Thief of Hearts (Elders and Welders Chronicles Book 3)

by Margaret Foxe

  “And what was that?”

  She speared him with a hard look. “Never trust anyone.”

  “You trusted me enough to get in this cage,” he pointed out, crossing his arms over his chest a bit defensively.

  “You’re the devil I know,” she said. “And whatever you are, you’re not a damned bloodsucking vampire or whatever the hell those things are.”

  Rowan flinched a little and looked away from her at her harsh words. If she didn’t know any better, she’d say she’d hurt his feelings, but she wouldn’t apologize for telling the truth. And if it kept him at arms’ length, then all the better.

  She ignored the uneasy twinge in the vicinity of her heart that belied her resolve and crossed her arms, matching his pose.

  “At least I’m not that,” he muttered. “But Netherfield knows who I am. That is something.”

  “It’s something, alright. Just don’t get your hopes up. If he didn’t give you any answers, neither will his boss, no matter what he told you.”

  He grunted and sat down next to her, staring disconsolately at his boots. That twinge in her heart grew even worse. He looked so young and lost, huddled against the bars, his legs tucked up beneath his chin. Seeing him like this roused all of the parts of her that she’d reserved only for Helen. Compassion. Empathy. An irrational need to offer comfort.

  Damn it all to hell.

  “We’ll just have to see, won’t we?” he finally murmured.

  She squeezed her eyes shut so she wouldn’t have to look at him any longer. She’d be the worst sort of fool to let this man under her skin. None of the reasons she’d had for sending him on his way a month ago had changed. She needed him only for the brute strength he could offer her. Once they were out of this mess—if they got out of this mess—they would part ways once again.

  She’d just have to make herself believe it.

  Chapter Nine

  WHEN SHE AWOKE, her face was buried against something warm and slightly scratchy. It smelled of tobacco and old sweat, but beneath that was something clean and tantalizing, like springtime rain. She snuggled closer until her nose touched smooth, soft skin that seemed to be the source of that incredible smell. She pressed closer, then closer still, inhaling great gusts of spring rain, though it never seemed to be enough.

  Then something shifted beneath her hold, and she jerked her head upright, her eyes shooting open to take in her surroundings: the dark, oppressive walls of the palace’s underbelly, the steel bars of their prison, the scratchy fabric of Rowan’s stolen jacket still chafing against her cheek.

  She realized with a jolt that she was plastered against Rowan’s side, and that he was the source of that incredible smell.

  Oh, God, she’d been sniffing him.

  She froze and quickly slid away from him, careful not to meet his eyes, heat flooding her cheeks. She had no idea how they’d managed to end up so close, much less why her body had decided to use him as her pillow…

  Well, she supposed she had some idea why, but her attraction to Rowan was a subject she’d firmly suppressed for weeks. She wasn’t about to start analyzing it right now, no matter how good he’d smelled.

  When she’d finally regained control over herself, she hazarded a look at him. He was watching her with a slightly pained expression that made her doubt very much he was experiencing anything similar to her internal crisis. She wiped at her chin in case she’d inadvertently drooled, since he seemed to be giving her that sort of look.

  She was almost glad when they were interrupted, for the last time she’d felt so awkward had been the morning after her wedding night. That was a memory she’d tried very hard to suppress.

  “I see you’re both awake,” came an all-too-familiar voice from the doorway. “I trust you slept well?”

  Hex rolled her eyes at Netherfield, who strolled into the chamber, flanked by Theodora and Vasily. The only positive thing about the dawn of the new day was that Vasily didn’t look like he wanted to eat her any more—drink her blood, perhaps, but not out-and-out eat her. Whatever Netherfield had jabbed him with the previous night seemed to have taken out some of his claws.

  She’d call that progress, though she didn’t expect it to last.

  “Is it morning already?” she asked in her most flippant tone. “I take coffee, black.” She pointed to Rowan with her thumb. “This one here is a tea man. Shocking, I know. Two sugars and heavy on the cream for him.”

