Unearthed

by Cecy Robson

  Ryker looks ready to snap me into a straight-jacket himself. He holds out his hands. “You know what I am, and what I’m capable of unleashing. Yet you skitter around my lair asking about lunch.”

  “I didn’t skitter—” I shoot back. “Wait, did you just call your apartment your lair? Who do you think you are? Batman?”

  His glower vanishes, liquefied by hints of sadness. “What I’m trying to say is, any rational person would be more wary of me.”

  My humor dissolves. “Maybe I’m not so rational.”

  He stills as I walk past him and toward the giant windows with the rambling view of the Hudson. A group of twenty-somethings speed by in a boat, laughing, enjoying life. My stars, I envy them. “Maybe all the times I’ve faced Death has affected my judgment,” I reason aloud. The boat circles around, joined by another. “I’ll admit, you do scare me, probably more than I dare to admit. But what scares me more is going after every version of Death. This task, mission, fiasco, whatever you want to call it, shouldn’t have been shoved onto me. Except that it was.” I glance over my shoulder. “I believe you when you say you want to help me. Maybe it’s what helps me be less afraid. Am I wrong to trust that you won’t hurt me?”

  Redwoods have to be more pliable than this guy. “No,” he replies, stiffly.

  I beam at him. “Then stop trying to scare me and give me something to eat.”

  ~ * ~

  We walk to a bistro two blocks from his loft and sit in the outside patio. Considering the warm day, few gnats or pesky insects interrupt our meal. I wonder if they, like most living creatures, fear Ryker.

  I munch on the kale, strawberry, and feta cheese salad he recommended and do my best not to lick the plate. Yum. I point to the last hunk of cheese with my fork. “This is perfection. How did I not hear of this place before?”

  “I’m sure you have your pick of places in Hoboken.” He smears a slice of sourdough bread with the olive and oil paste. “If you enjoyed this, your entrée will be much to your liking.”

  “You’re a fan of good food.”

  “I am,” he agrees.

  “Then why don’t you have any food in your kitchen?”

  He lowers his slice of bread onto his plate. “My free time is better spent perfecting my fighting skills. It’s easier for me to order from the many restaurants in the area than to take the time to prepare and clean.” He shrugs. “Besides, why bother? It’s just me.”

  I stop chewing, swallowing what remains in my mouth. “You work?” He nods. “Then you work out?” He watches me. “But nothing else?”

  His silence is response enough.

  “May I take your plate, sir?”

  The waitress licks her lips, liking what she sees in my companion. But when Ryker lifts his head to acknowledge her, she shrinks away from him, despite his polite tone. “Yes, thank you.”

  She lifts his plate carefully to avoid touching him, remaining equally fearful and captivated by him. She’s pretty. Really pretty. And she bugs me. Her leering is obvious and so is my presence. Sweetheart, I’m sitting right here.

  Ryker doesn’t give off a “let’s have sex standing up vibe” like most who match him in looks would. At least not on purpose. What is prominent is his edge, sharp enough to sever throats with mild effort. Danger and unrest seeps from his pores, battling with and against his allure. I sense it, and so does our waitress.

  Her long red hair bounces behind her and her hips demonstrate a high interest in straddling him. Ryker doesn’t follow her flouncing and voluptuous hips as she disappears into the restaurant. His attention politely remains on me. “What would you like to do when we’re done with our meal?”

  I lean in close, my eyes cutting from side to side as if I’m afraid anyone passing might hear our secrets. “Grocery shopping.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “If I’m going to spend days upon weeks with you, I’ll need snacks and lots to eat.” I waggle my brows. “You’d be surprised how much a pixie can eat.”

  Something, possibly the start of a phantom smile, twitches the edges of his lips. I grin and wink. Sooner or later, I’m going to draw a real smile from the Bringer of Doom.

  The waitress returns with my marinated shrimp and octopus inked couscous. Mango chunks and avocado slices poke between the black mounds. My mouth waters. “Hello, baby,” I rasp.

  Ryker waits for the waitress to leave before slicing into his red snapper stuffed to the literal gills with shitake mushrooms. “Olivia, there’s much we need to discuss with regard to the Cù-Sìth and your training.”

