He frowned. “I can’t do that.”
“Surely I must have misheard you.” The goddess slipped her long white fingernail under his chin, tipping his head up. “Are you refusing a direct order from your liege?”
“Interpret it any way you want,” he responded softly. “But I won’t abandon the hunt for the Judas coins.”
Lena’s gut knotted. The man had a death wish.
“Really?” The temperature of the cabin plummeted, fogging their breaths, and a drop of blood trickled down Brian’s throat to the collar of his beautiful sweater. “Why ever not?”
He didn’t flinch. Nor did he back down.
“Because I’m the first line of defense against an evil army, that’s why. Satan’s using the middle plane as a battlefield to launch a massive strike against God. If I don’t fight back, who the hell will? You may think the Judas coins don’t matter in the grand scheme of things, but every coin he gains sends my world further into chaos and hurts the people I’m committed to protecting.” He shifted her lethal nail away from his throat. “I won’t turn my back on the human race just because you order me to.”
Death stepped back. “A hero complex. How terribly unappealing.”
Brian relaxed back in his seat, a faint smile gracing his lips. “There’s actually no such thing as a hero complex.”
“You don’t really think such a foolish display of passion can sway me, do you?” Despite her sharp words, the goddess did not look angry. With one hand on her hip and the other relaxed at her side, she looked more like an icicle in the sunlight—bright, shiny, and melting. Apparently even a pitiless goddess warmed to a handsome face and a charming smile.
“No,” he said. “Nor was that the point.”
“Hmmm. Then what was the point?”
“A compromise,” he said firmly.
The goddess remained silent for a moment, and then she said, “My idea of a compromise and yours may not match, Gatherer.”
“Still, I—”
Death halted him with a raised hand. “The database will remain inaccessible to you and MacGregor, but I will permit you to seek out dark relics with the sole purpose of keeping them out of Satan’s possession.”
“You’re tying our hands by denying us the database.”
“No, I’m ensuring your loyalty remains true to me and no other.” The goddess wrinkled her nose. “The information will still be available to you on request.”
“If I have to consult you for every little detail, our progress will slow to a crawl.”
“That’s the nature of a hierarchy, I’m afraid.”
Brian looked as if he wanted to argue further, but after a moment, he nodded. “Okay. What about Lena here? You got any concerns with our plan to train her?”
For the first time, Death’s gaze slid to Lena, cool and assessing.
It was hard not to react to those pale blue eyes peering deep into her own. Death had never been enthused by Lena’s career as a thief, but so long as she did her gathers according to schedule, her extracurricular activities had been overlooked. Until now. Could the goddess sense her turmoil, or see the plan Lena had for absconding with the coins? Dear Lord, she hoped not.
“No,” Death said finally.
Lena let go of the breath she’d been holding. She had no idea what Gatherer training entailed, but if it kept her close to Brian and allowed her to locate the fourteenth coin, it would be very useful indeed.
“Then I guess we’re all good,” Brian said.
“I suppose we are.” Smiling, Death waved a hand and two milky-eyed ghouls appeared behind her, their bony stances both protective and subservient. “I’m looking forward to our chats. In the meantime, I’ve got a pressing engagement with an overweight, highly stressed aircraft captain.” She turned and, in a waft of cool scent, started up the aisle toward the cockpit, entourage in tow.
Lena stared at her departing figure. As the people around her slowly came back to life, a sinking feeling settled in her belly. “Does she mean... ?”
“Yup.” Brian shot her a reassuring smile. “Don’t sweat it. She loves to make a dramatic exit. We’re not going to crash. The first officer can land the plane.”
His explanation made perfect sense.
Still, Lena closed her eyes and crossed her fingers.
4
The massive door of the ooze-and-slime-coated castle creaked open at his back, and Malumos tracked every rafter-shaking step of Beelzebub’s three-toed feet across the wooden floor as the winged demon approached. Proper form dictated that he turn and greet his liege lord. Instead, he remained as he was, staring at Beelzebub’s fine collection of gladiator weapons on the wall. Safer to let Maleficus do the talking.