  Irritation quickly replaced Netherfield’s smug look. He produced a length of rope from a jacket pocket and approached the cage. “Hands, Miss Bartholomew,” he barked, jaw twitching angrily.

  She sighed and extended her arms through the bars after returning Rowan’s jacket to him. Netherfield wrapped her wrists tight for the third time in twenty-four hours.

  “Where are you taking us?” Rowan demanded.

  “My benefactor has arrived. He is very interested in continuing the discussion from last night,” Netherfield answered, recovering his former haughtiness.

  “Who is your benefactor?” Rowan asked.

  Netherfield smiled enigmatically. “He goes by many names. But here he is known as the Swede.”

  “Damn it to hell and back,” she muttered. Just when she didn’t think things could get any worse.

  Rowan just looked confused. He turned to her expectantly as Netherfield unlocked the cage. “Who’s the Swede?” he whispered.

  “He’s the leader of the Souk,” she whispered back.

  Rowan’s eyes widened in horror.

  “Yeah, we’re definitely fucked now,” she muttered in agreement. “Tell me you have a plan.”

  “I thought you would have one,” he retorted.

  Well, hell. Instead of planning their escape, they had, apparently, cuddled all night. That had been a great use of their time…though she did feel surprisingly well rested for having spent the night in a cage surrounded by vampires.

  How was this her life?

  “My plan is to try not to die. How’s that?” she hissed.

  Rowan leaned in close to her ear as Theodora approached the cage. Apparently, Netherfield still didn’t trust Vasily to babysit her. Instead, he stood at attention near the doorway with Vasily, pointing a gun in their direction. In her direction. It seemed he wasn’t taking any chances after last night.

  “Somehow I’ll figure out a way to distract them, and when I do, run. Fast. Don’t worry about me,” Rowan whispered.

  “I wasn’t going to,” she said with a sniff.

  Theodora grabbed her arm and unceremoniously dragged her out of the cage. She winced as the fragile scab covering the cut on her shoulder pulled apart. Something wet and hot slithered down her shoulder blade. When she drew near to Vasily and locked eyes with him, however, the cold chill running down her spine blocked out her pain. His nostrils flared, as if scenting her blood, and his eyes narrowed on her shoulder.

  Great. Just great.

  “Keep your fangs to yourself, you son of a bitch,” she muttered as she passed him by.

  She could hear him growling in her wake, and she allowed herself a bit of a smirk. Angry people tended to make mistakes, as evidenced by last night’s impromptu prizefight.

  The question of whether one could actually classify Vasily as “people” was still very much up in the air, of course, but her method had still seemed to work. It could work again. She might get the opening she needed the next time around…if she were alive long enough to take it.

  On the ground floor of the palace, they were escorted to the entrance of what was obviously one of the palace’s most opulent drawing rooms. She would have expected no less of the Swede than commandeering the khedive’s best accommodations.

  Professor Hendrix greeted them at the double doors, breaking away from a small contingent of palace guards, looking very much to Hex like an overfed pigeon among crows. She’d wondered what hole the bastard had been hiding in since he’d left her in Netherfield’s keeping.

  Hendrix looked quite please
d to see her. Just like yesterday, she could read no hint of guile or apprehension in his expression, which made him either completely oblivious or even more perverse than his colleagues.

  “I see you did not accept the professor’s proposal, my dear,” he murmured as he fell into step beside her and Theodora.

  She glared at him.

  Hendrix sighed. “You’ve only made it harder on yourself, I’m afraid. The Swede is not as kind as Netherfield.”

  Kind? Kind? What a horribly inappropriate word to use to describe Netherfield.

  Hendrix slid his eyes in Rowan’s direction. “Though he will be well-pleased with your companion. A very rare, very valuable find indeed.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” she demanded.

  Hendrix pointed one of his plump fingers toward his eyes. “They’re easy to spot if you know where to look,” he said, chuckling as if he had made a grand joke. “It’s all in the eyes.”

