“You guys have superpowers. We’ll find him.”
My heart would have stopped if it still beat the moment I set eyes on Anya. She’s wearing the hell out of a dress that draws attention to her assets but is all class. The sight drops me smack dab in the middle of what I’ve been trying to ignore. I have feelings for this woman, and it’s more than just lust. And that goes against everything I stand for on a couple of levels. I love Tate. There’s no question about that. I don’t just miss her, or crave her, I long for her like the sappiest of literary characters every moment of every damn day. It’s agony knowing I have to wait forty or fifty years to see her again.
Another problem for me: I don’t believe in love at first sight. It takes time for true love to develop, and the gods have made it clear I’ve met the requirements of Pragma—enduring love—with Tate. So why the hell am I responding this way to Anya? It has to be some game Aphrodite’s playing to fuck with my head. And it’s working. I’m racked with guilt. She’s been pissed since I rebuffed her advances, and that was one of the hardest tests I’ve endured in this crazy realm. Thank the gods Francis gave me the heads up about her magic girdle before the examination. Not that she needed magic; she was the most perfectly stunning woman I’d ever seen. I’ll admit it, I was human . . . My cock sprang to attention the moment she cupped my balls. I’d taken Francis’s advice and thought about the least sexual thing I could, my death bed. Tate’s tear-stained face saying goodbye. “I’ll look for you in my dreams,” she’d said as she held me, defying hospital rules in her determination not to leave me alone. The big guy had shriveled right up.
Talking about rules, Aphrodite had been about to whip me raw when Hera dropped in to remind her of a golden one—no fucking the apprentices. It would be just like her to send Anya to torture me. But what Francis realized at breakfast keeps surfacing in my thoughts. I understand why our identities are cloaked for the month—Hera wants us focused on our assignment. But why is the cloaking spell only masking speech for Anya, Nameless, and me?
Anya’s long dark-auburn hair is pulled up on her head in some fancy braid. The black-and-red dress fits her as if it were sewn on her. A low whistle bursts from my mouth. An equally wolfish one comes from behind me as Caleb sidles up.
Anya’s face radiates with one of her magical smiles. Being with her feels right, just as it did with Tate. I wish like hell she were here to talk to about this. That’s what I miss the most about Tate, getting her unique take on any subject. Even when she was jealous, she’d grudgingly give her honest opinion. So I know she’d do the same about Anya. Gods know we’d had some intense discussions over the years, but we’d always shared respect and honesty. And some very hot sex usually followed. In so many ways, Tate and I were in perfect sync. Tate is a firecracker, much like Anya. Maybe that’s it—I miss Tate so much I’ve grabbed on to the first woman who reminds me of her. Not that they look anything alike. For starters, Tate’s hair is shorter, darker, and curlier. Anya’s flows halfway down her back.
“You two clean up well.” Anya’s voice jolts me back to the present where Caleb and I stand gaping at her. Humor circles around the edges of a smile that lets us know she’s flattered by our attention. “Are we ready?”
“I love your dress,” I blurt out.
“Oh this is not a dress,” she says. “This is a gown. A Versace gown.”
“I love your Versace gown,” says Caleb before I can say anything in reply. Asshole.
Caleb then leaps forward and proffers an arm. When she slides her other arm through mine, the fine hairs on my arm tingle. She has perfect skin, just like Tate. Guilt splashes cold water on my rising . . . urges. If it were just about sex, that would be one thing. That I could deal with. Just like the other night, a biological release. Tate will understand that. Oh, she might want to kick my ass, but she’ll understand.
“What’s got you so deep in thought?” Anya’s sultry voice pulls me out of my reverie.
“Nothing important.” I pat her hand absently.
“I’m thinking about my Gbp too.” A few notes overplay her husband’s garbled name. “It’s okay, you don’t have to hide your love from me. I get it.” She squeezes my forearm against the curve of her waist. So much like Tate.
“You’ll have to tell me about him sometime.” I’m not sure of my motives, but suddenly I want to hear everything about Anya and this man whose name I can’t quite catch.
