by Joss Ware
Simon sat, warm and solid next to her, but they were in plain sight of the half-open door! Even though they were in shadow, they were in plain sight if the door opened. All they had to do—
Oh, God, they have a light!
Sage’s breath caught when she saw the beam of lights flashing around. She grabbed Simon’s arm, knowing her eyes were wide and fearful. He looked at her steadily, then said into her ear, “It’s all right. Don’t move. Okay?”
And then, as the light came closer, he shifted nearer, gathering her onto on his lap. His bare arms came around her, his skin strong and warm, and Sage gaped at the ajar door where the light shone around. Shouts followed. The door began to open.
She felt Simon draw in a deep breath, felt a sort of warmth rush over her, followed by that same odd shimmery feeling she’d felt before…and all of a sudden, he…disappeared.
And so did she.
Quent had been over and over and over the list of contact names found in Remington Truth’s flash drive.
The more he looked at them, this list of A-listers—politicians, movers and shakers, big-money, horribly powerful men and women, the more he felt sick to his stomach. Like bludgeoning something.
The list contained a variety of the privileged elite of the twenty-first century, many of whom Quent himself had met. Everyone from Tatiana, the famous rags-to-riches actress who’d brought Hollywood and the rest of the world to its feet, to the U.S. ambassador to France, to Liam Hegelsen, Danish CEO of the hottest electronics and computer company since Apple…even to Brandon Huvane, the British publishing mogul.
Of course, there was no proof that everyone on Truth’s contact list were members of the Cult of Atlantis. But by the looks of the names and the amount of money, knowledge, and power these people had, each in their own right—but together, it would have been formidable—they were all candidates for the Cult.
The group of people who had brought down the world. For what?
For what?
For the one thing they couldn’t buy or create. Immortality.
Quent had known, and loathed, his father. He understood the man’s ego and desire for power. What greater power than to live forever?
Who gave a flying cock if he had to destroy the world to do it.
The very thoughts haunted him, nauseated him. Kept him from sleeping. Eating. The only thing he did much of was drink.
And now that Zoë had stolen back her arrows, and, other than the brief appearance two nights ago, had made herself scarce, Quent felt as though he were on the verge of exploding.
Why she, this woman of shadow and night, should make a difference was moot. He didn’t spend any time analyzing it. He knew she was a hot, hard, fast fuck. That was what he needed.
That was the only thing that might ease some of his tension. Clear his mind.
So he could figure out how to find his father. And kill him.
Something Quent should have done—he’d had the chance to do—long ago.
If he’d done it then, when he’d had the chance, the reason, if he’d fought back then, harder, instead of just taking the beating, the pummeling that nearly killed him…would it have stopped the Change?
Quent tipped back the last of his pint and slammed the glass onto the table. The Pub’s noise drowned out the sound, and when he stood, a bit unsteadily, Wyatt looked up at him. “You all right, man?”
Quent nodded. “As right as I can be. Which isn’t to say much.”
“You heading up? Want company?”
He shook his head. “Naw.” He glanced at the petite brunette sitting next to Wyatt. Good for him. “See you later.”
He’d leave the Pub and, despite the fact that it made him feel like a bloody wanker, Quent would slip outside into the fresh, night air. He’d walk along what passed for a street, but was really little more than a glorified pathway, heading to the darker areas of the city. Not too far, but away from the people, because he knew if there was any chance…
Quent resisted the sudden urge to slam his fist into the wall. Maybe his father’s violent tendencies had taken a hold on him, because for fuck’s sake, that’s all he’d felt like doing for the last few weeks.
He walked out of the bar and felt a stir of new air, coming in from the open skylights above in what had once been the ceiling of the New York–New York lobby. Even that bit of freshness was welcome. At least there wasn’t any smoking anymore either. Apparently the need and desire for cigarettes had gone away with the rest of the world. Or maybe tobacco had simply become extinct.
Walking along as he was, his head in his ass as he stewed over his failures and loathing, he nearly bloody missed her.
“Hey.”
Quent stopped, his mouth bone dry. He looked over and saw her, standing there. Not where he’d expected her—not outside, hovering on a rooftop. Nor sneaking into his room.
But…here. Beside one of the ridiculous trees that somehow grew in this parody of a New York street.
At first, he couldn’t find the words. A rush of heat and pleasure and, yes, he’d be lying if he didn’t admit to a blast of anger—at himself, at her, at whatever—washed over him.
“Took you long enough,” he said at last, calming his racing heart. And then he ruined it by saying her name. Softly. As if he cared. “Zoë.”
“Long enough for what?” she said, in her flat, sharp way.
“To come back.” His own words surprised him. Then, to cover it up, he added in a stronger voice, “I don’t have anymore of your arrows.” The unspoken words laced his voice: So you must be here for something else.
Zoë lifted her chin at that, but not before he saw a flash of…something in her eyes. Something…soft? Nah, you wank. A trick of the low light.
“What makes you think I’m here for you?” she countered.
“You know you are.” Now he’d regained control of himself, and moved toward her.
She put out a hand as if to stop him from coming closer, and he stepped into it. The feel of her fingers and palm against him made his chest tighten. “You look ill,” she said. But she made no move to shift her hand, to push him away…or allow him to come closer.
