Déjà Vu & Gin

by Heather R. Blair

  I try to return it, but my lips feel stiff.

  Looks like the fly in my ointment has been taken care of. Anastasia Gosse dead will make my life a whole lot smoother.

  So why the hell don’t I feel happier about it?

  4

  My bed is one of my favorite places in the world. My sheets are always sateen, always at least a four-hundred thread count and currently a gorgeous shade of crimson under my burgundy duvet.

  Right now I hate it all—the bed, which I’ve been in far too long, and the rich colors surrounding me.

  It reminds me too much of blood. My blood. Carly’s blood on that scarf. Thomas’s blood sprayed across the delicate blue wallpaper of the parlor.

  Jett was gone for all the ‘excitement.’ She didn’t get home until Carly had patched me up and moved on to Thomas. Seph screaming at her is what woke me up. I wanted to join in, but I was too busy relearning to breathe.

  Of us all, Jett’s the most lethal in a crisis. But when we needed her most, she was ‘busy.’ Her words. Just busy, in that terse, don’t-fuck-with-me voice. She won’t tell me where. Or why she wasn’t here when we needed her. I suspect Mom’s hand in this, but of course, when I asked her point-blank, I got nothing but silence. She’s hiding something. I thought Mom had given us both the same information, but I should have known better.

  My mother and her tangled little webs.

  I had a conniption and went for Jett’s throat, not that I could come close to reaching her. Carly kicked her out of my room anyway and told her not to come back until I was strong enough to handle a catfight. Jett sneered at the idea of me taking her one-on-one, despite the fact that in a battle of magic alone I’d likely win, but I saw the strain on her face. The guilt.

  Good. That makes two of us.

  Thomas hasn’t died yet. At least if he has, they haven’t told me. My hands twist the sheets again and again. If he does, it’s my fault.

  A sound tickles my ears, pulling me from my maudlin thoughts. A footfall, not outside my bedroom, but in it. I glance up, eyes wide.

  It’s Tyr.

  The assassin steps out from behind my sheer curtains, the sliding glass door clicking shut behind him. He’s all in black leather, the assassin’s garb of choice, his dark hair loose, his eyes assessing as they take in my position on the bed. His sword hilt glints dully behind one shoulder. His boots whisper over my hardwood floor as he approaches.

  I’m so stunned, I just stare, forgetting to be afraid. “How did you get up here?” My bedroom is up a sheer wall, and unlike Seph’s room, there is no trellis.

  He stands at the foot of my bed, glowering at me. “You may recall what I do for a living?”

  I’ve obviously insulted his prowess. We stare at each other for a long minute. “What are you doing here?”

  “I heard you were dying.” His voice is clipped. “I came to see if my conflict of interest had resolved itself.”

  I laugh, wincing slightly where my flesh is still knitting together. Carly is damn good at healing, but she had to save something for Thomas, and I am an immortal witch. I’ll be fine. If the knife hadn’t been cursed with the soul of Luna’s moon-mad father, I wouldn’t even be wincing. “It would seem not. I’d apologize, but then, I’m hardly sorry.”

  “Well, I’m not surprised,” he says shortly. “It’s amazing a blade could even pierce all that ice.”

  “Yours did.” I tap the hollow of my throat with a finger, though the tiny wound he made is long closed.

  His face darkens, but he says nothing. The silence stretches, but it’s not uncomfortable, just . . . expectant.

  “Kind of pathetic that you let a werewolf get the best of you,” he says finally, sounding irritable. “Not much of a fighter, are you?”

  I lift my chin. “She snuck up on me.”

  “How? This place is so wired up with magic, it practically has my hair standing on end.”

  “You got in.”

  He rolls his eyes. “I climbed a bloody wall to an open door. And your balcony is the weak spot of the whole house.” His voice hardens. “Why is that?”

  I ignore the question, instead answering the unspoken one. “Luna didn’t come through my room. She walked through the front door.”

  “Bullshit,” he says immediately.

  “Why?”

  “You know damn well why. The ward on that door is one of the most powerful I’ve ever felt.”

  “Ah. So you’re wondering, if you couldn’t break in there—legendary assassin of the realm that you are—how did a werewolf?”

