Shut up, Rush,” Bohdi hisses. The lollipop isn’t in his mouth anymore. Rush hears the sound of the demon orchestra again, but he can’t care.
“Stop being a goddamn white knight, Hadji!” Rush snaps. “Hung Sung Ahn betrayed us, and your girlfriend is out, probably flirting and dancing. Hypergamous, solipsistic—”
The air around Rush is so hot he jumps back with a yelp, his back hitting the wall. Bohdi is suddenly in front of him, and he’s shimmering like Rush is looking at him through waves of heat.
Rush tentatively lifts a hand and then draws it back fast. He is looking at Patel through waves of heat.
Leaning forward, Patel hisses, “You’re only alive because Hung Sung Ahn didn’t betray you. She was tortured but she never gave away your names. If she had, you’d be worse than dead.”
Rush releases a breath.
“I’m sick of your shit, Rush,” Bohdi whispers. His eyes are wet and red. “I killed all those people so they wouldn't do to you what they did to her, and now you give me this.”
“Hadji …” Rush starts to say.
“Don’t call me Hadji!” Bohdi roars and Rush swears he can feel his blood beginning to boil. The air shimmers with heat, the mad orchestra’s volume has increased, the Glock percussion section is making the floor vibrate … and Rush is hearing another sound blending into that, synthesizers and raindrops in a forest, bees, birds, and animal cries. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you!” Bohdi demands. Rush forgets about the symphony around him, and he remembers something about Bohdi and Chaos, something that maybe Larson and Rush’s boss Mayor Rogers had said. “Disproportionate response is the nature of Chaos.” Patel’s nostrils flare and Rush knows he’s going to die.
From down the hallway comes a feminine voice. “You shouldn’t kill him because he won’t learn anything from it.”
The mad orchestra becomes softer. Bohdi spins away, and the heat under Rush’s skin cools. Rush exhales in relief and looks toward the speaker. It’s Amy Lewis, Patel’s girlfriend.
“Park is dying!” Rush exclaims angrily.
She waves a hand. “I already fixed him. I was waiting in medical so my magic and Bohdi’s didn’t cross.”
Rush swallows. Of course she was in medical. When has Lewis not been little miss goody-two shoes? He’d been jumping to conclusions earlier, just hurting for his friend. And Lewis can bring a guy back from the dead as long as his body is still warm. She could certainly heal a gut wound and a bullet to the lungs even faster. Bohdi’s magic is tied to death, but Lewis’s is tied to life.
Rush feels himself relax, and for the first time, he notices what she’s wearing: a pink Indian getup that looks fancy. Lewis is trained as a veterinarian and usually she wears scrubs and lab coats that make her look fat. The tight top and the sheer scarf actually show that she isn’t fat—she’s just got big tits. Of course, Rush knew that; he’d accidentally gotten an eyeful when they were stranded on Jotunheim and she’d been changing. It’s a secret
he’ll carry with him to his grave. Bohdi is … unstable.
At that thought, Bohdi snarls in her direction, “I know what he did to you, Bjorna, and Gerðr in Jotunheim!”
Rush gulps. “I didn’t do anything to her in Jotunheim!” he protests. The eyeful had been an accident.
Bohdi sniffs and looks back at Rush, his lip curling. “You—” He mutters something in another language that Rush isn’t able to translate even with magic. That said, he barely hears the mad orchestra anymore. Patel’s cooled down now. He’s going to live.
Lewis huffs. “You were always rubbing against our asses.”
Rush winces. He hadn’t meant to do that … not exactly. He’d just been trying to get into their space, initialize physical contact, familiarize them with his touch. He may have grazed Lewis’s ass, now that he thinks about it, but … “Just a little harmless flirting,” Rush protests, throwing up his hands. He finds Patel’s gaze on him. The guy's eyes are almost orange … like flame.
“Why shouldn’t I kill him again?” Bohdi asks, turning back to his girlfriend.
Putting her hands on her hips, Lewis stamps her foot. “You shouldn’t hurt him because I can take care of myself.”