“My lord Beelzebub,” his brother said, greeting the castle owner.
“I trust you have good news.” The guttural words rumbled on the air, heavy with unspoken threat. Malumos could picture Beelzebub’s mighty green hand fisting at his side, knuckles white, wiry dark hairs standing out in relief. Patience was not one of the demon’s virtues.
Malumos glanced down at his own hands, admiring the midnight blue smoke that leached from his white skin. Here in hell, he returned to his natural gauzy form—a minimalist humanoid shape formed only by the strength of his will.
“As promised,” Maleficus said, “the female Gatherer retrieved the thirteen coins.”
“Where are they now?”
A very good question. How would his brother respond?
“Does it matter? She will deliver them in twelve days. That was the agreement.”
“It matters,” Beelzebub snapped, “because she’s trying to cheat us.”
“That’s very unlikely—”
“She has allied herself with other Gatherers. At this very moment, she sits among them on an airplane, freely sharing all that she knows.”
“No.” This husky denial from Mestitio, Malumos’s youngest brother. “She would not. She knows the price.”
“Then I suggest you make her pay. My information is impeccable.”
“My lord, Ms. Sharpe is a rather difficult—”
A strangled cry from Maleficus suggested Beelzebub had tired of diplomacy and his anger had slipped the bounds of control. It would be unwise to taunt the demon lord past the edge of reason.
Malumos pivoted to face the room.
Beelzebub’s hand was wrapped around Maleficus’s throat, his chipped and cracked talons pricking smoky blue flesh. The demon lord’s gargantuan green body, draped in a black canvas tunic, shimmered with hot waves of barely contained power. Bloodless accurately described Maleficus’s pale face as he dangled a foot off the floor. Mestitio seethed in a spot next to the fireplace, his red eyes fierce amid swaths of wispy blue hair. A feral creature whose killing abilities far outweighed his intelligence, Mestitio was difficult to control. Only his loyalty to Malumos held him back.
“I want those coins now,” Beelzebub snarled. “Fetch them.”
“My lord,” said Malumos calmly. His deferential tone was made possible by the knowledge that if all went according to plan the great demon’s downfall was only days away. “If it pleases you, we’ll attack with full force and retrieve the coins. But be forewarned: Since we cannot enter the bodies of the soulless or the devout, the battle will be waged with innocent humans.” He paused with purpose. “Such deaths will surely incur God’s wrath.”
And God’s wrath most often took the form of angels.
The demon lord released Maleficus. “Use as many humans as you like. Satan isn’t ready to show the entirety of his hand, but the Covenant will not hem us in much longer. Dally too long among the Gatherers, however, and you may find yourself facing the righteous fury of a troop of archangels. Even your trinary powers will prove no match for that.”
Not yet, perhaps. But soon. Malumos smiled and offered a faint bow. His corporeal form was already dissolving into blue-black haze when Beelzebub called out a reminder.
“Just be sure to bring back all fourteen
coins.”
Their eyes met and Malumos relived the sting of his failure.
“Of course,” he said softly. Then he and his brothers departed.
Emily lay in bed, staring up at the dancing pattern of moonlight on her ceiling, a ghostly reflection from the backyard pool. The clock on the nightstand glared 2:17.
She’d been roused from her dreams by an increasingly familiar touch to her thoughts. A coil of dark, seething anger, not her own. It hovered in the ether—somewhere between the middle and lower planes—threatening to lash out and destroy everything within reach. Each time it found a conduit into her thoughts, goose bumps lifted the hairs on her arms. She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she could make the angry presence go away.
But wishing wouldn’t change anything.
The two of them were bonded. Linked across time and space. She wasn’t sure how she knew that, but she did. Her role as the Trinity Soul meant the barriers between the planes were practically nonexistent. Easy to breach, easy to eavesdrop on, impossible to silence.