  He shrugs. “Professional curiosity.”

  I’m not sure why I tell him, but I do. “Only family can open that door.”

  “The werewolf one of your long-lost cousins or something?”

  “Or something,” I say softly. “Have you ever had a best friend?”

  The gaze he sends my way speaks for itself.

  “Yes, me as well. But Seph is not like us. She had a best friend.”

  “Yes, the human chit that the wolves snatched—”

  “Syana and Seph didn’t meet until middle school. Seph had someone long before then, before our family had a falling out with the werewolves.”

  His gaze sharpens. “Luna?”

  A memory hits me, full-on and blazing in the shadows of my room. Two little girls playing on the lawn. High summer.

  I blink to see the assassin staring at me.

  “Yes. Luna. They were besties before I started living here. Luna was more like family to her than I was, truth be told.”

  His eyes search my face and I have to look away. “That bothered you.”

  It’s not a question and I wouldn’t answer it anyway. I can’t lie to him and we both know the truth.

  “So what happened, Anastasia?”

  I walk through the grass, enjoying the sun on my face even though it’s far from warm. I don’t understand this climate. The calendar says it’s August, but you would be hard-pressed to tell some days. China rattles on the tray I’m carrying. Lemonade and toast seemed appropriate for a tea party. I hope Seph likes it. I’ve only been back a couple weeks and I’m still trying to find a way to bridge the gap between us. It doesn’t help that social skills aren’t my strong suit anymore.

  The willow waves slender green fingers as I draw close enough to hear childish voices. I try not to frown at the sound of Luna’s, but it’s hard to mask my disapproval. I still can’t believe my baby sister is best friends with a werewolf. Shifters are volatile creatures at best. And werewolves? I shiver a little. Mom should be more careful. We all should.

  We’ve been through too much to take such risks.

  “It must be nice having so many sisters.” Luna sounds plaintive and I feel a stab of guilt.

  Seph’s nose wrinkles. She was a pretty baby and she’s an even more adorable child, despite that sour expression. I smile as I walk faster, careful of the tray in my hands. “Not really. Carly’s silly. Jett’s kinda cool, but Ana’s stuck-up and bossy.”

  I stop abruptly in the shadows of the willow, then step behind the fat trunk, though I can still see the girls.

  “I know, Luna!” Seph’s face lights up, that little face I have missed for hundreds of years. “Would you like to be my real sister? You’d be better than all of them, especially stupid ol’ Ana.”

  My throat tightens and burns. When I finally compose myself and step out from behind the tree, they don’t even notice.

  Two little hands are clasped together, blood trickling down into the vibrant green grass.

  I close my eyes tightly before reopening them to the quiet cool neatness of my room.

  “That must’ve stung.” The assassin’s arms are folded over his chest. I can’t see his expression from here, but it hardly matters.

  I swallow and shrug at the same time, looking down at the duvet balled in my hands. “She was seven. It wasn’t her fault I wasn’t very likeable. I am bossy. I don’t think I’m stuck-up, but I’m sure I seemed so to her at
the time.” I give a little laugh, but it’s not really funny. I was a bit of a sad sack. After almost three centuries my family was back together. Was I enjoying it? Celebrating?

  No.

  I was too busy holding my breath—waiting for something else to come out of the shadows and scatter us all to bits again—to be anything more than stiff and nervous and proper. Of course, as it turns out, my paranoia was spot-on.

  I sigh and then wince again, suddenly feeling every bit of my injury. “Did you need something, assassin?”

  He straightens, recognizing my tone as the dismissal it is. “More spellwork, actually. But I doubt you’re up to that yet. Call me when you’re able to be of some use again.” Abruptly, he whirls away from the bed and shoves aside the curtains to open the door. I expect him to vanish as quickly as he appeared. Instead, he hesitates, the curtains billowing around him, his back strangely stiff.