  I pop a shrimp into my mouth. Oh, yeah. This dude can pick a restaurant. “We can discuss it while we shop. I’ll just need a few things for dinner.”

  “We could order in―”

  “I’m thinking pasta,” I say. “Do you like Italian?”

  “Do you like interrupting me?” he counters.

  I reach for another shrimp. “You probably aren’t used to that. Are you, big guy? So, do you?”

  “Do I what?”

  “Like Italian?” I repeat.

  The corner of his mouth curves ever so slightly. I’m getting closer.

  “Are you planning to cook for me?”

  “Darn tootin’ I am.” I eye his snapper. “Aren’t you going to share? It’s kind of stingy not to share.”

  He moves his plate closer and I swear I almost hear a chuckle. Almost. I lift a portion of my meal with my fork and spoon, careful to include every delectable ingredient and drop it onto his bread plate. I then go to town on the piece of snapper he slices for me. “Don’t forget to include a little risotto,” I remind him. “I love risotto. Oh! Are those capers?”

  “Olivia?”

  I lower my fork, knowing who called to me even before I peer over the patio’s small stone wall. Andrew waits frozen, the group of young men and women with him quieting as they take in his pallor. The young woman at his side tugs on his arm. “Are you all right?” she asks him.

  “I’m fine,” he answers. “Why don’t you go? I’ll catch up with you at the hospital.”

  “But . . .” she begins, her attention drifting to me.

  By the way her arm winds around him, she’s more familiar with Andrew than the others. Despite her touch and beauty, Andrew’s attention remains solely on me.

  Their friends encourage the woman along. Slowly, she relinquishes her hold. Andrew, although seemingly oblivious to anyone but me waits until the group disappears around the corner before bounding over the small wall with elfish grace.

  Although quick in action, he appears hesitant to approach, his stride more cautious than purposeful. Regret, and possibly more, haunts and blanches his youthful features, and makes him appear older despite the bright green T-shirt and jeans he wears. He swallows hard and kneels beside me, taking my hands within his. “It really is you,” he tells me.

  I try to smile. My unease makes it difficult. His touch while warm doesn’t comfort me, nor does it grant me the courage to speak. Andrew is a reminder of that horrible night. Vivid memories strike me like physical blows and shove away the cheer I found in Ryker’s presence.

  Andrew’s thumb strokes the inside of my palm. “I thought you were dead,” he says, gripping my hands tighter. “There was talk that you made it out of the club―that you survived. I didn’t believe it. I heard the hounds and knew they were coming for you.”

  My eyes prick with the first sting of tears.

  He smiles and cups my face with his hands. “How did you do it, beautiful?”

  I recoil from his touch and his term of endearment. The legs of Ryker’s chair scrape against the slab foundation and Ryker prowls to my side, his protective aura enclosing me. It’s only then the emotions twisting my belly lessen.

  Andrew drops his hands and stands. I stand, too.

  Ryker doesn’t greet Andrew with kindness or warmth. He doesn’t know Andrew, and while Andrew doesn’t pose a threat to me, my reaction to Andrew’s caress alerts Ryker that I don’t want him
touching me.

  “Who’s this?” Andrew asks, his voice no longer gentle.

  Andrew’s irate demeanor gives me pause. I don’t belong to Andrew and he interrupted my lunch with Ryker.

  “This is my friend, Ryker. Ryker this is Andrew.” I press my hand against Ryker’s arm to halt his advance, while the other motions to my talisman. “Ryker rescued me from the hounds. He secured another talisman for me that veiled me from Death.”

  Andrew examines Ryker. I’ll give him this, if he’s afraid, he’s not showing it. “How did you manage that?” he asks Ryker. “What do you do, walk around with spare talismans shoved in your pockets, friend?”

  “I’m not your friend,” Ryker replies, his throaty timbre clipped. “And if you were Olivia’s, you wouldn’t have abandoned her.”

  “I did not abandon her!” Andrew hisses.

  But he had.

  Andrew stands his ground, his suspicion of Ryker escalating. “Where did you come from? I don’t remember seeing you that night.”