Maybe it is because he’s not in a cone of heat and he can feel Bohdi’s mood isn’t quite as murderous as before, maybe it’s because Rush likes to be cocky in the face of danger, maybe it’s because of adrenaline, but he lets out a long, “Pfft!”
Lewis and Bohdi both look at him.
Rolling his eyes, Rush says, “Come on, Lewis, you can’t hurt anybody.” It’s the truth. Lewis may have a symphony of magic that rivals Patel’s and the mayor’s, but Lewis can’t hurt a fly. Literally, she cannot. If she fires a gun, it won’t hit a living target. If she tries to step on a roach, her foot will slip.
Lewis gets very still. Patel takes a step back from Rush and cocks his head.
“I’m just telling it like it is,” Rush says. Without Rush, Bohdi, and the team, her life would be a lot more difficult.
One of Lewis’s delicate little nostrils flare, and it’s kind of funny, like looking at an angry bunny. Rush smirks.
He hears that orchestra of jungle noises and synthesizers and Lewis’s eyes narrow. “You’re right, Rush, I can’t hurt you.”
Rush smiles triumphantly. Lewis strolls toward him, and Bohdi coughs into his hand.
“But I can fix you,” she croons.
“I’m not injured, but thanks.” Rush grins.
The rain forest noises get louder. Stopping three feet away from him, Lewis drawls, “Rush, you unrepentant misogynist, if you don’t develop a meaningful relationship with a woman in the next fourteen days, your penis will never work again.”
Rush rolls his eyes. “Whatever, Lewis.” Losing the ability to party with Mr. Johnson would hurt, so he’s sure she can’t do it.
Bohdi smiles like a cat that’s just had a goldfish leap out of the bowl and into his mouth. Putting his arm around Lewis's shoulder, he whispers in her ear, “Have I told you how much I love you?” He says it like, “Let’s fuck, babe,” and it makes Rush kind of sick and jealous.
“Not today,” Lewis says, glittering eyes still on Rush.
Smiling like a shark, Patel says to Rush, “Have fun.”
There’s a rush of air. They’re gone, and Rush is staring at the wall. From down the hallway, he hears Larson grumble, “I wanted to debrief him, too.”
Rush’s head jerks up, and he sees the director. Larson is in camis. His blond hair is cropped in a high and tight, and his blue eyes are as icy as ever. Rush wonders how long Larson has been standing there. “Follow me,” the director says, striding by Rush, a gentle Gregorian hum, the sound of Larson’s magic, following in his wake. Rush falls in a half step behind. Director Larson was Lieutenant Larson during the mission to Jotunheim that wound up making them all magical—and getting them all discharged for it. He’s got an officer’s stiffness, and Rush has never heard him swear, even when drunk. For all that, Rush likes him. Larson had helped hold the team together against overwhelming odds, and he’d believed in Rush when it really counted.
They step into Larson’s office, and Rush is instantly assailed by the scent of smoke. He looks over to a pin board to his left and sees a map of North Korea where he and Park had been stationed. Next to the map are half-charred photos of a woman … or her body.
Rush’s throat gets tight. He thinks he recognizes her, although the woman in the picture has been so disfigured, it’s hard to say.
“Hung Sun Ahn,” Larson confirms evenly. “Patel got upset when he saw those and set them on fire. I barely put them out in time.”
A lump forms in his throat. Rush can understand why Patel would set the pictures on fire. His hands curl into fists at his side, understanding why Patel had been so vicious when he’d dropped in to rescue them. Rush would like to go back and kill a few people, too.
“So, I’m thinking that Patel’s arrival wasn’t subtle,” Larson says.
“No, Sir,” Rush says, turning away from the photos, feeling hot with anger and also like he might throw up. He lifts his chin. “I’m sorry, Sir.”
There were reasons Park and Rush had been sent in to retrieve Hung Sun Ahn; namely that Patel, and even Lewis, tended to be “unsubtle.” There wasn’t going to be any plausible deniability that magic users had been in North Korea now.
“Not your fault. I sent him in,” Larson says. He sits down on his desk and eyes Rush. The sound of the chanting, a single melody sung by many voices, grows stronger. “And I’m not sorry I did.” But Rush feels bile rising in his throat, thinking of those pictures and so guilty he almost wishes that Bohdi had killed him.