“I’m not.” Not with anything you can’t cure, baby. At least for a while. “Not anymore.”
Her fingers pressed into him and Quent lifted his hand to close it around her wrist. Slender. Warm. “Zoë. Do you want to come upstairs with me?” She drew herself up to reply—probably obstinately—but he continued, “Or do you want me to drag you outside, slam you against the wall, and do you under the moon?”
That did it. He felt her breath catch, shimmering all through her arm, and their eyes met, clashed, burned.
“That is why you came, isn’t it?” he whispered. And moved in.
Her fingers curled into his shirt, tugging him, and she lifted her face to meet his. Despite the heated words between them, the kiss was…it was hot, but slow and deep and long. She tasted like cinnamon, and sex, her full lips soft and lush beneath his.
Quent pressed himself up against her, driving her into the wall behind, shadowing them with the tree and its trunk. His hands curved around her waist, pulling her close, the whole, long, lean length of her, up against him. And kissed her as though he didn’t need to breathe.
When he pulled away at last, to look down at her tousled mess of a haircut and into her heavy-lidded eyes, she was breathing just as heavily as he.
“If that’s your follow-through on that eye-fuck from the party,” she murmured, low and dusky and out of breath, “it’s a damn good start.”
“Trust me,” he replied, sliding his arm around her waist. There was no fucking way he was letting her slip away again. “That was only the beginning.”
* * *
December 25
About six and a half months after
This was not how I’d imagined spending Christmas 2010, after marrying Drew.
A difficult day for many of us.
I helped cook a special meal with turkey,
goose, duck and a variety of other wild fowl to feed the 800+ of us.
We’re doing pretty well with food. Surprisingly well. As the canned and preserved items begin to wear out, we’re replacing it with freshly grown or raised vegetables.
This is Vegas, or, as it’s been renamed, New Vegas, but the weather seems to have changed with everything else. It’s not like a desert anymore, but almost tropical. That’s probably because the ocean is now where the Venetian and Bellagio used to be. Very surreal.
We’re having elections for a mayor in a few weeks, and Thad Marck, a good friend of Kevin’s and his twin brother, is running against a guy named Greg Rowe. Thad’s a bit of a live wire, pretty intense, but he’s funny as heck. And I sure could use a laugh or two. Kevin likes him and I trust Kevin. He’s been good to me.
But there’s no replacement for Drew, with his funny smile and warped sense of humor. Oh, that man could make me laugh.
God, I miss him.
—from Adventures in Juliedom, the
blog of Julie Davis Beecher
* * *
CHAPTER 9
It was one of the hardest…and yet, easiest…things Simon had ever had to do: gathering that lovely, soft bundle of Sage into his arms.
But he did, and forced himself to concentrate not on the curve of her waist and the fresh, sun-kissed smell of her hair, but the danger they would be in if he couldn’t hold himself invisible. And so he focused on the shimmery feeling, the ebb and flow of his person, even as the blast of light shone in the room, shone through them…instead of on the woman in his arms.
He knew the moment she realized what had happened, because, although of course he couldn’t see her any longer, she had been looking up at him, fear and remorse in her eyes as they both sidled into nothingness. And he could still feel her, dammit. Felt the tension of disbelief in her arms and shoulders and the catch of her breath.
Breathe. Concentrate.
He waited as the beam of light shone over and through the room, as three men pounded in, examining every corner. Brushing close enough to them that he could feel the shift in the air, even the touch of a pant leg. Sage felt it, too, and she tightened even closer in his arms. But she didn’t make a sound. He breathed, focused, kept his mind steady.
And then the searchers were gone, moving on to the other rooms, other possible hiding places. Their light faded and the only illumination was the cast of that fickle moon, twining in the clouds beyond as it filtered through a northerly window.
But the light was enough that Simon could see the expression on Sage’s face as he released his hold and they shimmered back into opacity. Her eyes were circles of astonishment, and her lips parted in shock and wordlessness.
He shook his head to keep her from speaking, for it wasn’t yet safe. The men were still searching the upper floors of the house, and might yet return. Simon hoped that they would come to the conclusion that the railing had splintered and fallen simply due to age, but even if they didn’t, they wouldn’t find him and Sage. He’d make sure of that.
But now, the worst of the moment yawned darkly before him. He dare not release her in case they came back, and he had nowhere to look…or to concentrate…except on the face, the heart-stopping face, the lips he’d tried so hard to avoid.
In the bluish light of the moon, she looked more ethereal and beautiful than ever. And she was so damned close. Simon felt the rush of his breath threaten to take over his consciousness, and he struggled to contain it. For God’s sake, he’d been in tighter situations than this, more dangerous, more threatening…and he’d kept himself under control.
But now…
She reached up, pulling out her arm that had been crushed between them, and touched his cheek. Lightly, but it had the same effect as if she’d shoved her hand down his pants.
“How did you do that?” she breathed. So softly that even Simon couldn’t fault her. The men’s voices were distant, on the floor above them. Damn.