  I answer for him. “He charged in following the arrival of the Cù-Sìth.”

  The mention of the death hounds by their true name makes Andrew tense. Or perhaps it’s knowing Ryker barreled into the club when everyone else retreated. Either way Andrew doesn’t challenge him further. It’s just as well. One way or another, Andrew would lose to Ryker.

  “Ryker saved me from Death,” I repeat. “I would have died if it wasn’t for him.”

  Andrew thaws his icy stance, as the hurt trembling my voice works its way along my features. “I didn’t abandon you, Olivia. I only left because there was nothing more I could do.”

  I think back to how willingly Frankie offered Dahlia his talisman. Except Andrew isn’t Frankie, I’m not Dahlia, and we never shared what they did. “I know.”

  Andrew reaches for me, his aggression long gone. “Livvie,” he says.

  I edge away from him and angle my body toward Ryker.

  Ryker’s heavy palm immediately finds the curve of my back, giving me an additional boost so I may finish speaking. “It’s okay, Andrew. I understand your reasons for leaving.” I’m being honest and although there’s more to say, I don’t bother. Andrew never promised me forever or pretended to be more than he was. He wanted to live. I can’t fault him for it.

  I offer him a weak smile. “Good luck with your residency. I know you’ll make a wonderful surgeon.”

  He nods, knowing this is our goodbye. “See you around, Liv.” He crosses the patio, this time taking the time to unlatch the metal gate leading to the sidewalk.

  Ryker remains trained on Andrew, watching him walk in the direction his friends had disappeared. Andrew whips out his cell phone, ready, I presume, to move on with his life and onto the next willing female.

  Ryker frowns when he catches me watching him. I smile, really smile. “You asked me why I’m not as afraid of you as I should be,” I remind him. I motion to Andrew who vanishes around the corner without another glance back. “It’s because unlike Andrew, you would never leave me alone and vulnerable, would you?”

  Ryker’s ice blue eyes spark with a fire that cements me in place. “No. I would die for you, Olivia.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Are you good with a whip?”

  I push up on my elbows from where I lay plastered on the wood floor and glower at Ryker. In his black basketball shorts and tight sleeveless T-shirt, he isn’t exactly the Grim Reaper personified. In fact, all his ensemble does is provide a better glimpse at those boulders I once mistakenly referred to simply as “muscles.”

  “Is this a serious question?”

  He deepens his already hard scowl. “You have limber wrists. It’s a fair question.”

  “I own fifteen pairs of shoes in varying shades of pink. What do you think?” I rub my rump. He spent this morning’s session trying to teach me to shoot a gun in his fifth floor apartment. I was doing amazingly well until he added bullets. He warned me the kickback could knock me on my ass. I just didn’t realize he meant literally.

  Ryker drags a hand through his short-buzzed hair and paces the room. He stops in front of the reinforced steel and cinderblock wall he uses as a gun range. Too bad my bullets never became one with the target, an eight-foot tall outline of an ogre. I didn’t even hit the paper! I cross my arms. Where did the big ol’ bullet go?

  Ryker wonders the same thing. He lifts the edge of the target and drops it when something catches his attention on the far side of the room.

  “Oh, no. Did I hit the window?” I ask when he moves toward it.

  He nods, walking as his frown deepens. “I don’t know if this the right course of action for you. Your aim is atrocious, you take too long to fall into a proper stance, and you’re obviously scared of the blast, even with the silencer.” He peers out the window. “You also killed a pigeon.”

  I scramble to the window where my bullet created a perfect hole. Gray and white plumage scatters along the ledge. Something, maybe a foot, curls tight in the corner. I cover my eyes. My tears flowing from one breath to the next. I’ve never killed anything, not even a bug.

  Ryker stiffens beside me. “Are you crying?” My rapid sniffling answers his question. As does the pathetic whimpering that follows. He pauses. “It was a clean death,” he adds.

  “Is that supposed to make me feel better?” By now I’m bawling. Great, some seeker of death I am.

  Ryker is so quiet he practically disappears. I’m sure he made a run for it until he taps my shoulder in true “there, there” fashion. “It was an accident, Olivia. I’m certain his spirit recognizes as much and has forgiven you.”