  Theodora growled at her father and shoved him aside. He just continued to laugh, disturbingly unaffected by the rough treatment.

  The man was definitely cracked in the head.

  Hex stumbled behind Theodora into the drawing room and wolf-whistled as obnoxiously as possible at her surroundings. The room was as vast as the library had been, with marble floors, high vaulted ceilings, and gilded moldings. It was appointed with a mixture of modern European and traditional Egyptian styles, all of it lavish and undoubtedly expensive.

  At the opposite end of the room, a lone man sat in a giant rosewood chair set upon a raised dais, its high back ostentatiously carved. It was as close to a throne as she’d ever seen. The tableau seemed terribly ridiculous to her, and she didn’t even bother to hide an eye roll. She could already tell that the Swede was going to be even more of a pompous ass than Netherfield. It was a feat she’d not thought possible until now.

  A throne? Really?

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she murmured.

  Then the man stood up to greet them, and she immediately bit her tongue. He was even taller than Rowan, raw-boned and blond with a slightly receding hairline. He was ostensibly middle-aged, but he had the bearing of a Viking marauder and the cold gaze of a killer. The eyes were indeed similar in color to Rowan’s, just as Hendrix had alluded to, yet they were nothing like them at all. Behind that unusual amber façade was…nothing, just one great maw of cold, calculating psychopathy. This was a man who, despite his conservative linen suit and mild expression, had no soul.

  And she’d thought Netherfield was a piece of work. She didn’t even think she could begin to articulate just how unsettling the Swede was.

  Even Netherfield seemed cowed by the man, his shoulders ever-so-slightly slumped and head ever-so-slightly bowed as he cleared his throat to speak. “Sir, I have brought to you…”

  With just a miniscule flicker of his finger, the man cut off Netherfield’s unctuousness, his eyes focused upon Rowan with an intensity that made all of Hex’s instincts balk.

  Rowan studied the man in return, but if he was as intimidated as Hex was, he didn’t show it. He’d apparently learned to control his expression overnight, and she didn’t know whether she liked that newfound skill or not. As much as his transparency had frustrated her, it had also been oddly…appealing. She’d always known where she stood with him whether she wanted to or not.

  The man gestured to a chair set facing the dais, and Rowan took the seat grudgingly. Hex scowled at the heavy-handedness of the Swede’s positioning, king to Rowan’s supplicant.

  The man’s voice was deep, slightly accented, and very cold when he finally spoke. “I am told you have lost your memories, Rowan. I could scarcely believe it wasn’t a pretense, but I can see from the way you have reacted to me that you do not remember our…past associations.”

  “How should I have reacted?” Rowan asked.

  The corner of the man’s mouth twitched. “With histrionics? Threats on my life? Righteous indignation? Some sort of morally indignant speech about my failings as a human being, at the very least.”

  “Well, don’t speak too soon,” Rowan retorted. “We’ve plenty of time yet.”

  The twitch turned into something that might have been considered a smile. If he’d been a reptile. “Your moral scruples were always so very tedious. I was hoping your memory loss might have cured you of such an annoying character flaw. But, alas, my hopes have been in vain. Some things are inborn, it seems.”

  Rowan shrugged casually. “Most likely. I don’t remember much, but I know I don’t like you. I doubt that is anything new.”

  The man cocked a brow. “Indeed. The feeling is, of course, mutual. You were always a thorn in my side. If not for your cousin’s inexplicable devotion to you, he would have long ago agreed to my way of thinking. We could have saved ourselves centuries of bickering.”

  “When you say centuries,” Hex interjected, “are you speaking literally or figuratively?”

  The man’s expression was positively arctic when he swiveled his head to look at her, as if he were offended down to his bones by her audacity. If she’d had any sense of self-preservation, she would have held her tongue, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. She honestly wanted to know the answer.

  She’d also reached her quota for the amount of cock-and-bull she could tolerate in one lifetime. Between the sheikh in the desert, her father, Netherfield, and now this man’s painfully condescending doublespeak, she’d about had enough.