  Before I can blink, he’s bending over the bed, his face so close I can feel the heat of his breath, almost taste those lips hovering over mine. His gaze is intent, like he’s trying very hard to figure something out. I freeze, staring up at him in bewilderment. He hasn’t shaved since I saw him last. Thick scruff covers his jaw. Fascinated, I lift my hand and run my fingertips over the rough felt of it before I quite know what I’m doing. He blinks but doesn’t move, his full lips pressing together until I yank my hand away, flushing. The draft from the window wafts his scent over me, leather, smoke and something utterly masculine.

  I swallow hard, my hands sliding under the duvet to fist the sheets, my toes curling into the mattress. I haven’t been this close to a man in a hundred years, and I don’t believe I’ve ever been this aware of one.

  I’m not sure what that means. Then he leans a millimeter closer. A strangled gulp escapes my lips, but I refuse to shrink away. His curtain of dark hair falls over my cheek, soft and thick, his eyes black as the night pressing against the windows. “I dislike surprises, Anastasia.” The words are low and surprisingly soft. “So you will not be getting injured again.”

  “Is that an order?” I blink up at him.

  He doesn’t smile. “It is.”

  “Um, I’ll do my best.” I have no idea what I’m saying, but something in his tone is too compelling to resist. Before I can think about that too much, Tyr’s gone.

  So quickly and completely, I would think I dreamed him if it weren’t for the way my heart pounds in my chest . . . and the scent of him lingering in the air.

  5

  I jump to the ground, the frozen grass crunching slightly beneath my feet.

  She looked so pale. The witch is uncommonly fair as it is, but there’s a difference between porcelain and pasty. I didn’t care for seeing her like that. Before I realize what I’m doing, my hand is on my sword and I’m contemplating a sudden detour to the werewolf camp.

  What the fuck, Kanerva? With a low curse, I slip into the woods, barely noticing as an elderly neighbor in curlers peeps out her window at me like a demented Jack-in-the-box.

  Ever since Anastasia opened that door three days ago, I’ve been off-kilter. Unbalanced. I don’t get it.

  This job, this pair of jobs, is quite the fucking conundrum. However, that doesn’t explain my current emotional state. Or why I even have an emotional state. The only thing I should have felt when looking at that witch tonight was irritation that the werewolf bitch hadn’t ended her and gotten me out of this mess. Instead, when I pushed that curtain back and saw Anastasia lying there, still and white, but breathing, I was relieved. So relieved my goddamn knees wobbled.

  I come to a halt as the truth hits me.

  I want the witch.

  I mean, I really want her. My knees betray me again and I have to lean back against a nearby birch, drawing my cigarettes from a pocket with one shaking hand. I stare at it in disgust. Some scary assassin of the realm you are.

  I manage to light the fag and draw the soothing smoke deep into my lungs before letting it out. The moon is peeking out between the skeletal fingers of winter trees. The frosty air bites hungrily at my skin, but I ignore it.

  Let’s look at this logically. So, I’ve got a thing for the witch.

  Why?

  Well, she’s beautiful. But I’ve known plenty of beautiful women. None with hair like moonlight, eyes like stars and an ass that makes me want to sink my teeth in and . . .

  Christ. Deep breath.

  She’s also intriguing. It’s not just the smooth way she blackmailed me, either. It’s the way she seems so hard and cold and perfect, but the more I’m around her, the more that seems like a mask. An ill-fitting one at that. I blow smoke rings into the night and sigh.

  Anastasia never answered my question earlier, but I know why her room is the weak spot in the house’s defenses. She wants anything that might be after her family to go for her first. My lips press together. Someone who risks everything for their loved ones is not cold.

  Brave, clever and sexy as fuck. It’s a pretty appealing trio.

  I guess that’s my first question sorted. But now that I’ve pinpointed why I want her, what can I do about it?

  If I fucked her a few times, I might get it out of my system. I consider that, my lips twisting before I take another drag. Little Miss Ice Queen is unlikely to allow the likes of me into her pretty crimson bed. Of course, now I’m thinking of her in that bed, healthy and wanting, me in it with her. My balls tingle and instantly my cock goes heavy and solid. I snap my teeth together and drop the cigarette, grinding it under my heel.

  This is ridiculous. I’ll go find someone willing and work this madness off. Maybe several someones. It’s been a while. I probably just need to . . . Before I can take a step, my dick loses all interest.

