Solomon's Seal

by Skyla Dawn Cameron

  Handy.

  West stripped off his jacket, left it on the bed, and started toward the bathroom. “I checked in with Dawson on my way back—he said it looked pretty bad.”

  At least I was losing the “beauty queen” reputation.

  I eyed the white toolbox while he washed his hands. For all I knew, it contained explosives with which to blow up the hotel and me after he obtained the Seal. The hunk of brass itself was warm against my skin and he hadn’t glanced at the string holding it once—perhaps he didn’t notice.

  Or perhaps he more than noticed and was doing that thing some guys did by purposely not looking at my cleavage. Usually they thought it earned them brownie points by not being obvious.

  I finished another piece of bread in time for him to move the plate upon his return and sit next to me again but closer this time, knee angled toward me and brushing mine. Though he reached for my arm and I didn’t fight it when he grasped my wrist, hairs rose on the back of my neck; it was easy to look at his hands and see claws, the strength of a beast apparent in his every movement. Unlike some women, I don’t like my men dangerous and “about to rip my head off” was not a quality I looked for in anyone doing emergency surgery on my person. But while I held my breath and watched him closely, West didn’t seem to notice.

  He pulled out a bottle of saline water and a syringe. “It needs to be irrigated.”

  Oh, bloody hell. “Sure. Why not.”

  He was much more thorough washing out the wound with saline water than I’d been when cleaning it and I hissed, eyes squeezed shut with hot tears pushing against my lashes as it felt like he set me on fire.

  “This is going to hurt more if you flinch,” he warned as he removed the tools from the kit. “And I couldn’t get any lidocaine.”

  “Did you bring me something to drink?”

  West reached beside the bed and pulled up a bottle of...something.

  I couldn’t read the label but took it anyway, cracked open the lid, and breathed in. “Gin. You read my mind.” A sip revealed it wasn’t the best gin I’d had in my life but in a few moments I knew I wouldn’t care.

  The room was quiet but for the rattling of pipes as someone used the shower in the other suite. Occasionally the lights flickered but held for the most part; I was glad of it as the last thing I wanted was to be left in the dark with someone I thought might tear my throat out, especially while he was stitching my skin closed. The water in my damp hair dripped down my spine and I suppressed a shiver—poorly—as it worked over my skin. I avoided his eyes, looking longingly at the plate of remaining food that I couldn’t reach, and instead filled the void with alcohol.

  When the needle pierced my arm and pulled, I was glad I had the drink. Intense pain, perhaps worse than actually being shot, blasted up my arm. My eyes watered and I swallowed more gin, fire rolling down my throat to my belly. To my credit, I did not flinch, but I didn’t look either.

  “You haven’t asked about Mr. Rolph,” I said in a low voice and bit back a yelp as he tied the first stitch tight in the middle of the wound.

  Though I chanced a glance at West’s eyes at last, he didn’t meet my gaze but instead kept his focus on his work. “You haven’t asked about your brother.”

  Worry lodged a lump in my throat even if I thought it was unfounded. I took another pull of gin. “Is he safe?”

  “On a plane for home.” Several minutes more passed in silence, just liquidly sloshing around in the rapidly emptying bottle I cradled. With so little in my stomach, the alcohol was hitting quickly; soon remaining upright would be a challenge, so I tried to slow. When West finished the painstakingly long process of stitching to the ends of either wound, he bandaged me up again. “Did Damien go quickly?”

  Guilt throbbed hotly against my breastbone; I hadn’t even known his first name. “Yes. Drakones...”

  “Right.”

  Silence thickened. “He was a friend of yours.”

  The quiet seemed almost loud before he answered. “A colleague.”

  Which didn’t mean he wasn’t a friend. “I didn’t mean it as a question. He said he’s known you since you were fifteen.”

  “Oh.” West busied himself with putting things back in the kit.

  I was drunk so I pushed. “Since you defected. From North Korea.”

  He snapped the kit’s lid closed, the sound harsh and echoing. “Colleague and mentor, then.”

