by Cecy Robson
Ryker stares back at me, swallowing hard. I watch, briefly mesmerized by how his Adam’s apple slides along his throat. I wonder how many women have taken a bite. My body heats at the thought and my reason mentally slaps me across the face.
Ryker lifts his head from the wall, his icy gaze dropping from my eyes to fix on my mouth. Again, he swallows hard. Again, I watch him watch me.
My gentle heartbeat morphs into one dull thud against my sternum, painful and magnificent all at once. My mind tries to suppress the throb, interjecting with logic I have no desire to hear. It screams at me anyway. Don’t go there, Olivia. This isn’t a true man or true Fae. He is the ultimate end, dangerous and terminal.
You forgot sexy, my forlorn womanly parts purr.
Something else, maybe my sanity, rushes forward and kicks me in the virtual shins. Don’t toy with Death, it insists when my body draws closer to his. Someone alive can’t be with someone who’s dead.
The last statement is the slamming door I need to halt my lascivious desires. I jerk away from Ryker as if struck. “You think I can transfer my anti-death ray into the bullets?” I ask.
Ryker stills. I grimace when he swallows yet again. Damn that tempting little Adam’s apple. He clears his throat. “It’s a theory. One I hope you will eventually master. But I fear it won’t be soon enough based on this morning’s display. You’re too pre-occupied with learning the bare basics of shooting. Focusing your magic on the bullet as it leaves the chamber and maintaining it until it strikes your opponent is a skill that will take time.”
My fingers find a new section of hair to braid. “Then why did we waste the whole morning? I could have swung by the firm. Seriously, if sending my mojo into the bullet is so hard, why even bother?”
“I needed to gauge where we could start. If your shooting ability was less . . .”
“Laughable?” I offer.
He smirks. Smirks look damn good on him.
He can eat you; my sanity reminds me with an annoying jab.
“Awkward may be a better term,” Ryker replies. He leans and rests his elbows against his legs. “If you could shoot and release your magic into the bullet, you could fire from a greater distance and avoid engaging the Reapers directly.”
I release my hair, understanding. “You don’t want me touching them.”
“If you can avoid it, no,” he admits.
“Why?”
“At close range they can knock you down hard enough to lose consciousness, leaving you vulnerable. Any direct attempt to kill you should fail but it won’t stop them from harming you in other ways.”
His “other ways” remark chills me to my bones. I hadn’t thought about the more creative things the Reapers could do to me and with good reason.
Ryker squares his jaw. “I won’t let them hurt you.”
“If you can avoid it. But what if you can’t?” My hair falls around my face. “And what if they hurt you, too?”
“It’s the chance we have to take, Olivia.”
The tension spreads along his shoulders and down his arms. “There are many of them, and only two of us. Bill, the dragons, and Jane may be our allies, but they don’t possess the power to defeat Death like we do. They must keep their veils and hide just to stand a chance. In the end, it will come down to us, and us alone.”
I stare at my hands. “I just hope we’re enough.”
“I do, too.”
A light rain drizzles against the window, transforming into a full summer shower before I speak again. “You mentioned a whip. Why that of all things?”
“Give me your hand,” he says.
I do without question. It surprises Ryker and I suppose me, too.
He holds my wrist palm side up and taps the center. “Your power releases here, but it generates from your center or possibly your heart. From what I can interpret, your magic grows in viciousness when you’re angry.”
“That sounds about right,” I agree. Fear may have fueled my actions, yet it was my fury that compelled me to fight back.
Ryker continues, his voice wary as if listening in on my thoughts. “Your ‘death ray’ as you call it, can extend to any part of your body, your legs, your feet, even your teeth if you’re desperate enough. If I’m right, you can extend it several lengths beyond your body just as I do with my scythe.”
“If I’m holding something.”
“Correct,” he says.
“Which is why you want me to try out a whip,” I reason.
“Exactly.”