He forgets all about Lewis.
Chapter 2
Rush wakes and at first doesn’t know where he is. He sits up, sees his guitar leaning against the wall, and next to it a nearly-empty bookshelf with a photo of him as a kid and a guy with blue eyes, neat blond hair and beard, and a happy, large, shaggy mutt. The guy in the picture gave him the guitar.
Falling back into his pillow, he releases a long breath. He’s in Chicago, in his quarters in the Department of Magical Security, but dreams of Hung Sung Ahn’s tortured remains are haunting him. He tells himself he didn’t do anything wrong. He’d been an ass when he lost his temper, but he’d been under stress.
“Rush,” he says. “You have to get past those pictures and the guilt, or you’ll be useless.”
Jeff, the guy in the picture, had warned him about guilt being paralyzing. Rush has seen it happen to guys; he won’t let it happen to him. Wiping his face, he glances down his body and sees the familiar tent.
“Didn’t work, Lewis,” he laughs to himself. He’d figured it hadn’t; he’d been able to piss last night just fine.
It occurs to him that there is a perfect way to put yesterday completely out of his mind. Reaching beneath the covers, he grabs hold of himself, gives himself a long stroke and …
There is not a jolt of pleasure.
He squeezes harder. Nothing.
He squeezes until it hurts, lets go, and curses. He tries a softer touch, faster, slower. Still nothing. It’s not that he can’t feel … it’s just, well, it’s like any other part of his body. He tries again … and goes limp.
Rush stares up at the paneling in the ceiling in absolute horror, and wishes again that Bohdi had killed him.
Chapter 3
Rush gets it. This is Lewis, and her feminist agenda, trying to turn the tables, trying to make him seek his own Princess Charming and find her by Valentine's Day. Well, to hell with that, he’s not going to play her game.
Rush raps on Larson’s door even though it’s open.
Larson looks up from his desk where he’s studying a tablet that must be magic because it is humming a happy tune. “Yes?” Larson says.
“Can I talk to you about something personal, Sir?”
“Sure, come on in.” Larson taps a button, and the tablet’s hum stops, but the Gregorian chanting o
f Larson’s own magic takes it place.
Shutting the door behind him, Rush takes a seat.
“So, what brings you here, Rush?”
Rush scratches the back of his head. “Umm … well, Sir, I think, well, I think Lewis cursed me.”
“Dr. Lewis? Curse you? I wouldn’t think that was possible,” Larson says.
“Yeah, me either,” Rush says. “But well, she—”
“I actually overheard,” Larson interjects.
Rush feels himself flush; at least he doesn’t have to explain. “It is possible, Sir, and she did.”
Larson leans back in his chair. “Are you sure it’s not just psychological?”
Rush narrows his eyes.
“Pressing charges will be tough. The legal system isn’t really equipped to handle magic like … curses. And first we’d have to prove …” Larson says.
Rush sits up fast. “Press charges? I don’t want to press charges, I want her to fix it!”
Still leaning back, Larson says, “Hmmm … she and Patel were called to Alfheim by Mayor Rogers last night.”
“Well, let me go to Alfheim!” Rush says.
He hears the sound of the chanting again. Larson tilts his head. “Strange that it worked.”
“There are a lot better words than strange,” Rush snaps.
The chanting becomes even louder. It wouldn’t be unpleasant, except that Rush has a feeling the magic is focused on him. “I hear your magic,” Rush blurts out.
“Hear my magic?” Larson asks.
Rush looks down at the carpeting. No one hears magic, everyone feels it. Rush’s mouth forms a mulish line. If his talent is “hearing” magic he has the most piss-poor talent ever. “Feel it, Sir,” Rush amends.
“I use it to solve problems,” Larson replies. “It comes naturally without me thinking about it now.” Larson thumps the fingers of his left hand on his desk in perfect time with the Gregorian monks. “The thing is, Lewis isn’t able to hurt anyone with her magic.”
Once Upon A Kiss: Seventeen Romantic Faerie Tales Page 33