  That didn’t make any sense, in my opinion; Mr. Rolph didn’t seem at all involved with Ashford, nor did he seem the enforcer type, but I hadn’t a clue how to tactfully ask that and I’d probably run out of goodwill during this line of questioning, which was also why I didn’t ask about the labor camp. “Did he have a family?”

  West rose with the first aid kit and returned it to the bathroom, ignoring me. Warm air still wafted gently from the bathroom and I shivered again. It wasn’t until he left that I realized I’d started to relax somewhat in his presence without realizing it. I cradled my bandaged arm in my lap, dragging my fingertip over the comfortably snug gauze, then lifted the gin again and took a sip.

  “A wife,” he said at last as he sat again. “Though they separated last year.”

  Of course she would still likely mourn him, no matter the terms they were now on. Such a waste, all for the thing currently nestled between my breasts.

  “Their daughter died a few years back,” he continued without my prompting as he ran his thumb over the lock on the toolbox. “Neuroblastoma.”

  Hence the eventual split, of course. I tried and failed to quell the sick feeling in my gut. “How old was she?”

  “Five.”

  Jesus. I shook my head, put the lid on the gin bottle, and twisted my hands together as they threatened to tremble. Pain spiked up my right arm, dulled only a little by the alcohol and ibuprofen still in my system. “My daughter turned six last month. I can’t imagine. Will you have to deliver the news to his wife?”

  “Have to, no; choose to, yes.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  West said nothing but reached for me instead. I froze, my focus on his hand as it neared my throat. The tip of his finger slid under the string at my neck and plucked it up, drawing out the ring hanging from the bottom.

  Trust West, Damien Rolph had said.

  I couldn’t think of anything more dangerous, including tangling with full-sized drakon.

  He wrapped the string around his fingers and dragged his hand down until he grasped the ring. For a moment his gaze focused on the face of it with the symbols I didn’t understand and the tiny gems, then he wrenched the string in opposite directions, snapping it in half swiftly without so much as a tug on my neck. String drifted to the bedspread between us while he held the ring between his thumb and forefinger. The brass glinted in the low light, sparking yellow over his cool blue eyes.

  My hair was wet and heavy, hanging down my spine and probably dripping on the bed, and the fact that I sat in a towel was bleeding away any confidence, despite the gin. I crossed my arms over my stomach and waited with my eyebrow cocked in question. “We can’t still take the plane back, can we?”

  “They’ve likely reported the location to the local authorities in Addis Ababa, just to get back at you. Too risky. You’ll go through Bole Airport.”

  “Um...” I waited while he turned the ring over, studying it. “Did you retrieve my passport?”

  “I have another.” He barely lifted his chin to gesture over his shoulder and I followed the look—there was a crisp black knapsack propped against the wall, new and full of something.

  “That was quick.”

  “I guessed you might need it when Thomas said you’d been double crossed and it took about four hours to put together. There are also plane tickets and extra birr.”

  “Clothes?”

  His gaze dragged over me purposely. “Unfortunately, yes.”

  That was a relief, at least, and I was too tired to reprimand him for the sexual harassment. I grinned, plucked the bottle
from between my knees, and opened it once more to take a swig.

  He eyed the bottle as I drank. “You’re not going to have a lot of time to sleep off a hangover. Might want to slow down.”

  “Yeah, probably. You know, my grandma always said gin is a panty-dropper.”

  West cocked a brow suggestively.

  Damn it, do not flirt with the psycho! “I guess it’s good I’m not wearing any.”

  Bad Olivia.

  He didn’t take the bait, though, and I was grateful for it as I suspected he’d win this competition yet again. “I brought you a pack of those, too.”

  I bit back a comment about being in love, but I so desperately wanted fresh underwear, it was hard not to. “I lost my guns too.”

  “Didn’t bring you any of those.”

  “I really liked them. It was not cheap to get matching ones.”

  “Very sorry for your loss.”

  “How about a box to take the Seal home in?”