“You should tell us all tonight,” Caleb says. “Francis says this is the getting-to-know-you part of your orientation.”
“And just when is my getting-to-know-you part of my orientation?” Tate softens the retort with that smile that lights up her face.
“Oh, we have to tell you anything you want to know,” Caleb says.
“You just need to know the right questions to ask.” I don’t deny it. I layer my voice with more than a hint of sex. The kind of thing Tate accused me of doing intentionally though I never had, until this moment. The smolder in her multicolored eyes tells my cock in no uncertain terms that she responds.
“Asking probing questions is one of my skills.”
Oh yes, our pheromones are definitely connecting on a cellular level.
Why did the cloaking spell block Anya’s husband’s name? I file that thought away for later as we enter the kitchen and take our places at the formally set table.
Francis, immaculate in another of his designer suits, takes charge, as usual. All four of us are alpha males but display it in very different ways. Caleb is your best-buddy type, happy to let others take charge. Nameless needs someone to recognize his superiority before he struts his dominant self. The only time he lets down his walls is when it comes to anything to do with music. Normally, anyone with the number of issues he has to work out would get their ass tossed back to earth for another life or two. Word is that Nameless, mercenary little cuss that he is, has not only fucked Aphrodite, he’s written a ballad about her. He must be one hell of a lover because she was so pleased with his performance she convinced the gods to make an exception and reduce his apprenticeship. Not that this surprises me. I knew Nameless on earth, although we’d gone our separate ways fifteen years ago when we were barely men, young men who loved the same woman. Tate. But she’d chosen me, and he’d never forgiven either of us. He hadn’t spoken another word to me until I saw him here in Bardo.
“Let us get some housekeeping details out of the way.” Francis aims that vampire gaze at Anya. That gaze made me cringe when I’d first arrived. It doesn’t rattle her a bit. She just looks back with curiosity. Caleb pours himself and Anya a glass of mead before passing the bottle to Francis.
“I understand you refused to allow either Joe Bob or Caleb in the dressing room or bathroom. As the gods decreed, one of us has to accompany you at all times. You are in grave danger. Mortal souls like yours are a rare commodity in Bardo, and Hades collects them for his Inferno.”
Anya’s smile looks almost predatory. “Caleb, darling, would you mind reminding me I want to find out more about this Inferno later? And pass me one of those thingies, please?” She points to a plate of appetizers and turns back to Francis. “You were saying?”
Francis looks slightly taken aback. It’s not often that someone talks back to his Scottish lairdly self. He shoots his sleeves and places both palms on the table. “It’s for your own protection.”
“There’s no way one of these incubi you’re all so afraid of can get past the protection enchantment surrounding our quarters. The boys told me.” She pops one of the appetizers in her mouth, turning eating stuffed mushrooms into a sensual experience. She moans a moan I thought was reserved for me.
Francis raises a finger, but she raises her own, swallows a bit too fast, and coughs into her napkin. “Wait a minute, Francis. Hear me out. No need to do any of your hocus pocus on me.”
Now even Nameless is paying attention. No one challenges Francis, no one. He’s notorious for his temper, and although we can’t kill each other—we’re already
dead—we can put a real hurt on someone. I’ve narrowly escaped his wrath myself. But Francis gives her a steely look and says nothing.
“Caleb and Joe Bob were in the next room. There are no windows and only one entrance into either room. Anyone would have to get through them before they could get to me, right?”
Francis just stares. Anya takes a gulp of mead. “Mmm, that’s good.” She licks her lips. “You haven’t answered me, Francis. Am I right?”
While they wrangle back and forth, I try to figure out more about the cloaking spell. The musical notes don’t play if we use the names she calls us. So, what is it hiding? I don’t recognize her from Earth . . . well, of course not, we’re all cloaked during the incubus assignment. Wait a minute. I lean forward, unable to hide my excitement.
“What do you look like?”
