Bailey read the answer in his silence. “Why don’t you stay home? Better yet, take a vacation. Get laid, for God’s sake. In fact, get laid a lot, and get drunk too. A lot. It would improve your disposition exponentially.”
“Fuck off,” he said.
“You fuck off.”
He slammed both hands on his desk. “I’m not having a discussion with you about this. I’ve taken the job. I’m going. Deal with it and shut up.”
He might not be interested in astonishing adventure, but he still had to keep moving, had to keep working. He couldn’t give in to what was happening to him. If he gave in to it, it might kill him. Hell, it would probably kill him anyway.
On his last job, the tribal chieftain had died during the course of the struggle to gain control of the shrunken head, but not before he had used the head to utter one last curse against Sebastian.
According to Carling, the magic that had been unleashed had been precise and specific. The only way to free Sebastian from what was happening to him was if the chieftain who had cast the original spell used the shrunken head to lift the curse.
And that was impossible, because the bastard was dead. He glared at the shrunken head on his desk, currently being used as a paperweight, which was just about all it was good for, since neither he nor any of his company would ever use it to throw a curse.
He couldn’t get rid of it. He needed it in case they found a way to break the curse without the chieftain’s help. But as soon as he could, he was going to have it destroyed so nobody could use it again, and the poor, long dead bastard it belonged to would get some kind of final burial at last.
Bailey declared, “Well, if you’re going on this job, I am too.”
She knew as well as he did that they would make a lot more money if they each headed a crew and took separate assignments. Bailey was the very definition of mercenary, so if she volunteered to make less money and come along on the same job with him, it meant she was concerned. She wanted to watch his back, and that irritated him to no end.
He snapped, “I don’t give a shit what you do.”
“Keep it that way, asshole,” she told him.
It was their little way of expressing affection for each other. He and Bailey had worked together for a very long time.
And the job remained just as he thought it would, mind numbingly routine.
Right up to the moment a human witch—a librarian—appeared in a whirlwind of Power and called a Djinn a dimwit.
Witnessing that little scene was like having a switch thrown in his head. Just like that, after five years of a dangerous, growing ennui, he came back online, sharper and clearer than he had ever been. Engaged again. Interested.
Perhaps even amused, although he wasn’t at all sure about that. After all, he had been stalled in a strange, restless kind of boredom for a long time.
Standing in the early afternoon Miami sunshine, he watched as the last of the group boarded the plane. Only then did he step inside himself. Leaving the crew to close and seal the plane door, he walked into the cabin.
The Boeing could seat up to eighteen people, so their crew had plenty of room to spread out. There were two couches set on either side of the cabin. Wide, comfortable chairs, all covered in elegant pale leather, were positioned in sets of four around tables. At the back of the plane, a complete, high-end galley could produce gourmet meals on long trips.
As soon as they were airborne and the plane had leveled out, everyone would be served their choice of filet mignon or grilled Dover sole, a fresh salad of mixed melon balls, balsamic braised asparagus, French rolls, and either chocolate mousse or a cheese plate with coffee for dessert.
When Carling had suggested the menu as a gesture of appreciation for their send-off, Sebastian hadn’t objected. Soon enough the team would be eating rations that they carried in, fish that they caught and any vegetation they could harvest from the land.
The Djinn had chosen a seat at the back of the plane, and everyone else had given her as wide a berth as they could in such limited space.
As instructed, Olivia sat alone at the first table, opposite his laptop and files. He had studied her, at least as much as he was capable of, earlier in the conference room. Up close, he could take in all the details that he could no longer discern at a distance.
The sunshine slanting into the window brought out deep auburn glints in the chestnut-colored hair that lay in a sleek cap against her well-shaped head. While her blue T-shirt was plain, it fit snugly against her feminine figure, and the color was flattering to her pale, lightly freckled skin. She had intelligent gray eyes and a sensitive face, with shifts in expression that were subtle and nuanced. He could easily separate her feminine scent from the mélange of all the other scents in the cabin, and he found it delicious.
That reaction she’d had earlier—it had been an involuntary response. Her heart had pounded. He had seen the tiny flutter of pulse at her carotid artery. He was not sure what had prompted her reaction, and he found himself intrigued, even though she could have merely been surprised.
At the moment she looked calm, which he found irritating. She cradled a smartphone in small, capable-looking hands. At first he thought she was texting someone, but then he caught a glimpse of bright fruit exploding on the screen.
She played Fruit Ninja.
So much for his powers of intimidation. He refused to smile.
He had set his laptop and files in the seat that faced toward the back of the plane, so that he could assess various members of the group during the flight. Now he slid into his seat and buckled his seat belt.
She looked up quickly, switched off her phone and tucked it into a pocket, then buckled herself in too. Although her expression turned expectant, he didn’t speak right away. The plane taxied onto a runway and prepared to take off. Another headache flared at the back of his eyes. He closed them, enduring the high, escalating whine of the plane and the thrust from the engines that sent them hurtling down the runway and pushing into the sky.
When he opened his eyes again, Olivia had turned her attention to the passing scenery outside the plane window. A frown had etched itself onto the delicate skin between her sleek brows. Now, instead of looking calm and composed, she appeared unsettled. Perhaps his prolonged silence bothered her.
