by D. D. Miers
“Those white flowers are familiar,” she said.
“White oleander,” Alana explained. “Dad used to have them growing in the yard. Remember he gave us that big lecture about not messing with them?”
“Right, because they're poisonous as hell,” Taylor muttered, twisting her hair around her finger the way she always did when she was thinking. “And the red one is a begonia. In Victorian flower language, begonias meant 'beware.'”
“Why do you know that?” Alana asked, raising an eyebrow. Taylor looked suddenly evasive.
“I really got into floriography in middle school,” she admitted, shrugging like it meant nothing and not like she was handing her sister fuel to tease he with for the next decade.
“Floriography?”
“The language of flowers and their meaning,” Taylor explained.
“Why?”
“It's romantic,” Taylor said, “and beside the point right now. Why is someone trashing my apartment and sending you flowers that say beware poison?”
“It doesn't matter.” Alana closed the giftbox and retied it. “I need to go.”
She slipped the box under her arm, already trying to decide where the best dumpster to drop it in would be.
“Hey.” Taylor grabbed her wrist to stop her, that familiar frown on her face again. “Let me help, Lana. I know I've been a hard ass but, if this is getting serious, if you're in danger . . .”
Alana twisted to free her wrist and took Taylor's hand instead.
“Listen.” She met her sister's eye for the first time since Taylor opened the door. “I know we haven't always got along and I'm not helping that by . . . by all this. But I want you to know you're still my sister.”
“Half-sister,” Taylor corrected automatically. Alana resisted the urge to roll her eyes.
“And I would never do anything to jeopardize your safety,” Alana finished. “I'm going to protect you, Taylor. Okay?”
“Protect me? I’m an officer, Alana. I do the protecting.” She tapped at the gun holstered on her belt.
“This is different.”
Taylor crossed her arms over her chest. “Different how?”
“I—” Alana shook her head, “It just is. Look, I promise everything is fine. I’ve got this.”
Taylor didn't look convinced, but she didn't resist as Alana pulled away.
“Don't worry about the mess,” Alana said as she stepped through the door. “I'll clean it up and replace everything when I get home. I'll be back late.”
She didn't wait for Taylor's response before shutting the door. Guilt writhed in her stomach as she hurried off. She was already lying. She'd endangered Taylor the minute she'd decided to come here. To stay at her sister's house. And Damon would keep coming back there, until he could destroy everything Alana cared about. Which included Taylor.
Taylor needed saving, and if Alana had to get to the damn warlock first, then so be it.
It didn’t take long to reach the old abandoned warehouse that often proved useful for tearing open rifts. It wasn’t really the type of skill great for public performances, not to mention the TBHU frowned on it.
Especially since this rift wasn’t entirely sanctioned.
With a shift of her hips, Alana settled her feet flat and solid against the ground. She swung her hands up at her front, palms out as she focused on the threads of energy surrounding her.
While Timejumpers needed no spells, artifacts, or specific locations to display their strength, not all places were created equal.
Somehow, she’d been lucky enough to discover the hideout that boasted an odd abundance of magical force. It made tearing open rifts much easier and made the hangover the next day more bearable.
A bit.
Though no wind blew through the building, her hair whipped forward, shrouding her vision as the air around her cracked. It started small, a pin-sized hole through space and time that she tore open with a distant pull of her hands. Wider and wider the crack spread, until a shove of fingers through her hair cleared her vision enough to see what she already felt.
The circular rift spun through the air in a turbulent flash of blue, with a center no brighter than the center of a black hole. The first time Alana had stared one down, she’d been certain jumping through it would equate to her death.
It hadn’t, but the cactus she’d landed on top of nearly had.
The trauma from that had worn off long ago, and fearlessly she jumped into the rift’s abyss. Head over heels she tumbled through a weightless hell, devoid of direction or time. As far as she knew, she’d been there for only seconds, but when one meddled with temporal boundaries, there was always the potential for a fuck up.
Weight. It’s such a tangible thing, and something taken for granted when gravity existed. Upon feeling her body held weight again, Alana’s arms and legs flung out in search of anything to grab. Down she plummeted, into the dark underworld she’d focused on.
Water became her savior and her curse as she plunged into a chilled pond, foregoing broken limbs or punctured skin, but instead taking part in a gasp of air that pulled water straight into her lungs.
Her boots dug against the shallow depths, hurriedly searching for solid ground. The second she touched it, she flung herself out of the water. Her hands pounded at her chest, heaving the fluid out in deep-seated coughs that rattled her lungs.
She’d come to the underworld where the warlocks most often lingered in search of Damon, but with squeaky boots, sneaking would be impossible.
She dragged herself up the bank of the pond and on o her feet, wringing her clothes out as she looked up at the city rising around her. Ancient towers, bristling with the overwrought frippery of late gothic architecture, everyone dripping in spires and arches and gargoyles, rose up into the gray sky joined by black columns of smoke. The ancient stone and looming towers gave the underworld the feeling of a city made of cathedrals. Or mausoleums.