  West reached across me and plucked my left hand from my side, then slid the ring onto my middle finger. I held in a breath, waiting, but nothing happened.

  “Mr. Rolph”—I said the name without thinking and the memory of him descending into darkness was a sharp pinch in my head—“said it wasn’t a good idea to wear it.”

  “Just don’t try to use it and you’ll be fine.”

  I stared down at the ring. “Use it?”

  “You’ll be able to tell if you are.”

  The brass was warm yet unsettling, like it didn’t belong there and somehow knew it. He dropped my hand on my lap and popped open the toolbox. I glanced inside to see an assortment of glues, plastic boxes of items I couldn’t identify, and small tools.

  “Thomas,” plastic cracked as he opened one of the small boxes, “was quite the cat burglar before he worked for me. A big fan of the ‘in plain sight’ theory of moving pieces.” He retrieved a small round charm that was flat on one side; as he balanced it on the face of the Seal, I realized it was a mood ring part.

  “You’re going to turn this into tacky costume jewelry?”

  My answer was a faint grin and the retrieval of glue from the toolbox. “It doesn’t look like much more at the moment anyway. Not the finer tastes you’re used to, of course.”

  Had my hand not been otherwise engaged, I might’ve smacked him. “I haven’t experienced the finer things in a long while, thank you. Though I have a lovely macaroni noodle bracelet that is the prize of my current collection.”

  “Yes, your own ‘defection’ is quite the tale, as I understand it.” He ran two lines of glue on the ring face and pressed the piece on top, hand gripping mine and finger and thumb pressing the ring in place.

  “It wasn’t so much as a defection on my part as it was a banishment on my father’s.” A fact which I’d never quite forgiven myself for. I wanted to be the strong one—the one who stormed off, determined to carve her own way. But it didn’t happen like that and I’d never forget precisely how weak I was. Hell, even now, I wanted nothing more than my daddy to come and fix things, if I was being entirely honest with myself. Which I hated to do.

  I tried not to think about it and instead focused on West, attempting a weak grin. “You knew who I was at Kent House and who I was speaking to.”

  “And that your encounters with Oliver Talbot normally end up in the tabloids, yes.” He hadn’t released my hand yet, still pressing the ring pieces in place, and I looked away. “Not that I blame you, if all those rumors are true.”

  They were. Not the more scandalous ones, but the basics. “Dropped the bomb that I was knocked up, keeping the poor fatherless thing, and he could do nothing to sway me.” My voice went monotone despite the happy gin in my system, and I longed to pull my hand away and curl up in bed forever. No matter the almost seven years that had passed, nor how many times it was dredged up, it never grew any easier. I suspected it never would.

  I got pregnant at my own debutante ball, just before I turned eighteen. Blackout drunk like so many other nights, only this time I found out I’d gotten pregnant. It was bound to happen sometime to a party girl, but still hit me hard back then.

  When my dad found out, you’d think I had killed someone. “So Daddy said he was going to work for the rest of the day and if I wasn’t gone when he returned, he’d have me removed from my own home for trespassing.”

  “And this is prior to you using guns to solve your problems.”

  “Yes. Instead I wasted several hours crying in my room while listening to ‘Fake Plastic Trees’ on repeat, having quite the pity party, before my friend picked me up and I left with what I could carry. He got rid of everything else I owned. So no, things don’t exactly go well when I run into my daddy. And this must sound horribly trite compared to...” I shrugged and heat rushed to my cheeks. A labor camp, Liv. Probably akin to hell. “Well. Just about everything. Poor little rich girl.”

  “While its panty-dropping qualities are in question, the gin’s a tongue-loosener.”

  I chuckled. “There is that.”

  Seconds stretched on before he released me, gently dropping my hand back to my knee before pulling something else from the kit—a thin brass strip peeled off waxed paper, the underside tacky. This he wrapped around the ring, finishing it so it looked like the fake gem was set in it. “Back to the ring...”

  “Yes. Please.”

