“There’s nothing you can do for anyone tonight,” he said. “Take a load off and drink. Enjoy that we’re in the middle of nowhere without a Watchman in sight.”
I struggled not to spill the drink when I took the first sip. I coughed, but it didn’t lessen the burn that rocketed from my lips to my stomach. The effects began instantaneously. My body melted into unconcerned tranquility. A moment later, my mind followed the same delighted path. I chased it with another drink.
He plopped down at my side and threw his legs out in front of him.
We watched the snapping campfire flames in silence. Dudley was curled up nearby. The sky spread out before us as a black and gray quilt of hazy spirits. Between the gaps in the souls were sparkles of starlight, exposing us to the heavens.
This was the nowhere.
There were no Watchmen patrolling the countryside, no scythe pins. We were two people sitting in a field. This must have been what Montana was like—a friendless, vacant place I would have wittingly lost myself in if I wasn’t running for my life. This would be my future with Brent—a glimpse of what our shared fantasy would be, should we run for it.
I sipped the liquid fire again when I started to get feeling back in my hands and feet.
I didn’t want to feel anything.
“So,” I said several minutes later, enough time to ease the coil of muscles around my bones. I was moonshine’s bitch now. And it was luxurious. “Are you going back to Québec with me?”
“You know the answer to that. Neither of us is going back until we’re ready.”
I wriggled my fingers and toes. I couldn’t feel them. That cancerous knot? Benign and reduced in size. I generally tolerated a couple of beers before I started wailing Foreigner’s “I Want to Know What Love Is” at the top of my lungs, but I had no clue what this five hundred-proof spirit would do if I took another sip. Screeching a cheesy love song was bad enough. Doing it in front of Brent was not my idea of holding myself together. Besides, I only needed a minor buzz to persuade him to loosen my wrists before I set off on foot for Québec with or without him.
I shoved the bottle at the Eidolon. “Since you’re the experienced one here, what do rebels do with their downtime?”
“Drink. Fight. Screw. Drink some more. Get damned. What do you want to do? I’m not game for dying tonight.”
I gave each option due thought and said, “Since fighting is on the list, want to learn how to give a face-buster? I promise it won’t hurt…for long.”
“If you fight anything like your papa, I’d rather not.”
I studied his chiseled profile. “Sounds to me like Brent Hume is scared to lose a fight to la petite mademoiselle.”
A dark eyebrow lifted. “I don’t want to humiliate you in front of Dudley. Dogs remember these things.”
“Well, what else is there to do?”
He didn’t mask the bleed of yellow into the sapphire gems of his eyes. A pass of his tongue over his lips confirmed that he was thinking of that list of rebel activities, but he was clearly not interested in fighting, drinking, or dying.
I looked over myself. Sex appeal didn’t ooze off of my getup of his flannel, my jeans, and muddy boots. I was anything but a coquettish minx.
“You know, Brent, I had lots of time to think about what we didn’t finish in the barn loft earlier this morning. Kind of a shame we were interrupted, eh?”
That yellow gaze was on me. “An hour ago, you called me a lying sack of shit with rat testicles for balls.”
“Sure, but I don’t hate you.”
His laugh revealed his skepticism.
“There are Pixie Stix in the bag in the backseat,” I said. “Maybe you’ll…”
He was over at the truck rummaging through the paper bag on the backseat before I finished my sentence, which was good because I forgot what I was saying. Over the crackle of paper, he mumbled that he was starving and then he backed out from the truck brandishing an array of Pixie Stix like a multi-colored lightsaber.
With one blue Pixie Stix hanging from his mouth, he sported an expression like a cat’s as he teases his prey before he eats it. I grew uneasy until he threw a hand around the back of my neck, spat the Pixie Stix on the ground, and pulled me into a powerful kiss.
Despite his succulent kiss, all I could think about was that my sweating hands were still bound, and I was, for the moment, at his mercy.
“I want you, Ollie,” he whispered in my ear, his lips nipping at my earlobe. The remainder of the Pixie Stix plummeted to the ground, scattered at our sides.