He said to her telepathically, I want some assurance that you and the Djinn are not going to cause me any problems on this trip. Convince me of that.
Chapter Three
Olivia’s attention snapped back to him, her eyes flaring with astonishment.
She said, Excuse me?
The headaches made him terse. He wanted to snap at everything and everyone in sight. Through an exercise in self-discipline, he managed to keep himself from biting her head off. I want some assurance that you and the Djinn are not going to cause me any problems on this trip. You need to convince me of that.
She raised her eyebrows, her expression turning cold. Or what?
He raised his eyebrows as well, mirroring her expression. Or I will get rid of both of you and tell Carling that I need replacements.
Her astonishment turned to anger. My resume and recommendations speak for themselves. And why on earth would you presume that I could possibly predict what Phaedra may or may not choose to do?
He crossed his arms and rested his aching head against the back of his seat. Clearly you two know each other.
Not that well, she said grimly.
I find that hard to believe, he said. You were certainly close enough for her to transport you to the meeting, and for you to call her a dimwit and tell her not to make an ass of herself.
Just like that, her quick anger faded to what seemed to be a mixture of embarrassment and exasperation. She heaved a sigh and pinched the bridge of her slender nose. She made me angry, and it just fell out of my mouth.
So the auburn glints in that sleek chestnut hair of hers indicated a temper. All right, perhaps now he was amused. Somewhat.
He said, his menta
l voice dry, Do you often get angry at Djinn and tell them off without fear of repercussion?
No, she told him emphatically. In fact, I met Phaedra for the first time this week. Her father is in a relationship with a good friend of mine. Because of that connection, I’ve become one of Phaedra’s associates by default. She wasn’t supposed to transport me. I was going to take a taxi to the meeting. She did it to be irritating. Her expression turned wry. I’m pretty sure she won’t zap me for calling her a dimwit. Grace would have something to say to Khalil about that. In spite of any possible evidence to the contrary, I think Phaedra cares what her father thinks.
Various pieces of information fell into place. Grace Andreas was the Oracle, a position that came with an inherited Power, which was passed down from an ancient line of humans that could be traced all the way back to the Oracle of Delphi. The young Oracle’s reputation was growing at a rapid pace. Recently she had become affiliated with Carling and Rune’s consulting agency.
In fact, Carling had suggested that he petition the Oracle about the problem of his curse, but he had been too disheartened by their conversation to follow through with her advice.
He didn’t see how a prophecy from the Oracle could help him. The Oracle could only tell him what he already knew, that he would become totally blind within the next twelve months if he didn’t find some way to stop what was happening to him. He had sent a dozen teams into various parts of the world to try to find ways to break the goddamned curse, which, according to Carling, was a massively expensive, futile effort. But he could no longer leave any avenue unexplored, so he needed to consult with the Oracle as soon as he finished this latest expedition.
He set his own issues aside for the time being to consider what else he knew that was relevant to the success of this expedition. Djinn rarely became intimately involved with anyone outside their own race, and Grace’s relationship with the Djinn Khalil of the House Marid had become famous.
And Sebastian had heard a thing or two about Khalil’s daughter.
He frowned. I do not understand what made Carling bargain away a favor for help from a Djinn who is reputed to be a pariah.
Olivia’s gaze fell. She appeared to concentrate on running a forefinger precisely along the edge of the table. His attention sharpened on the movement. Her fingernails were trimmed short, the nail bed of her forefinger a healthy pink.
He thought of her doing the exact same gesture, only this time running her finger down his bare skin. The skin along his back prickled lightly with goose bumps, and his breathing deepened.
He set his reaction aside and focused on what was relevant. You know something about the bargain.
She shook her head. It’s not my place to say anything. Anyway, it isn’t any of our business.
Everything to do with this expedition is my business, he told her. You might as well tell me. Otherwise, I’ll call Carling and ask her about it. She’ll tell me everything I want to know, so don’t waste my time.
Her gaze lifted again, and the exasperation was back, only this time it was directed at him. All right, maybe he smiled at that. Just a little.
Carling didn’t bargain away a favor for Phaedra’s help, she said. Khalil bargained away a favor to Carling to give Phaedra a job.
Well, he hadn’t seen that one coming. He let his head sag back against the seat rest as he muttered, “Fuck.”
Hey, Olivia said. She leaned forward, looking earnest. Give her a chance. I know she’s not very likeable, and she certainly isn’t housebroken. But Grace and Khalil have invested a lot in her rehabilitation, and Carling would never have agreed to the bargain if she thought Phaedra wouldn’t hold up her end of things. Plus, she backed down when you confronted her. She’s here on the plane, isn’t she? That’s because she made a promise to her father, and keeping her word matters to her. She’s not a pariah. She’ll do her job.
He regarded her steadily, unconvinced. He was more than halfway inclined to boot Phaedra off the team and insist that Carling bargain for another Djinn to guard the passageway while they worked.
Then, suddenly curious, he asked, Why does this matter so much to you? You certainly don’t sound as if you like her much, yourself.