He shrugged, feeling the heavy…yet light…touch of her palm, warm, on his cheek. Was this the first time someone had touched him since…since coming out of those caves? “I just did.”
“You did it before,” she added now, her eyes wider. “Didn’t you?”
He nodded and she withdrew her hand. Thank God. But then it settled between them, and her fingers sort of curled up amid her chest and his. Could she feel the stampede of his heart? He knew she couldn’t feel the rush of heat that swarmed him, and the faint sheen of sweat breaking out over his skin. At least, he hoped not.
“Simon.”
He drew back a bit. “Hush.” He did not want to hear what she was going to say, did not want to look into those eyes anymore. It would only take one little hint, one breath, and it would be all over.
Fuck Theo.
No, no, no.
But, pinche, she was looking up at him, and she was so damned close, and what woman wouldn’t be starry-eyed around a guy who could turn her invisible?
“Can you do it again?” she asked.
Okay. Sure. This he could do. Then he wouldn’t have to look at her, at least.
Simon drew in his breath, concentrated, and felt that now-familiar feeling sprinkle over him. Sage’s face wavered, close…so close…then gently disappeared.
Just as it happened, she moved…in his arms, surged into him…and planted her lips against his.
Simon’s concentration shattered. He lost it all—his mind, his place, his breath—and felt the whoosh of solidity return as the pleasure, something electric, jolted him. Soft, gentle, tentative, the brush of mouth to mouth…and then a soft groan from the back of his throat as he could no longer restrain himself.
His arms tightened around her, drawing her up and into his chest, and he found her lips again. They were ready, lifted and parted, and when he fitted his mouth to hers, she opened, pressing closer as if she too were as eager to taste him. And taste he did. Oh, indeed, and he was well and truly fucked.
Simon became lost in the wave of pleasure trammeling through him, the sleek, warm slide of tongue and busy mouths, moving, shaping and nibbling. Of Sage and her thick, heavy hair, of delicate shoulders under his palms, the soft little sounds she made, the smooth skin beneath his fingers.
But even in the back of his mind, he dared not move…dared not take it any further. Despite the searing need, he kept it easy, froze his hands in place, and tried to keep from devouring her, from sliding beneath that shirt and touching more of that warm, soft skin.
And when she tugged back a bit, her breath soft and fast against him, he instantly released her, his own lungs working overtime, his heart slamming and his jeans way uncomfortably tight. Focus on that instead of dragging her back for more.
“My God. Simon,” she whispered. Her eyes were still circles of shock and awe, but now her lips were full and puffy and glistening and he had to draw himself back to keep from lunging back toward her again. Her body moved against him, her breasts rising and falling as she caught her breath. And she smiled. Up into his eyes.
Holy God in Heaven.
Simon felt the world tip and tilt and he realized his fingers had curled into what was left of an area rug beneath them. He pushed them deeper to stabilize himself. To fucking hold on.
And then, praise God, he heard the voices again, closer, and brought a finger to his lips. But Sage had heard them too and she closed her mouth, looking apprehensively toward the door.
Hard to believe it had only been a few moments since the searchers had been there, shining their lights around in the room…because to Simon, it had been a whole world of change. Eons. His own personal apocalyptic event.
And this time, when the light came back and the men clomped down onto their floor, out and around in the hallway, persistent, and Simon had to pull Sage closer, and focus his energy…it was all that much more difficult. She fairly cuddled into him, like a kitten—no longer skittish—and he felt her relax, trusting, and he closed his eyes for a moment.
Just a mome
nt. Just…
The men arrived, pushing at the door again, and once more, Simon gathered his power and strength. Like holding his breath, he settled, concentrated, and, just as the light blasted into the room, he and Sage faded into nothing.
Only this time, Sage had her face buried in his neck, the press of her lips gentle against his warm, damp skin, the brush of her eyelashes under his ear.
Quent couldn’t get her clothes off fast enough. Inside the door of his room, they stumbled into each other, half falling against the wall as he jammed his hands down inside Zoë’s pants, down over her smooth, lean hips, tearing at denim and panties as she, just as ferociously, yanked at his. A slice of moon cut through the open curtains, bathing the room in bluish-white, showcasing the neatly made bed and mounds of pillows.
Zoë gave a little laugh against his mouth as she caught herself against a dresser, then pulled him with her as they staggered toward the bed. They fell on it with a hard jolt and it slammed into the wall from the force. Mouths, hands, legs twined, clothes flew, skin slid against skin, damp and hot and frantic.
Oh God, oh yes, Zoë…
He flipped on his back and brought her with him, and as if reading his mind, she rose up over him, long and slender and dusky, straddling his hips as he settled his hands at her waist. “Zoë,” he said urgently when she ground herself into his belly, but made no move to shift to where he bloody needed her.
She smiled then, fast and wicked, her white teeth flashing and her exotic eyes narrowing in delight. A stripe of moon angled across her torso, like the sash of a beauty queen. But Zoë looked more like some erotic dancer as she stripped off her little tank top and flung it to the floor. She wore no bra—she didn’t need to, for her breasts were tight and high and the perfect size for his hands. Lifting her arms, she tousled her hair, raising her upthrusting breasts even higher, tormenting him as she circled herself into his belly.