“Then what’s stopping you from having me?”
His hands cupped my cheeks, and he pulled me toward him, closing the space just enough that his lips brushed mine. I decided Styx could survive without my guilt and self-sacrifice for a few hours, because I wanted him, too.
All of him.
Brent peeled his flannel from his shoulders. His black T-shirt separated me from his skin. He pulled the shirt off in one smooth tug, unnecessarily flexing muscles in the amber glow of the campfire.
I put my lips and tongue to his chest. Tasting his body barely eased my frustration. My hands hungered for parts of him I couldn’t reach, until his jeans sagged to his knees, exposing his straining masculinity. I passed my tongue between my teeth, biting the tip to control my need.
His reply to my obvious desire was unbuttoning my jeans and flannel shirt. I wriggled free from my clothes. But the flannel hung around my forearms, tangling as a mass of cotton around my wrists. As he undressed me, I explored the contours of his chest with my mouth—learning his body in place of my indisposed hands.
Brent cupped a breast in each hand and gently squeezed, but he didn’t linger. There was more to explore. His hands travelled along my sides and over the arc of my back. With a hook of two thumbs under my panties, he lured them down my hips and thighs.
He leaned back and gave a growl that was not human, but dark and wicked, with the promise of doing exceptionally amazing things to me.
His gold eyes ran up and down my nude body. He was plotting his next move.
Before I could show him what I wanted, he put his lips to my collarbone and suckled his way down to one hardened nipple. I burrowed my fingernails into the cottony mitts when he bit down, simultaneously sliding a pair of fingers inside me.
My mind raced as I succumbed to his prowess. This splendid bit of exquisite musculature had fought and killed for me. This body belonged to a man who exuded raw machismo that made every last inch of me feeble at his touch. He had said I was amazing, but I hadn’t the chance to tell him the same before I melted into his grip.
His tongue probed my stomach until it finally met the junction of my inner thighs. He looked at me, not for an invitation, but as a warning. I gasped when his tongue captured my womanhood in a hungry kiss. Somehow my legs were yanked out from under me. Our heap of discarded clothing broke my fall when I landed on my back.
I gave in.
I abandoned the struggle as every swirl of his tongue on my hot flesh drew out my essence for his own survival.
Moaning, I arched my back to deliver more to him. And all I could do to steady myself in case I fell off the earth was to put my mitted hands on the top of his head and steer his tongue to send me toward that blinding, pulsing release.
But I didn’t close my eyes.
I had to watch his proud frame dance with my body. Only his tongue worked me, and yet his whole body flexed and strained to satisfy me. The vision left me breathless. My head fell into the bedding of our clothes. My heart rate tripled.
Every last inch of me was powerless from total surrender.
“Brent, now,” I cried out. “Please.”
He took one last, intoxicating draw before moving between my thighs. He took his time, like we had a million years to reconnect. Our eyes locked. And then he fully sheathed himself. The barrier between us was gone. The daunting world I had been living inside of faded into insignificance. Our bodies were joined as they were m
eant to be. This connection was the safe haven I craved.
I buried my face into the crook of his neck. I tried to lure him closer as he hovered above, our hips joined together, but our lips distant.
“I want to watch you enjoy this,” he said.
His long fingers curled around both of my wrists. He pinned them to the ground above my head and reclaimed my mouth with his. His kiss was voracious, and it told me he was barely holding on.
I didn’t fight.
And because I didn’t, he started one slow, deliberate stroke. I moved to accept him. After slipping inch by inch, his control gave way to a thrust.
He peeled his lips from mine and balanced on two straight arms. There was no hiding my face. He saw every flutter of my eyelids or bite of my lip. As I reveled giving in, he reveled in watching me enjoy our closeness as he rocked us toward that pinnacle.
Time stilled as he increased his tempo. He was everything I needed at this moment. I craved his love. I was one part of a whole with a friend who meant life and death to me.
“I can’t hold out,” I said in a harsh and uneven breath.