The scary part was that the bubbling anger grew more intense by the day, and her newly discovered ability to soothe the emotions of those around her had no power to tame it. Her stepdad, Lachlan, would blame that on a lack of self-discipline, but she wasn’t so sure. Yeah, she had trouble focusing her mystical skills, but this was different. The fury and bitterness she was sensing seemed directed at her.
But that was crazy.
What had she done to incite such a burning, all-consuming rage? Emily pulled the covers over her head, shutting out the laughing sprites of moonlight on the ceiling. She had nothing to feel guilty about. Nothing.
Okay. So she’d lied to everyone about where she’d found Carlos’s soul the day she’d resurrected him. It hadn’t actually been in limbo, waiting for Satan to claim it. So what? He hadn’t deserved to be punished that way. He hadn’t even had a decent chance to earn his way into heaven. All she’d done was fetch a very worthy soul back from the depths of hell.
How could anyone fault her for that?
The taxi stopped before a bungalow in predawn suburbia. Tall birds-of-paradise and mounds of orange poppies lined the walkway, the grass was neatly trimmed, and a wrought-iron fence enclosed the backyard. The house lacked the loving upgrades of the homes around it, but still fit perfectly in the family-oriented community.
“You actually live here?” Brian asked Lena, after he paid off the cabbie. “Why?”
“I like having neighbors.” Wrapping both hands around the leather side handle, she hefted the steamer trunk and waddled past the Dodge Neon in the driveway. “Mr. Cooper next door mows my lawn when I’m away, and my friend Nancy regularly drops by with a homemade casserole. That woman can perform miracles with chicken.”
“But neighbors spy on you.” Her struggle got the better of him. He wrestled the trunk out of her hands, trading it for his little wheeled carry-on. Their fingers brushed during the exchange, and his navy V-neck sweater suddenly felt much too warm. “They tend to notice when you arrive home in the middle of the night.”
“I’m perfectly capable of carrying my own suitcase.”
“This isn’t a suitcase—it’s a warehouse. Skip the feminist bullshit and unlock the door.”
Her lips tightened. “It’s not heavy, just awkward.”
True, and the realization that he was being unnecessarily chivalrous bugged him. But not enough for him to give in. “Just open the damned door.”
Wisely, she didn’t argue further, just rolled his suitcase up the walkway, dug into her purse, and stabbed her key into the lock. Pushing open the black colonial-style door, she paused to pick up a pile of mail on the floor, then waved him into the shaded interior. “My neighbors don’t question my comings and goings. They think I’m an antiques dealer.”
“And how does that explain your middle-of-the-night excursions?” he asked, glancing around the porch for any packages before he entered. Just in case.
“I told them collections often become available when someone dies, and the first one on the scene wins.”
“They bought that?” He put the trunk down, flicked on a light, and took stock. Nice, if you liked overstuffed, flowery furniture and pewter picture frames. His gaze returned to Lena.
“Yes.”
“Huh.” Hard to imagine her at a block party, chatting up the neighbors and sipping on a glass of chardonnay. “Is that how you plan your heists? By scanning the obits?”
A pinched look came and went on her face, and she stared out the curtain-framed picture window at the joyless white house across the street. “The turmoil surrounding a death can be advantageous, but my interest lies in ancient artifacts, not the contents of your average person’s attic.”
“So you’re saying you do more research than that?”
“Yes.” Her gaze, now flat and empty, met his. “How long will you be here?”
Her emotional response to a discussion about death surprised him, given their roles in the process. Either her facade was crumbling, or his own masking skills gave him a unique ability to spot the cracks. “I’m not leaving until I get the coins.”
“That will be hours yet.”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m here for the duration.”
“Breakfast for two, then.” She tossed the mail on the hall table and dropped her leather purse to the hardwood floor with a thump. “You like oatmeal?”
He followed her into the tiny L-shaped kitchen. Eyeing the pristine white countertops and lack of obvious cookware, he asked, “Are we talking the just-add-water variety?”
“Yes.”