She ran her fingers through her hair, clearly at a loss as to what to say. As he waited without prompting her, his gaze traveled down the angle of her neck, along the graceful arch of her collarbones, and farther down to the hint of cleavage at the scooped neckline of her shirt.
Something about her moved him. He could not figure out what it was. He’d always enjoyed women, and he had lost count of how many lovers he had taken by the time he was forty. Now he was over two hundred years old, and his species of Wyr did not live much past two hundred and fifty.
She was just another woman, like countless others. He knew without having ever seen them that her breasts would be charming, with either pink nipples or brown, and the indentation of her waist would fit perfectly underneath his hands. The skin at the back of her knees would taste delicate against his tongue, and her private flesh would be sumptuous, delightful.
None of that was surprising, and certainly none of it was original.
Perhaps what moved him was the composition of her curvaceous body against the straight architecture of the seat, or the contrast of how her pale skin looked dappled in shadow and the slanted sunlight from the nearby window. Or perhaps it was something different altogether, a secret of the spirit encased in her flesh. Or even her struggle to provide a thoughtful reply to his question. Perhaps it was simply her intelligence.
Then she dropped her hands from her hair and folded them on the table. Something coalesced in her, a decision or an understanding. She looked in the direction of his eyes, hidden behind his sunglasses. With her expression quiet and composed, she said, Because she loves a couple of vulnerable human children. And because if I were deemed a lost cause, as she has been, I would want someone to fight for me.
That was it, he thought. Whatever that was, encapsulated in the moment of decision and framed by her words.
That was what caught at him and held his interest, that intangible, ineffable thing.
During their telepathic conversation, the plane had finished its climb in altitude. The delicious smell of cooked food wafted from the galley. Sebastian unbuckled his seat belt and stood briefly to get everyone’s attention.
He said, “We’re going to eat lunch now, and after everybody has finished their meal, we’ll have our meeting. We’ll be busy when we hit the tarmac at SFO, so think of what questions you would like to ask now.”
Olivia peered around the corner of her seat at the others while he spoke. She did not see much friendliness in the expressions of those that glanced at her. Between arriving in the midst of a very Djinn-like flourish, mouthing off more than once and now sitting with the expedition leader, it appeared that she had managed to alienate herself from just about everybody in the group.
Dendera spoke up. She had a light, sandy voice. “I want to meet with the other symbologists too.”
Sebastian nodded. “We’ll have time for that.”
As Sebastian slid back into his seat, the flight attendant wheeled out a cart laden with their lunches. Olivia had chosen the Dover sole, while Sebastian had chosen both the sole and the filet. Apparently he was finished with their conversation, for he turned on his laptop and worked in silence while he ate.
She didn’t mind. A little of his forceful presence went a long way. Even with the mental distance he set up between them, she was excruciatingly aware of every move he made, from his quick, decisive bites of food to the rapid typing on his keyboard. Once he shifted in his seat, and his jeans-clad calf brushed against hers. She felt as if he had stroked her naked leg with the palm of his hand. She shivered in reaction, and he seemed to pause what he was doing.
Of course that might have been totally in her imagination. He might have merely paused to read something on his laptop screen.
The fabulous meal was served with either a
cabernet sauvignon or pinot grigio, and she was not a dainty eater. She chose the white wine and consumed with enthusiasm everything that was put in front of her, down to the crusty French roll, which she smothered with the pat of organic butter.
Dessert was as delicious as the main meal had been, the chocolate mousse light, intensely rich and melting against her tongue, topped with a dollop of freshly whipped cream. The dark sweetness of the mousse was complemented perfectly by the bold taste of the French roast coffee.
After polishing off his steak and fish, Sebastian had chosen the cheese plate for dessert, not the sweet, and as she watched him eat out of the corner of her eye, she felt pretty certain that he was some kind of predator Wyr.
He never removed his sunglasses, not even to eat. She wondered why. He didn’t exactly have a warm and approachable personality. Was it to keep a barrier between himself and others?
The atmosphere in the cabin had lightened with the wine and the excellent meal, and voices rose companionably. She smiled to herself as she listened. Their temporary employer had chosen a wise way to break the ice. The only person who had not appreciated lunch was Phaedra. When Olivia checked on the Djinn, she saw that Phaedra had slipped on a set of headphones and sat with her eyes closed.
Sebastian stood as soon as the attendant had cleared away their empty dessert dishes. He said without preamble, “Here are the next steps. The rest of my security team has already assembled in San Francisco. They have been collecting all the supplies and equipment that we will need, and they will remain on watch on the yacht while we cross over.”
“With time slippage, that could be a long spell for them,” Dendera said.
“They’ll follow a rotation for shore leave, and the yacht will dock periodically for fuel and supplies,” Sebastian replied. “Meanwhile Phaedra will guard the crossover passageway itself. When we land, we will go directly to the yacht and spend the night on board. First thing in the morning we will make our first crossing. Because only eight of us are allowed to cross over, we’ll have to make the trip several times with supplies. The same thing will be true when we transport the contents of the library.”
The Wicked (A Novella of the Elder Races) Page 3