I locked my legs around his waist. He lifted my hips from the bedding as he delved deeper. Pacing was abandoned for that growing swell of satisfaction. I held on. I fought the heat brewing in me.
My body rippled in synchronized explosions in one final beat of passion. I couldn’t see or hear anything, as if I was lifted into the cosmos. I didn’t want to come down from it, though every last fiber of my being ached.
As I throbbed in ecstasy, he gave a growl before he burst. Shuddering, he slammed against me in his climax, twitching from a frenzy of his own pleasure.
This was what sent humans and Stygians alike into battle with prayers of life on the other side. This was the change I hoped for in my life. I had felt it, if only temporarily.
The symphony of crickets and crackling fire lured me back down to earth. My vision returned to the black firmament dotted with stars and souls. Brent appeared back over top of me, blocking eyeshot of the heavens above.
Accomplishment and satisfaction were embedded in his smile. His eyes were a cool blue.
His lips, sweet with my wetness, pressed to mine. Too soon, he sat back onto his heels and combed a hand through his hair, dripping with sweat. I propped myself on my elbows, feeling empty now that we were no longer physically engaged.
This perfection was what I had to look forward to in Montana.
Too bad I would never get to see the West’s mountainous beauty.
Chapter Eighteen
“We must find this Scrivener.
We must find her Eidolon accomplice.
They will lead us.”
—HermesHarbinger.com, 2:45 am 18 April, Sunday
18 April
Brent was used to sleeping outside. The proof was lying before me, fast asleep as the fire roared beside him. He appeared just comfortable and relaxed as he might be on a recreational camping trip.
As for me, the idea of closing my eyes didn’t appeal. Sleep was elusive.
There were many things I wanted to do. Cuddle next to Brent. Wake him up and ask for another round of intimacy. The strongest pull came from the slip of paper I had found buried in his jacket pocket earlier in the day.
His Deathlist.
Carefully watching Brent for signs of movement, I slipped my hand inside his jacket that lay discarded on my sleeping bag. The paper crackled when unfolded, but nothing that the pops from the fire couldn’t mask. I gave Brent a close inspection and, just for good measure, a little nudge of his side.
He didn’t budge.
I hustled to the other side of the fire where flames would hide my reading material should he awaken. There would be just enough of a gap to cram the Deathlist into my jeans pocket if he did.
Another glance across the fire—all was safe—and I turned my attention to the list.
Deathlist for Brent Rutherford Hume, Eidolon Reaper
I took in a deep, controlled breath to steady my shaking hands. I had never dared to read over another’s Deathlist. It felt sacrilegious, disrespectful. Yet…
The topmost name on Brent’s Deathlist gave me pause. I peered over the top of the paper at Brent at rest.
Jacob John Jackson
William James Jackson
Marcus Theodore Ruth
Derek Theodore Jackson
I stopped.
With a full breath, I dared to read the name I saw out of my periphery.
Olivia Iris Dormier
I read it over and over as incredulity swelled within me.
Olivia Iris Dormier
Olivia Iris Dormier
A sudden tightness in my chest left me breathless and dizzy. The Deathlist fluttered to the ground when I slapped both hands at my sides to stop the stunned heaviness from dragging me through the ground and into hell. Air would lighten my shock, I thought. It would clear my mind. Only punctuated gasps came to my rescue.
I should not have looked. It was stupid. What did I expect? Nothing good comes from Deathlists. And I would have been happily unaware of this one if I had more control over my curiosity.
Was Brent so desperate to escape Québec because, in the end, he’d have to be the one to end me? Would he fulfill his obligation if forced?
As the myriad of questions raced inside of my head, I found myself grabbing my belongings as Brent remained still by the fire. The only personal items I kept were a bag of clothes and the Interceptor. Everything else, I would leave behind. I wouldn’t need much at any rate. Some cash, clothes, maybe my jacket.
I checked Brent periodically, but he was fast asleep as I dashed around him, my world turned upside-down for the third time in a week.
Sitting next to the truck’s driver side door, Dudley’s ears pulled back when I approached him. He must have known what I was up to. Dogs are intuitive creatures.