  Are you fucking kidding me?

  That pulse of want is still there, though, low down and insistent, but apparently very specific in nature. I could almost laugh about the whole thing if I weren’t so pissed off. I stride deeper into the woods, making no effort to be quiet.

  That’s another thing. I don’t get pissed off. I don’t get angry, excited, scared or melancholy.

  Yes, assassins have emotions. We’re not robots, but we are supposed to be the next best thing. Cool, dispassionate and unencumbered by ties to the world. At least that is the end goal of Freya’s vetting and training process.

  It doesn’t always work. I should know.

  With a grimace, I stop in front of a thin slice of river. The water gurgles and murmurs happily, completely immune to the blackness of the night, the creaking of the trees. If a branch falls across its preferred path, it only results in a small correction in the river’s flow. Likewise the rocks scattered here and there, or the one good-sized boulder sitting midstream.

  To water, none of that shit matters. It’s got one job: get to the sea. Nothing gets in the way of that goal.

  My eyes trace the shimmering brook until my heartbeat slows.

  The witch doesn’t matter. I won’t let her. Sticks and stones, minute diversions. Nothing more.

  Nothing.

  More.

  6

  It’s nice to finally be up and, if not running, walking pretty smoothly, and in my cutest kitten heels no less. Since I’m out and about, I’ve dressed more modernly, an A-line skirt in powder blue and a twin set in pale pink cashmere. The day is uncommonly warm for November, not to mention bright. Down in the harbor, the water is sparkling and the gulls are calling. All is right with the world.

  Or not.

  The assassin has summoned me. By text, no less.

  Come to the Life House. Ask for Tyler.

  I parked my Volvo several blocks over, enjoying what may be the last bit of good weather for who knows how long. The building in front of me cuts into the hillside, squat and square, like a grumpy gnome. It seems to be some sort of dormitory-style housing for homeless men. I frown. Tyr has to have enough money to afford the best hotel in town. Why he would stay here?

  The guy at the desk gets adorably tongue-tied when I
ask him where ‘Tyler’s’ room is. At least it would be adorable if I weren’t so nervous. I haven’t seen Tyr since that night in my bedroom. I still don’t know what to make of his behavior. Or mine. I haven’t reacted to a man with anything but disdain for longer than I care to admit. It sure wasn’t disdain making my stomach flutter when I touched him. And it hadn’t been disdain in the assassin’s eyes when he saw me lying on that bed. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was concern.

  That’s completely psycho, as Seph would say. His only concern was that I was still breathing.

  The front desk clerk finally manages to tell me Tyler’s is the last room on the left. I make my way down the corridor. The carpet is threadbare, but clean, the walls painted sometime in the last year or so. It’s serviceable, I suppose, but awfully dreary.

  I open the door, stepping inside as heavy steel swings shut behind me. It’s damp and warm and I can practically hear my hair start to frizz. I look around and frown.

  Surely he didn’t mean to direct me to the shower room. A shower room that has an open floor plan, no stalls, just showerheads lining one tiled wall.

  Only one is in use. My jaw drops.

  Well, at least I’ve found Tyr.

  Steam billows between us, light and grey, but obscuring nothing. Every beat of my heart echoes in my ears.

  I admit, I may have had a passing thought or two about what Tyr would look like naked. I can’t imagine there’s a woman who’s met him that hasn’t. There’s something about the man that gets under your skin, something irritating, yes.

  But also primal and just so . . . sexy.

  I expected he’d look good. I just didn’t expect this good.

  Water pounds over his head and down that powerful torso, his long black hair wet and snaking between his shoulder blades. It nearly touches the curve of his muscled ass as he leans back to soap his chest. His skin is deeply tanned, beaded with water and glistening in the light. Multiple scars crisscross the smooth deep gold—a pitted slice across the back of his thigh, three bullet wounds in a neat row scoring one shoulder, even a claw mark on that delectable ass. There are tattoos as well, but only one is clearly visible. It’s a griffin perched along his hip, claws digging into the ridge of muscle there, its wings curving up across his back. Everything about Tyr is carved and hard; there’s no softness anywhere. I mean that quite literally.