Touch If You Dare

by Stephanie Rowe

  “Eagle Vista.” Jarvis headed in that direction, vaulting easily over a crumbling stone wall at least ten feet high. How many times had he struggled to climb that thing when he was a kid? And now, after being ruthlessly mutated, he could jump it easily. What a man he’d become. Pa would be proud.

  Jarvis burst out of the woods and saw his brother. Cam was sitting in the water, arms draped loosely over his knees. Fish were jumping into the air in front of him, and a dove was perched on his bare shoulder. His hair was long and shaggy, mud was caked on his back, and his beer belly hung over the waistband of his jeans. He’d gone to hell, but he was alive. “Cam!”

  His brother didn’t turn.

  “He’s talking to someone,” Jarvis said. “Can’t see who it is.”

  Jarvis shaded his eyes as he jogged toward his brother. With the sun setting behind Cam, he hadn’t seen the other person at first (raise your hand if you think it’s a bad sign that he’d failed to notice an entire person), but now he could see the dark silhouette of a man standing in front of his brother. The broad shoulders, the tuxedo, the dark hair… “It’s Death.” Jarvis unsheathed his sword. “Hey!” he shouted. “Get away from my brother!”

  Death turned sharply toward them, then he held up his palm. A stream of black dust exploded toward them.

  “Oh, shit.” Jarvis raised his sword to block the particles, but they parted around the blade. They smacked Jarvis in the chest and flung him backward. He landed hard on his back, and icy coldness crushed down on him, sucking the air out of his lungs, the strength out of his body.

  Blaine was down beside him, utterly still. Face gray.

  Jarvis fought to breathe as Death helped Cam to his feet. The death dust had put him a thread from the cold permanence of eternal night.

  Jarvis pictured Angelica: her blonde hair, oversized rack, her hourglass figure, and the cold ruthlessness of her eyes. The red hot emotion of hate ripped aside the cold grip of death, surging fire into his muscles and life into his body. He lunged to his feet and hurled his sword at Death.

  “Oh, please. You bore me.” Death flicked his hand in Jarvis’s direction, and the sword screeched to a halt in midair, then turned and slammed itself right into Jarvis’s gut.

  “Jesus.” He sank to his knees and yanked the sword out, gasping as the poison from the blade raced through his body. Hello? Rule No. 1 of Battle Skills for Beginners: Never get your own weapon turned on you. Had he learned nothing in the Den over the last one hundred and fifty years? The fact that Death was predisposed to never lose a showdown was no excuse.

  Blaine stirred beside him and groaned. Fire began to lick at Blaine’s chest as he fought back from the precipice as well.

  Jarvis fumbled for his sword, fighting to get his numb fingers to function as Death led the Guardian of Love toward a cluster of pine trees. Jarvis palmed the donut-hole in his gut as he struggled to his knees. “Cam,” Jarvis croaked. “Don’t go with him.”

  Cam turned his head toward Jarvis. Gone was the child-like awe of his own magnificence, the impish smile of irresponsible troublemaking, and the irrepressible joy of self-adulation. In its place was a haunting emptiness. Sunken cheeks. Hopelessness.

  Holy hell. Love was dying. If Cameron died, he would take love with him, and that was just not a good thing for his brother, for the Guardian of Hate, or for the world in general. “Cameron Swain, get your ass over here right now—”

  His brother dissolved into millions of black particles and was gone. Taken by Death, who was the one being in existence Jarvis had no chance of defeating or even subverting.

  “Mother of hell,” Blaine groaned. “You’re screwed. You’ll never get him back from Death.”

  “No, I won’t.” Jarvis couldn’t help the stupid-ass grin of anticipation as he gripped the wound in his belly. The surge of interest at the twist that had just been thrown at him. “But there’s one woman who could work a little deal with that scythe-bearer.”

  Blaine raised his brows, a sudden knowing look on his face. “Dude, you didn’t need to get your brother kidnapped by Death to have a reason to talk to Reina. We could have just done a double date.”

  “Fuck off.” Jarvis shoved himself to his feet, stumbling as the poison raced through him. “I don’t want to date her. I just want her help.”