“Then no, thanks.” He opened the fridge and peered inside. Bottles of condiments, a jug of milk, and a pair of shriveled lemons growing a layer of green fuzz. Not a surprise, more a disappointment. He couldn’t cook, either. Would’ve been nice if one of them could. “Maybe we could pretend it’s a couple of hours earlier and order Chinese.”
“Or maybe you should give up and go on to San Jose, like your friends did.”
That made him smile. He looked at her over the door. “Fat chance, sweetheart. It’s you and me until the FedEx guy gets here.”
She glanced away.
Christ, was that a blush?
“We could always skip the food,” he offered softly, closing the fridge, “and just talk. I could babble endlessly about the combat training you’ll receive at the ranch, or regale you with the impressive list of sword masters MacGregor studied under.”
Her eyes met his. “You’re not interested in talking.”
“Nope, I’m not.” He bridged the gap between them in one decisive step. Giving in to temptation, he brushed a knuckle over her flushed cheek. Surprisingly soft for such an unyielding woman. The urge to slide his fingers around to the nape of her neck and dig into her hair nearly got the better of him. “But neither are you.”
She batted his hand aside. “I’m not having sex with you just to pass the time.”
“If all I wanted was to pass the time, I’d watch TV. Less sweaty.”
Her color deepened.
Was she imagining the two of them naked and sweaty? He was. With absolutely no effort at all. “Besides, I like to think the women I make love to get more out of the experience than watching the minute hand move around the clock.”
His response tugged a reluctant smile to her lips. “Have you done a survey?”
“No point. Sample’s too small for a valid result.”
That seemed to surprise her. A faint frown creased her brow, then vanished. She opened her mouth to say something, then closed it. In the end, she pivoted and opened the cupboard door behind her. “I can make pancakes.”
He was still seeing her naked in his arms, crushed up against the door, moaning under the assault of his lips. Which was bad. Very bad. He had yet to meet his self-imposed conditions for having sex. Now was not the time to make his life complicated.
“Pancakes would be fine.”
She grabbed the box of mix and bent ove
r to rattle about in another cupboard for a frying pan.
Brian closed his eyes to the sight of her perfectly rounded ass. Be nice if his dick were a willing participant in the program, though. ’Cause all Lena had to do to turn him on was breathe.
Why was that? He’d met plenty of attractive women over the years, including MacGregor’s lovely wife, Rachel, and none of them had given him more than a momentary pang of lust, easily tamed. Ignoring Lena was proving much more difficult. Downright impossible, actually. Even now, with zero visual support, her subtle perfume baited him—an exotic blend of sweet and spicy that slipped under his skin and left him feeling edgy and eager for ...
“Blueberries?”
He opened his eyes. “What?”
She was cooking over the stove, watching him. “Do you want frozen blueberries in your pancakes?”
No, he didn’t want blueberries. And he didn’t want pancakes. The worst part was, he was pretty sure what he really wanted was written all over his face. But he lied anyway. “Sure, love some.”
He held up a wall on the opposite side of the kitchen while she set the round oak table and served the pancakes. Something had changed since the flight from Paris. The three little lines between her brows had vanished, and the stiff bearing of her shoulders had eased. It took him a moment to figure out why: She was home. Even with him under her roof, she’d relaxed just a bit because of the familiar surroundings.
He was envious. Didn’t matter where he went, he never felt comfortable dropping his guard. Brian folded his arms over his chest. It probably wasn’t a good idea if she relaxed around him. God knew where that might lead.
“You obviously live alone,” he said. “Do you have a regular fuck buddy?”
“A what?”
Shock didn’t begin to describe the look on Lena’s face. Her beautiful brown eyes widened to twice their normal size. Brian had to bite back a smile. “You know ... someone who does you when you need it, no strings attached.”
“Who does me?”
The pan in her hands slipped to a precarious angle and he dove for it, snatching it up before any hot batter spilled onto her feet. He placed the pan back on the stove and turned off the burner, which still glowed red.
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