Anya looks at me as if I have a few challenges but she’ll humor me. Her mouth opens and a symphony starts up. When the music stops, I point at Caleb. “Describe her.”
“Sure thing. Long gorgeous red hair and a gorgeous body. Hubba hubba.”
“Francis?” I ask.
He studies Anya over the top of his crystal tumbler. “I see what Caleb sees. She is very bonnie.”
Anya snorts. “That’s so not what I look like.” She takes another gulp. She’s nervous. Tate always fortifies her strength with wine when she’s nervous. And there goes my guilt talking again. I seem determined to justify my lust for this woman.
“Nameless?” I ask pointedly when he doesn’t respond.
He smirks at us. “Sharon Stone. Short blond hair, blue eyes, and built like a brick shit house.”
Anya’s laugh is loud and contagious. “That is so extra.” She tips her mead glass for another refill. “Did each of you just describe your wet dream?”
Okay, so she can hear what we see. “What do I look like?”
“I told you. You look like Joe Black.” She takes another sip of mead. “You have the best smile. So genuine. Like there’s no pretense. Just like my—” She stops short and cocks her head. No music. “Aha! It’s the name. Which means I know you. Which means you’re him.” She puts down her glass and throws her arms around me. “I knew it! I just knew it. I found you.”
I swear my resting heart gives a few joyful beats. Could it be true? Anya is my Tate? That explains the strong pull we have for each other. And all the little mannerisms that seemed so familiar. Relief washes through me. All the guilt I felt over my feelings for Anya evaporates.
“I knew I wasn’t hallucinating. I saw the real you flicker in and out during the ascension cold fever. Bob.” My name still comes out garbled but it doesn’t matter. We know now. Tate takes my face in her hands and kisses me as happy tears wet her lashes.
Francis looks pensive. “Aphrodite’s cloaking spell must have had trouble working well during the illness.”
Beaming, I look around the table. No one is as happy for us as we are for each other. Francis still seems deep in thought. Cheerful Caleb actually looks depressed. And Nameless . . . Nameless looks ready to fight me for my wife. I stare him down.
“I found you.” Tate rests her head on my shoulder, hiccups, laughs, and closes her eyes.
Francis slides her glass from her hand. “It looks like you win the night shift.”
To: Hera
Cc: The Tribunal
From: Aphrodite
Subject: re: Crisis averted
Last night, Tate was able to deduce Robert Morrison’s real identity. She pieced together the clues by determining the logic behind the words my cloaking spell was masking. The complications of bespelling her during the ascension cold contributed. Cloaking never takes firm hold under those conditions. But we so rarely face a complex set of factors such as we have upon us at this time. I was able to bespell their mead. They’ll feel terribly ill, but none of the team will remember the end of the night.
“Oh, gods, let me die.” Because those are the first words that should pop out of a women’s mouth when she wakes next to the angel of death. Naked. I pull the sheet up to my chin. Shit.
I look around. We’re in my bedroom on the huge bed that takes up a good third of the already enormous room. It looks as if it belongs to a 1930s starlet. Art Deco and all class. Joe Bob’s knit shirt lies neatly folded over his pants. No undies in sight. Whew. I thank the gods he’s not naked. I can’t remember a thing from last night—at least from halfway through dinner on.
“May I borrow your shirt?”
Joe Bob brushes a strand of my rather erratic curls behind my ear. The loving gesture makes my heart ache and my skin flush at the same time. “Sure.” But he makes no move, just continues to look at me and tries to make that boyish smile, but it comes out pained. “Ugh. Sorry, I’m . . . my head is pounding.” He looks at me again, and his smile turns sly. “And maybe I like you naked.”
I fight the urge to cross my legs against the traitorous blush of my pinkish parts. Lord only knows what he sees. I wonder how different the cloaked version of me and the real me are. Both versions of me are feeling shy.
“My head is pounding, too. That mead has a real kick.”
“Then I’ll definitely get that shirt for you.” He throws off the sheet, slides off the bed, and crosses the room, his beautiful bare butt totally exposed. Then he pauses. He grabs a towel and throws it to me instead. “Actually, forget about the shirt. A shower will make us feel better. Join me?”