Tears welled in my eyes, I scratched Dudley behind his ears and then kissed his forehead. Dudley had represented stability and unconditional friendship. There was no possible way to repay him for all he had given me. But I couldn’t take him with me.
Dudley whimpered.
“I have to go back…” Because if I didn’t, Mama and Papa would go to Erebus, and there was a good chance that if I didn’t plead their case and mine, Brent would eventually have to honor the job it seemed he was dragging us away from.
Those hound eyes blinked unhappily. He knew…or rather I knew what I was going to do was wrong, that it betrayed the bond between Brent and me. But sometimes we have to go against our hearts to save others, no matter how much it hurt.
The time is here for someone to make a goddamn difference.
I’ll end it after bringing Marin to his knees. Somehow. With or without help.
I repeated the mantra for hours after reading Brent’s Deathlist. Had someone been sitting next to me in the truck, they might have thrown a straitjacket around me. Traveling cross-country alone opens the mind to a surfeit of thoughts. Some are good.
But most thoughts eat away at your dying confidence.
Just as when I’d left Québec and Papa and Mama, I was sick for having left Brent behind, despite knowing about our lethal destiny. He could have taken me out at any moment. He remained by my side instead, protecting me however he could.
Anxiety had had its hold on me since leaving Québec after Eve’s death. Today, it sent out rapid-fire attacks on my stomach. Soon, the unease would spread outward, taking my heart and lungs as its prisoners. It wouldn’t be long before I succumbed entirely.
By the time I hit Buffalo, New York, at ten at night, I was beyond exhausted. My legs were stiff, buttocks raw, eyes crossed. And I had several more hours of driving ahead. Going against better judgment, I pulled into the Sisters Café, a greasy spoon that had seen kinder economic times and wasn’t bustling with diners like the IHOP across the street.
I looked at my lifeless phone on the empty truck seat next to me. I had turned it off when we left Québec two
days ago. Only now did I give it any thought. I pressed a button to give it life, because in some small way I hoped Mama or Papa had escaped Marin and were trying to call and tell me. The low battery light screamed for attention behind the log of missed calls. Mama had called fifty times. Papa had called fifty-four.
I ripped open the glove compartment and tossed the phone inside. The phone landed on top of a crumpled hat. I paused and plucked the discovery from the glove box. The deep blue garrison cap bore the United States Navy emblem. Sewn into the sweatband was B. Hume.
I was a history buff—human history, that is. I loved anything that shed light on their curious behaviors, which explained my reality TV habit, but the World War II relic lost its intrigue when I lifted a brown leather booklet tucked into the back of the glove compartment. The cracked spine groaned. Inside was Brent’s recognizable, chicken-scratch handwriting.
“November fifth, 1944,” I read aloud. Below the date was a sketched map in varying shades of black and blue ink, some of it drawn long ago, and some lines that could have been added yesterday. Written in faded black were the only two words I recognized:
Registry Vault.
I flipped the page to find a passage.
Château, main entrance. Across from elevator is left stairwell down to bottom floor. Another left. Employee door. Make another left, down a flight of stairs. Entrance is at the end of the corridor, around the boilers.
The headlights of a passing car startled me. I chucked the booklet back into the glove compartment and slammed it shut. The red sedan circled around the parking lot and then drove off, heading back toward the highway.
A figure—a woman—dashed away from the window of the Sisters Café when I looked up from the truck. She hustled back behind a counter.
Every car and person…everything felt like the enemy.
The aviator sunglasses would at least keep part of my face hidden for the brief minute I’d given myself for coffee. Maybe whoever saw me would think I was a movie star and not a harbinger of death wanted for a gazillion Level Ten Offenses.
I walked through the door of the Sisters Café with my guard on high alert. On either side were rows of empty red booths bound together with neon pink piping. Straight ahead was a bar covered in red menus, napkin holders, coffee mugs turned on end, and sugar dispensers. “The Girl from Ipanema” played softly from a speaker by the cash register.
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