  His eyes met mine. “It’ll come apart with no damage—use nail polish remover.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  When he was done, I extended my arm and splayed my fingers. The low light caught the gaudy dark stone and despite it looking like a mood ring, nothing changed color. “That is...” Exhausted, giddy laughter rolled up my throat and past my lips—I couldn’t stop it, couldn’t choke it back, and all my bruises ached anew but I didn’t care.

  West shook his head. “That’s insulting.”

  I waved my hand and the ugly ring on it idly. “No, I’m just...” I sighed, dropped my hand again. “Tired.”

  “Your flight doesn’t depart until midnight tomorrow but it’s a five hour drive from here to Addis Ababa, and you need to be there early.”

  Midnight? “Am I losing a day, then? Ashford said if I was late, he’d deduct from my pay.”

  “Late leaving on his plane because that’s when his favors run out. You should be fine.”

  Should be. Right.

  “You can rest on the plane.”

  And I no doubt would. I gazed at the ring again. Delivery, paycheck, then I could go home. I was definitely taking a month off after this. And vetting future assignments a bit more closely. Or maybe I’d go back to being a waitress or something.

  The bed shifted as West slipped on his jacket and dragged the toolbox to his side. “I’m heading out right now—I won’t be there if you get in trouble again.”

  I looked up sharply, mouth open to snap, but found him grinning. “And are you sure Curtis and Tucker won’t be waiting for me? Since thus far they’ve been the ones to cause the problems, do I need to worry about them?”

  “No.” Silence.

  “I’m not even going to ask.”

  “That’s probably best.”

  I’ll bet. He likely meant they were about to be dead or dead already.

  And I wasn’t going to cry about it.

  West stood but didn’t leave, instead taking just a few steps and turning to lean against the wall four feet away opposite the bed.

  “So I suppose a, ‘See you later’ is out of the question?” I asked.

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. I thought we should go dancing.”

  When he didn’t laugh, I blinked. “I’m not going out with you.”

  “Since you’re so starved for partners—”

  I shook my head. “Not happening, West.”

  He eyed me. “It’s the tiger thing, isn’t it.”

  “It’s the bad man thing we prev
iously discussed.”

  “Well, I’ll see you when you give me the Seal then.”

  “When I what now?”

  The smile disappeared, seriousness pulling his lips straight, steady gaze locked on me. “You can’t give Ashford the ring.”

  “Um, he pays me. He pays you. How can I not give it to him?”

  “Take it home and wait for me to contact you.”

  Trust West. Mr. Rolph’s last words. I thrust the echo of them away, however, along with the chill wrapping around me. “What the hell is going on?”

  “You don’t need to know that—”

  “Don’t tell me what I need. I need to get the hell home to my kid and get my money and forget all about this—”

  He took a sharp breath and I recognized that expression—it was the one I used when counting to ten to avoid exploding at someone. “Just hold onto the ring until I pick it up. That’s it. This is important.”

  “If it’s so important, why don’t you take it now and be done with it?” I extended my arm in a dare, flashing the ring in his direction. Truthfully, I was so goddamn tired I might not have objected at all if he stole the stupid thing right then.

  “It’s not safe for me to take it and I have elsewhere to be right now. Just get out of the country with it, take it home, and I’ll come to you when I’m able.”

  “Um, you don’t think Ashford is going to want it the moment I step off the goddamn plane?”

  He shrugged. “Stall.”

  Stall. Right.

  My hands settled in my lap, I gave the Seal of Solomon another long look, liking it less and less the more I stared at it. “And I’m not supposed to say you were here.”

  “Right.”

  “And if I don’t help you double cross your boss?” I gazed up at him, hoping to catch some sort of reaction—something to tell me what I was dealing with. I understood West if he was a ruthless right hand willing to kill me to get what he wanted; I understood a man who threatened, who made it clear what side he was on.

  I didn’t understand this steady cool gaze, this expression that was guarded yet serious, this casual stance as he leaned against the wall, about as far removed from a deadly enforcer as could be.