A look must cross my face before I have time to hide it because Joe Bob’s hands shoot up in the air, palms outward. “No funny stuff, I promise.” A genuine big, full-mouth smile breaks over his face, setting me on fire.
Too bad. I give myself an imaginary head slap. I really do have to take myself in hand no matter how great his stuff feels.
I wrap myself in the towel and follow him across the heated floor into the magnificent shower overlooking a lake with mountains beyond. I gawk. It’s by far the most beautiful view I’ve ever seen, like earth only more perfect, and it’s right outside my bathroom window. Just my luck, my life’s most perfect Instagram moment, and my phone is in a personal effects bag in another realm. Bob would laugh at that. It drove him crazy that I was never without my phone.
Joe Bob monkeys with several of the many taps lining one of the walls, and two of the large showerheads burst to life. He steps under the rain head and gets busy washing his hair.
“This is absolutely beautiful. I didn’t notice it before.”
“That’s because . . . well, watch!” Joe Bob snaps his fingers and says, “Go dark.” The view instantly disappears.
I snap my fingers and say, “Go light.” The view pops back. Awesome! I can’t help but laugh. “That’s the best view ever.”
I turn to look at Joe Bob, forgetting for a moment in my enthusiasm that I’m naked. The heat coming from those baby blue eyes reminds me instantly.
“No, you are.” He tips his head down and brushes wet lips across mine. Despite my throbbing head and queasy stomach, my nerve endings beg to feel the solid length of his slippery body against mine. My nipples tingle, and my clit aches. I move to lean in, but he steps back, close enough for his heat to reach me, far enough that I’d need to be overt to reach him. At least one of us is responsible. And it’s not you. Guilt steps in and washes away my desire. I step under the second showerhead, hoping the soothing warmth will seep into my hungover bones. I will never drink mead again.
“What’s on the agenda for today?” I hope it doesn’t involve incubi. Not today.
“Francis is going to insist we start your orientation.”
“What does that involve?” I try very hard to ignore the pouf sliding down my back and along my sides, but it’s impossible. Each swipe, no matter how innocent, leaves a trail of want in its wake. And if I turn around, he just might start soaping my breasts. I’d come undone. Only his obvious efforts to be a gentleman keep me from jumping his bones right now. And decency. Don’t forget decency. Right.
“I’m not sure what he has in
mind. I know he’s intent on finding out more about you and your history.”
“Why?”
“Again, I’m not sure.”
We lapse into silence. The pouf works its way a little too close to my butt. I bite back a moan.
“You have a beautiful ass.”
It’s too much. I need control, or I'm going to go feral on him.
I sidestep, snatch the pouf out of his wandering hands, and motion for him to turn around. I get another unconscious smile. But I catch a hint of a shadow behind it. Of course, there’s probably a shadow behind mine too . . . My Bob never leaves my thoughts, and our baby girl, Leah, is not far behind.
My body becomes a husk, empty where my desire was just seconds ago.
“What happens to babies who die prematurely? I can’t imagine they come here.”
Joe Bob chuckles. “No. Children are innocents. Except for the rare exception, they ascend directly to Nirvana.”
I slowly run the pouf over his strong back as he leans his hands against the shower wall.
“Did you lose a baby?” The question is tentative, gentle.
“Yes.” But I don’t want to talk about it. Not right now. Not with him.
“Me too.” Musical notes sound, but I’m sure I hear him say those words. I rest my hands on his back, letting the water flow over us both, comfort us both. He stays still, but the depth of his empathy almost knocks me over. I must be imagining things. Must be the hangover.
I finish washing his back and hand him the sponge. He pulls me into his arms and holds me, letting his body tell me it’s okay to grieve for my baby and my Bob. I hold on until I can’t stand the depth of the emotions coursing through me and step back. He looks at me with that half smile that’s there almost all the time when he talks to me. I step out of the shower.
Tate's Tale Page 6