  Blaine sat up and rested his arms on his knees, trying to regain his strength. “Got news for you, buddy. Reina’s dealing with some serious personal shit, and she doesn’t like you. There’s no way she’s going to help you.”

  “She has no choice.” Jarvis sheathed his sword.

  “That woman always has a choice.”

  Jarvis grinned, thinking again about that moment when he’d had her underneath him. When he’d sweettalked her into seeing his side. “Not when it comes to me.”

  ***

  Reina raced up the marble steps to the Castle of Extreme Opulence, praying she was sliding in before the “Fired: Do Not Admit” tattoo showed up on her forehead.

  She flung open the front door, and a quick inspection of the ornate, three-story, twin staircase foyer revealed that the Death wasn’t present. Dammit. She needed to find him before—

  Linneah Nogueira, Death’s willowy executive VP and HoneyPot Queen, threw open the French doors and strode into the reception area. “Reina? I thought you’d been fired.”

  Oh, crap. Reina faked a relaxed, slightly confused expression even as her heart began to thud. She couldn’t let Linneah stop her. She had to get to Death. She had to. “Good morning, Linneah. It’s nice to see you.” Reina sauntered oh-so-casually toward the long hallway that led toward the executive office suites known as the Hallows. “Did he really say he’d fired me? He’s such a tease. Is he in? I owe him an espresso.”

  Linneah’s lovely smile didn’t falter, but she began walking toward Reina. “I’m so sorry, my dear, but I can’t let you go back into the Hallows. I shall be happy to escort you outside—”

  Plan B: Run.

  Reina bolted across the lobby toward the offices. She hip checked the doors open, then hit the panic button just inside the hall. The doors slammed shut behind her, and she heard the rumble of the black magic locks that Death’s grandma, Angelica, had installed. It had been a gift on Death’s hundredth birthday after some local devil worshippers had thought it would be a lark to see if they could steal a pair of Death’s underwear for their team unity bonfire.

  Apparently, a man’s skivvies were one of those things a grandmother considered sacred, because Angelica had put protecting her grandson’s banana hammocks on top priority. Next time a tighty-whitey thief tried to co-opt Death’s silk unmentionables, they’d find themselves trapped in the Hallows with no way out.

  Or, in an entirely foreseen adaptation of a brilliant technology, the leader of the HoneyPots would find herself trapped outside the Hallows with no way in, while a certain ex-Guide made a break for her boss’s office.

  There was a thud as Linneah crashed into the door, and a muttered curse, but Reina didn’t slow down. Linneah would have the HoneyPots on her within seconds.

  Reina ran past her office. Her twenty-four-carat white gold nameplate with embossed emeralds was no longer on her door. He’d already removed all signs of her existence? She stumbled, her legs suddenly clumsy as fear gripped her. I’m so sorry, Natalie. I swear I will fix this.

  The air suddenly reverberated with Linneah’s shrill “calling all sheepdogs” whistle, and then there was the clatter of spiked heels pounding the marble as HoneyPots abandoned their tasks and went into hunting mode. There had to be at least a dozen pairs coming after her.

  The women Death hired to service him in assorted ways might be talented at sexual favors, but he’d also trained them well in the protection of his castle. Women in general could be ruthless, but these particular ones? Let’s just say that getting caught by women defending the man who was their link to money, power, and orgasms wasn’t a particularly fantastic way to spend the afternoon.

  Reina glan
ced at her watch as she skidded around a corner. Two minutes past eleven. At least she was getting her timing right. Death always sucked down his quadruple espresso at eleven o’clock, and guess who was the only one who could get his temperamental machine to work?

  That’s right. Say hello to the caffeine goddess.

  The massive Brazilian pine doors of her boss’s office were shut, and Death’s vehement epithets were easily audible through the wood. Sweet! He was entering caffeine withdrawal, and she was the only one who could provide relief. Leveraging his caffeine addiction into a second chance was her only hope.

  It had to work.