Alana dried as much as possible in the warm, brittle air as she shook out her hair and discerned her exact location. White flakes like snow spiraled down from the heavy gray sky and landed on her skin. She scowled as she tried to wipe them off only for them to smear soot across her skin. She dragged her shirt up over her mouth to keep from inhaling the constantly drifting ash.
If only she’d remembered to bring a scarf.
She crept further into the city, hurrying past ornate stone bridges. Drifts of ash deep as her thighs built up on either side of the road, and endless courtyards of strange statues guarded dry fountains.
Though the streets seemed abandoned, plenty lived here, but nothing that cared to let her see it today, not while the stench of humanity lay on her so thick. She didn't have time to make herself seem less out of place. She had somewhere to be. It was where Damon had hired her in the first place.
Oh, how things could change so quickly.
Rounding the corner of his street, she saw a twin of the crumbling mansion she'd seen this morning, rising between the cathedral-like surrounding buildings. It was in better shape here, preserved by magic where its moral twin had been left to crumble. And there was a light on upstairs.
“What’s the plan, Alana? Oh, that’s right, you don’t have one,” she whispered, chiding herself for not taking a few minutes to decide what exactly she would do when she found him.
She forced herself to take a step closer, only to jump as light flashed silently in the sky somewhere behind the house. She stared for a moment, surprised. Just heat lightning? Or something to be worried about? She frowned, concentrating, when a voice to her right startled her into a half-spin.
“Come to spy on Damon, have you?”
The figure lurked in the shadows between two of the nearby buildings, broad and sinister. Her eyes narrowed at the unknown voice, but she couldn’t make out his features in the dark. Instinct told her nothing that approached her here would mean her anything but harm, but curiosity kept her where she was.
“Going to tell me something interesti
ng about him?”
“No, but I can do you one better,” the man replied.
“And what’s that?” She tilted her head, trying to gauge his intentions.
“Come with me.”
Alana choked out a laugh. “You’re kidding, right? Do I have naive stamped across my forehead?”
“No,” he snickered, “but you may have ‘desperate.’”
She knew she shouldn't follow him, but Alana was not a proper rule follower.
“I may be desperate, but I’m not stupid.”
“Stupid would be ignoring this opportunity and marching up those steps.” He nudged his thumb over his shoulder toward Alana’s intended destination. “You’re still drenched down to your skivvies and completely underprepared.”
“What’s the catch?”
“No catch.”
“But you’re not going to explain anything more?”
“Sorry, no can do. The wind spreads far too many secrets. Best to keep this conversation private, but trust me, you’ll be glad you did.”
Alana tapped a finger to her chin. Most inhabitants of the underworld dealt in direct trade. Give and take. Buy or steal. Murder or maim. They were nothing like the Fae. Sure, they enjoyed manipulation and blackmail, but trickery wasn’t their strong suit. The Fae were the ones whose words you had to scrutinize, lest you end up accidentally giving them your soul and your firstborn.
She had one of two options: ignore him and head straight into the "lion’s den" or follow mystery man and see where it led her.
“Time’s ticking away, poppet.”
“Fine, but be warned, I may look small but I could kick your ass from here to the next realm if you're dicking with me.”
“Noted.” He stepped off the wall. “Follow me.”
He guided her down the dark passage through another dusty square. A second house waited there, smaller and plainer but less menacing. Copper wind chimes hung from the front porch, ringing softly in the stale breeze. Ash gathered on the dark tile of the roof but never seemed to fall on the porch. The dark figure, features no more distinguishable here, slipped inside without looking back at her. Alana hesitated at the doorway, peering in.
The home was simple and yet rich. From the foyer, she could see a parlor with an old piano and a formal dining room beyond it. Fine antique furniture stood by the walls, in that mission style kind of utilitarian from the late 1800s, sturdy and uncomplicated but clearly made of the finest materials. A comfortable looking blanket was thrown over the back of the deep, square-legged sofa. The carpet, when she dared to step inside, was high and soft. There was a sense of warmth to the place, and the scent of sweet wine on the air.
But there was no sign of the man who'd led her here. She stood in the fine parlor alone, wondering if she should take this chance to run.
“You really thought coming here would be a good idea?”
She spun toward the deeply purred voice. The man who stood before her was built like a brick house, his shoulders broad, and his arms thicker than tree trunks. Everything about him screamed sex animal, leaving Alana to wince at the thought. Immediately she sensed two magics within him. He was a shifter and a warlock, meaning he’d probably blow her mind and leave her panting for more.
Totally not the time, Alana.
She took in his chiseled face, dark stubble shadowing his jaw, with his emerald-green eyes constantly looking around the room. Alert and ready. He dragged a hand through his chin-length hair, the dark strands moving through his fingers with ease. Then it hit her. Alana had seen him before, once, when she’d sealed Damon into Que-theran’s tomb.
This man was Damon’s half-brother, Jaxon. Aka Jaxon Stol. Aka Master of Creatures, and last, she’d known, he’d been sealed into the tomb with him.
She cleared her throat. “Apparently, I did.”
“I’d give you my name,” he said with a commanding curl of his lip, “but I imagine you remember hearing Damon say it.”