  “Who is my cousin?” Rowan demanded, focusing the man’s attention back on him and sending Hex a scolding look.

  As if a scolding look would ever stop her. She might have been intimidated at first by the Swede, but her fear had been well tempered by exasperation as soon as he’d opened his mouth and begun to bluster on and on, just like any other male she’d ever met.

  Well, she’d be thrice damned if she let her captors cow her. The moment they succeeded in that, she might as well lie down on the floor and offer herself up for slaughter. She may have been heading to her death some time in the very near future, but she wasn’t going to go down without making the most of her God-given ability to piss people off—even if the Swede scared the starch out of her.

  “I will answer your questions if you answer some of my own,” the Swede said magnanimously.

  Hex snorted. The man’s jaw twitched in response.

  “What do you want to know?” Rowan asked carefully after giving her another quelling glare.

  The Swede relaxed on his throne and steepled his fingers in front of him—and just when she’d thought it impossible for him to look even more like a gothic villain.

  “Twenty-eight days ago, an earthquake occurred in the Western Sahara that measured a ten on the Rossi-Forel scale,” he began dispassionately. “Simultaneously, in the middle of London, an earthquake of similar magnitude occurred, though the destruction was contained to a single street in Chelsea. I personally investigated the site, but could find nothing of note there except a half-finished Underground station beneath the street.

  “Three weeks ago, my men also reported a massive sandstorm in the Western Sahara, again originating in the same vicinity as the earthquake. It also appears to be defying all the laws of thermodynamics, spreading in all directions from a single fixed point. The eastern edge of it shall reach Cairo in less than a week.”

  “I’m sorry,” Hex cut in, “but was there a question in that weather report?”

  The Swede sighed and flicked an index finger. Theodora sprang into action and punched her in the stomach. Hard. It choked all the air right out of her, and she doubled over and gasped.

  Rowan stood up so fast and so violently that his chair fell over. He started in Theodora’s direction, his intent obvious from his murderous expression, but Hex held up her hand to stay him. No matter how much she might wish to see Rowan tear Theodora apart, she knew now was not the time. She could practically feel Vasily breathing down her neck.

  Besides, even she could admit she was being ins
ufferable.

  The Swede waited until Rowan stiffly resumed his seat before he continued. “Three weeks ago, reports of strange weather began to emerge southwest of the city in Giza. Fog, then torrential rains, followed by a hailstorm that lasted two days. Then there’s the recent weather in Western Cairo: a record-breaking heat wave that seems to have affected none of the rest of the city. Yesterday, the temperature reached fifty-five degrees Celsius at the air docks. None of these things has ever happened in recorded history.”

  Damn. She’d thought it had been feeling a bit more sweltering than usual out there.

  “What does any of this have to do with me?” Rowan demanded. “Are you suggesting that I am the cause of these things?”

  The Swede looked at him with poorly concealed irritation. “I know you came out of that tomb the same time these events began. I want to know why this is and how you came to be there. And I want to know how he ended up four thousand years in the past.”

  “Who is ‘he’?” Rowan asked, looking genuinely perplexed.

  The Swede smiled wryly. “The ‘painted man’. Netherfield said he showed you the papyrus last night.”

  Hex would have laughed at the Swede’s intimations, had her skin not begun to crawl. The whole thing was just downright eerie whether it was true or not.

  “Apophis?” Rowan scoffed.

  “So he is called. But I knew the first time Netherfield showed me the scroll who he really was. No one else has a tattoo like that. Especially not a four-thousand-year-old minor god. Your presence in the tomb has only confirmed my theory.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Rowan said.

  The Swede almost looked rueful. “I know. And normally I would be wholly delighted by your predicament. But your amnesia is rather inconvenient. I have spent years on this project, and I want answers.”

  “So do I. You spoke of my cousin. What of the rest of my family?” Rowan demanded.

  The Swede looked amused at Rowan’s redirection. “Men like us don’t have family.” He turned and practically sneered in Hex’s direction. “And we certainly don’t have loved ones.”