  She jammed her fingers into the Swarovski crystal globe that locked and unlocked the doors in the Hallows. The moment her hand was inside, lavender mist began swirling, but there was no Open Sesame. “Hey, sweetie.” She leaned closer to the pale purple fog and wiggled her hand. “I’ve been bringing you M&Ms every day for the last nine years. Just open the door, okay? One more time—”

  Sharp pain suddenly hit her palm like a thousand razor blades. She yelped and jerked her hand out. Dozens of razor-fine quills were lodged in her skin. Oh, come on! After nine years of bonding, it treated her like a pariah just because some arrogant bastard had wrongfully fired her? “You could have just said ‘No,’” she hissed.

  She gritted her teeth, fisted the spines, and then yanked them all out in one motion. She screamed with pain and wedged her hand between her thighs. “Minor setback,” she gasped. “Nothing I can’t manage—”

  “Reina.” The doors were flung open to reveal Death in all his tuxedoed glory, sporting a gold-laced cummerbund and bow tie. “I thought I recognized your shriek of pain.” He was wearing his platinum scythe cuff links and a shirt artfully decorated with diamond bling, but his ashen face and trembling hands kind of blew his Me Dominant Male image. “Make me some espresso. Now.”

  The clickety clack of stilettos got closer, and the tip of an alligator pump came into sight around the corner. “Sure.” She stumbled to her feet and squeezed past Death into his office, her damaged hand hanging limply by her side. Don’t think about the pain. Don’t think about the pain. Shoot. She was thinking about the pain.

  “I’ve got her,” Linneah shouted as she rounded the corner, her gown sweat stained and torn.

  “Reina is green-lighted.” Death flipped the door shut in Linneah’s startled face, then leaned against the interior of the door, as if he were too exhausted to hold himself upright. “Where have you been?”

  “Where I have been?” Blood was oozing onto the floor, and Reina’s hand felt like a dozen poisonous spikes had been shoved through it. Oh, wait. It had. “You fired me, remember?”

  “Of course I remember. Don’t insult me with such inane questions.” Death strode across his plush carpet to the wall that sported a ten-foot mural of Cupid.

  According to Castle gossip, it was the first painting Death had commissioned when he’d bought out the Grim Reaper three hundred years ago. He dusted it by hand every day and wouldn’t trust anyone else with its care. Reina had often found him in an admiring thrall, staring rapturously at the three-foot cherub with rosy cheeks who was casting arrows on assorted lovers, all of whom were engaged in various intimate and acrobatic positions.

  Maybe it was all the naked couplings depicted.

  Maybe it was the implications of how great sex would be if Cupid helped.

  Maybe it was professional admiration for another being that wielded complete power over something basic to the human experience.

  No one knew why he loved it so much, and the big man wasn’t talking.

  The austere and ruthless magistrate tapped Cupid’s harp. The instrument vanished, revealing a harp-shaped cabinet. Inside were shelves of glittery bottles and jars, a medicine cabinet for the rich, famous, and magical. He shot an impatient scowl at Reina. “I said, where have you been?”

  “Sorry, I must have missed the memo that said I was still in charge of your coffee even after getting wrongfully terminated.” Yeah, probably not the best choice to be flippant with him, but she was in too much pain to be polite. “You need me. I want a second chance.” Her legs began to tremble, and she eased down to the Oriental carpet. She tried to bend her lavender-tinted fingers, and they didn’t move. That couldn’t be good.

  “Have you learned nothing in the nine years under my ruthless and brilliant tutelage? My reputation as a domineering businessman does not allow for second chances.” Death selected a star-shaped bottle shimmering with golden dust. “Make the coffee, Fleming.”

  “The coffee.” She willed herself off her knees and made her way across the room, still fighting not to start screaming in pain and dropping to the carpet in convulsions of misery. Cradling her injured hand to her chest, she tugged open the cabinet and grabbed the five-pound bag of beans.

  Then she walked over to a full size bronze sculpture of the original Grim Reaper, complete with black cloak and weapon. She kicked the handle of the creature’s scythe, then stepped back as a bronze urinal exploded out of the wall.

  Death narrowed his eyes. “How did you know about that?”