She shifted, keeping her back toward the open door in case she needed to call on her magic and make a quick exi., “I also remember you being locked up, never to harm anyone again.” She took another step away. “So, did you have your crony bring me here for vengeance?”
“Vengeance?”
“For you and Damon.” Her voice sounded much stronger than she actually felt.
“That’s not really my style,” he teased with a step closer that washed her in the heady scent of him. “Nor is your quarrel with Damon my own.”
“Then why am I here?”
He raised his hands, palms out showing he meant her no harm, “For some friendly advice.”
She huffed. “We’re not friends. We’ve barely spoken a dozen words before today.”
Alana had secretly been attracted to Jax since the first day she saw him at his brother’s side, but she knew better than to let her desires complicate a business deal. There was only one security for the Fae kissed and that was money. Also, she’d had her fill of dating men in the supernatural world. From now on she planned on sticking to human one-night stands—or her vibrator.
Alana crossed her arms. “Besides, what would make me possibly think you would offer me anything helpful?”
He stepped closer, effectively stealing all space except for a few inches between them. Her chin was forced up to meet the line of his gaze, and though she considered both lunging for him and at him, she stood her ground.
“Against other enemies, Damon is my ally. And on other days, you are my enemy. But not today.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why be my ally when you could just hand me over to Damon?”
“Could I,” he smiled, “just hand you over, as you say?”
“Not without losing your favorite limb.”
A dark chuckle echoed from deep in his chest and she heard a growl mixed in. “It’s not just my favorite limb. Many women across a dozen realms would be devastated as well.”
Arrogant bastard. “Well then, I guess you better not test me,” she said.
“I wouldn’t dream of it. If I recall, your magic is much stronger than you let on.”
“Strong enough to beat Damon?”
“No.” A dark guarded look washed over him for only a moment. “You haven’t a clue what’s truly going on, and I wouldn’t suggest trying to figure it out.”
“So, you just want to throw me off the scent, then.”
His lips curled into a devilish grin. “You’re always thinking the worst, aren’t you? But no, that isn’t it at all. Ignorance isn’t always bliss.”
“He tossed my sister’s place and sent me a bouquet with a deadly scorpion. Whether or not I want it, Damon has made his intentions clear. He’ll harm me and the people I love if I don’t give him what he wants.”
“And do you intend to?”
“Absolutely not.”
He walked passed Alana, his arms brushing hers as he moved to sit in the enormous sofa. “Then your alternative is to stand your ground and battle him. Unfortunately, you’ll lose.”
“That’s it? That’s your advice. Give in or die?”
“I—”
“Stol?” A voice came over the speaker beside the couch. It was the same man’s voice who’d guided her to Jaxon’s place. “We need to move.”
Jaxon rose from the sofa quicker than a blink and stood directly before Alana. “Go. Go back home and keep your head down. Get your sister to move, hide her if you have to, but don’t attempt to go after Damon on your own.”
“I’m sorry, but who the hell are you to tell me what to do?”
“This isn’t a joke, Alana. Go home—or I’ll send you.”
He slipped past her and opened a large chest beneath the window. He reached in, removing a long staff, tonics, and a sable-bladed claymore. He strapped the sword to his side and the staff over his back. Each of the tonics were placed in the pockets of a long, black duster he pulled on moments later.
“You’re kidding me, right?”
“I am not debating this with you, sweetheart. You’ve got five seconds to jump back home.”
“And I’m not some helpless girl who needs saving.”
“One.”
Alana laughed. “I can’t fucking believe you’re counting down like I’m a toddler.”
“Two.”
“Stop.”
“Three.”
It was an empty threat. It had to be. She’d never heard of anyone being able to force a timejump on someone else.
“Four.”
“You can’t possibly—”
Alana had barely taken a breath when the incredibly sexy warlock tugged her into his arms and spun her until her back was flush against his hard chest. A rift tore into the air between them and the fireplace. He tugged Alana’s hips, and just before he pushed her into the rift, she could’ve sworn he licked her neck.
Chapter 4
Mornings were always a bitch.
They were even worse after a timejump. She’d never been forced into a jump and after how she felt this morning, she never wanted to be again. One of her legs stretched out straight, knocking something off of the couch’s arm with a bouncing thud. The sound echoed through the small apartment, leaving Alana to shroud her ears with her hands.
It took a moment for her to recognize where she was when she opened her eyes.
The apartment was still a mess, and when she’d stumbled in late in the night, she’d barely managed to clear off the couch before falling onto it. It was easy to tell now, given the ache in her back. Rolling away with an uncomfortable, backward curl of her arm, she snatched up the remote control and a deck of cards and chucked them unceremoniously to the floor.
Through her aggravated groan, Taylor’s voice lifted from the opposite end of the kitchen. “Hungover, again?”
“I guess you could say that.” It seemed a safer bet to be seen an alcoholic than to spill the truth.
Unfortunately, that also came with the disappointed sigh forced from her sister’s lips. Unavoidable, but it still stung.
She swung her legs off the couch and put her head in her hands, willing the swaying motion to subside. It felt like she was on a cruise ship in a summer storm, without the upside of endless buffets and tropical weather.