  I drop my hands and glare. “You really know how to lay on the sympathy, you know that? Give up lawyering and death. Writing for Hallmark is clearly your calling.”

  He crosses his massive arms over his equally massive chest. “What would you prefer I say?”

  I wipe my eyes. “You can start by explaining why I’m learning to shoot in the first place. Just yesterday you told me that bullets and ammo have no effect on Reapers.”

  “They don’t,” he agrees. “But your energy does.”

  “My what?”

  “Your magic,” he clarifies. “It’s what you used that night against the Cù-Sìth. You can manipulate it to extend past you.”

  “I can?”

  “Yes,” he replies like it’s obvious.

  I wipe my eyes with my stretchy T-shirt. “This would have been good info to share yesterday, rather than the hours we spent reviewing Evil Reapers of Doom 101.”

  “Study will be just as valuable to you as your ability to engage in combat.” He sighs when I stare blankly back at him. “Come with me.”

  He walks, well, not really. Ryker doesn’t “walk” anywhere. Truer to his nature, he stalks across the room to where several gym mats are pressed against the wall. He sits, inviting me to join him. I more or less shimmy to his side, crisscrossing my legs and wiping the last of my tears.

  “The power you possess rests at your fingertips,” he tells me.

  “Right.” I flex and straighten my fingers. “That’s how I cause the most damage.”

  “But it’s not limited to your hands alone. You can release it from within you and send it into your opponent.”

  I tilt my head, trying to wrap my mind around what he tells me. “Will it come back?”

  He shakes his head. “Consider it a breath that leaves you. That same breath doesn’t return, yet it doesn’t stop you from breathing. However―”

  “There’s always a ‘however’, isn’t there?” I ask, making a face.

  “Yes. Just as there’s always a student determined to interrupt the class.” He ignores my scowl at the dig. “Your magic, while permanent, will weaken you if overused or overstressed, just like your body. One of the many things I’ll help you with is building your stamina. But that will take time. For now, we’ll work on releasing and managing your power.”

  Ryker leans forward and slams his hand ag
ainst the honey wood floor. The head of his scythe protrudes. He clasps it tight and tosses it in the air. In one smooth move he stands and catches it mid-staff. “My power to kill comes from within me. I transfer it into my weapons and make them more lethal. If I didn’t, it would just be a staff with a curved blade at the end.

  “Capable of gutting pigs in a single bound.”

  The edges of his lips curve into another “almost” smile. “Agreed. But it’s my will that sharpens the blade, strengthens the cut, and assures the kill with little effort.” He halts his almost smile. “It’s become second nature for me, more like blinking than a task. With time, I hope it will become the same for you.”

  My fingers braid through my hair. “When you went after Brielle’s husband, it was one clean cut, from his shoulder to his hip. Wasn’t it?”

  “It was.” He taps the end of the scythe against the floor, returning it to the area between dimensions where he stores it.

  Not too long ago, I was shopping for another pair of pink pumps to add to my growing collection. Now, here I am sitting with the Grim Reaper discussing slicing and dicing.

  Ryker resumes his seat beside me, waiting for me to speak. “Olivia,” he says when I remain quiet.

  I shake my head. “I know the type of man Brielle’s husband was. You don’t owe me an explanation.”

  He rests his head against the cinderblock wall, pondering his retort. “You’re wrong. It seems I owe you more.”

  “Ryker, this isn’t the time to spare my feelings.” My face meets his. “And please don’t apologize for being honest. I prefer truth to lies no matter the circumstance, especially now.” For all I’m trying to be tough, I wiggle my toes nervously. “I won’t survive otherwise. You know I won’t.”

  “Does this mean that you trust me?”

  It’s more a final acknowledgement than a question. I smile. “Would I be here with you if I didn’t?”

  “I suppose not.”

  I release my hair, allowing myself a moment to take him in. The morning was rushed, filled with instruction, quick exchanges, and loads of information. There was little opportunity for small talk. Despite it all, and murdered pigeon aside, the time spent with him was nice.