  “I pay attention.” She opened the bag of beans and tipped it precariously over the glittering man-toilet. “It’ll take you years to find out who my supplier is for these beans. You’ll never survive the withdrawal. Give me another chance, or the caffeine takes a hit.” She couldn’t keep her gaze from wandering over to the collection of scythes above the massive fireplace. Death had acquired them when he’d bought out the Grim Reaper, and they were the real deal. Which one would he use on her?

  Death glowered at her. “Why you arrogant little female—” Then he suddenly burst out laughing, showcasing his high octane pearly white smile. “I can’t keep up the facade anymore. You’re threatening my prized beans with urine! That’s beautiful! You’ve got game, girl! You have surpassed my expectations, which really weren’t that high to begin with, of course.”

  She stared at him in stunned surprise. “What are you talking about?”

  “Nice work, Fleming.” He smacked her on the shoulder so hard she lost her balance. Her injured palm collided with the statue, and pain ripped through her. The room began to spin, spots began to dance in her vision, and she slithered down to her knees. Dammit. She didn’t have time to get hurt!

  “I need a second chance,” she croaked. “Now.”

  Ignoring her request, Death crouched in front of her, took her wrist, and flipped her hand over. “This should help.” He thumbed open the bottle he’d taken from the harp cabinet and poured a pulsating gelatinous substance onto her injury.

  Her skin began to burn, a tingling sensation like a thousand gnats tangoing on her skin. Which was entirely possible, given that she was in the office of the grandson of one of the most powerful black witches in existence. And then the pain dissolved. Just like that. Gone. “That’s incredible.”

  He beamed at her. “Excellent. I’ve never tested it before.” He clapped the lid shut. “And I was referring to my expectations with the werewolf situation. It was a test.”

  Reina sat up and flexed her hand. No pain. Hurrah. “You mean, Max was a test for something other than to see if I could harvest his soul?”

  “Of course. I would never give you such a linear, simplistic assignment. I am so much more complex than that.” He set the bottle back into the wall, then tossed the coffee at her, still grinning. “Put the beans down and we’ll talk.”

  She caught the package. He was acting way too friendly and conspiratorial for a guy who was still firing her. She was kind of thinking that now was the time to deliver the goods and see what was up. She cautiously hoisted the coffee and walked over to the machine. “So if I’m not getting another chance, then what? A new assignment?”

  Death’s gaze was fixated on the beans. “Yes. Of course. That’s the whole point.”

  Her boss never, ever went back on his word. He believed that a man’s success was only as good as people’s ability to trust him to
deliver on his promises. Ironically, Death was one man you could always, always have faith in. So she punched the button, dropped the coffee in, adjusted the seventeen different dials to get it exactly as he liked it, then hit start. “Okay, so explain.”

  “Of course.” He picked a six-inch, pale pink mug off his desk and stroked his finger fondly over the diamonds encrusted along the rim before handing it to her. “If you’d harvested the werewolf, you would have failed.”

  She slid the cup into the machine. “You didn’t want me to take his soul?” After all her emotional trauma, she wasn’t even supposed to have harvested Max? Hello? Anyone want to sue for intentional infliction of emotional distress? Completely brutal… and… fantastic! Who knew that total failure could result in complete victory? “So, then, what—”

  “I made sure you selected a target that would remind you of someone you loved.” He picked a blueberry scone off a silver tray on his desk. As always, it had been delivered to coincide with the eleven o’clock caffeine hit.

  “Why?” Her stomach rumbled with hunger. She’d been so stressed about her first harvest that she hadn’t been able to eat for the last twenty-four hours.

  “If you’d killed him, it would have shown me that you valued killing more than those you love. That’s not the kind of ethics I want in my staff. The power to kill is seductive, and I need someone who isn’t going to get sucked into the high of killing and start running around killing willy-nilly. I need someone who understands the importance of each and every harvesting, and who has the self-control not to kill for the sheer pleasure of it.”

  “So, I don’t need to harvest anyone?” Please, please, please, let that be the case.

  “Of course you do.”

  Of course she did. She grabbed a chocolate torte. Sugar reinforcements needed. She shoved the whole thing in her mouth… Damn. It was good.

  “Just not the dog.” He took a bite of his pastry and sighed with delight. “Mother of pearl, that’s the best scone Vladimir has ever made.” He hit the speakerphone on his desk.