He crosses the room and slips behind the spiraling metal stairs that lead up to his residence. A large wooden sea trunk straight off the set of The Pirates of the Caribbean rests against the wall. He fumbles through it, removing several sheathed swords, a clear case of daggers packed in foam inserts, and what appeared to be a set of tongs with vicious teeth levitating within a crystal case. I hear a hum. I think it’s some sort of electrical device within the building until I realize its coming from the set of tongs.
“Um, what’s that?” I ask, pointing to the scary thing as it continues to sing.
Ryker carefully lowers it to the floor beside him. “Egg extractor.”
This time, I’m the one swallowing hard. “You don’t mean chicken eggs, do you?”
“No.”
My ovaries find someplace to hide (somewhere between my twisting bowels and left kidney) and my legs can’t close tight enough. “Remember what I said about telling me the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?” I ask.
“Yes?”
“I take it back,” I say, shuddering.
Ryker resumes his search until he finds a braided black whip at the base of the trunk. He casts it aside and carefully returns the weapons. I start to relax until he lifts the humming tongs and places his lips close to the case. “Quiet, Vanessa,” he whispers. “It’s not time.”
“Vanessa” immediately silences her song, apparently disappointed there are no eggs to extract. This time, my ovaries lurch in the direction of my throat.
Ryker prowls back to the center of the room, holding tight to the whip’s handle and allowing the rest to dangle at his side. In my mind, whips are long, like the one Indiana Jones uses to leap from one crumbling Mayan ruin to the next. The one Ryker carries is only about five feet in length.
“This is a snake whip,” he explains.
“To whip snakes?”
His frown tells me no. “Never mind,” I mutter.
“Watch me carefully. When I’m done, you may try it.” He whirls his wrist, keeping the black braided end spiraling beside him. He then turns to face the outline of the ogre we used to practice shooting.
Several feet remain between Ryker and his target. With a quick snap of his wrist, the whip extends out. A thin stream of azure light fires from its tip, the projecting magic slicing the paper from one corner to the next in a perfect line.
My jaw lands somewhere near my ovaries.
He jerks the tail back and smoothly resumes the spinning motion, stalking back to me like his perfect performance was as easy as skipping rope. “Now, you try.”
I stare blankly between him and the target. The stupid sections of paper are practically laughing at me.
“Olivia, try.”
“I’m not sure I can even cut that straight a line with scissors.”
“I’m not asking you to use scissors. Nor am I asking the impossible. The beauty of this weapon is that even in a child’s hands it can make a tremendous impact.”
“You let little kids play with this shit?” All humor is lost on Captain Awesomeness. I throw my hands in the air. “You know, just because you’re Death and all doesn’t mean you have to take everything so seriously.”
“Just try it,” he says more sternly. “We’ll start slow. Focus your killing energy into your hand and send it into the whip like an electric current running through a power line.”
He places the handle in my palm, rolling his eyes when I drop it. “Olivia, it’s not going to hu
rt you.”
Ryker slaps it back into my hand, refusing to release it until he’s certain it’s secure within my grasp. “Think back to the night you were attacked,” he tells me. “Focus on the anger that surged through your veins and the energy you felt when you touched Cathasach.”
“I don’t know if I can,” I confess. “I’m still not sure how I pulled it off.”
He analyzes me, something about me catching his attention. “The energy you sensed, was it cold, or something altogether different?”
I think back to the sensation as it left my fingertips and tore into Cathasach’s flesh. “Mm. No. It was more like a burning heat. But it wasn’t painful.”
“Then concentrate on that burn and how it felt. Build it within you and push it out through your hand and out the length of the leather.”
“Just so you know, this is some freaky conversation we have going on. What’s next? Ball gags and ass-less chaps?” I laugh. He doesn’t. “Fine,” I grumble.
I tighten my grip. My hand grows warmer. I can’t be sure if it’s due to how hard I’m clenching this thing or if it’s all due to Ryker’s crazy sexy body heat.
I close my eyes and envision my ‘wattage’ building from my heart and shooting outward. “Is anything happening?” I ask through clenched teeth.
When he doesn’t respond, I open my eyes to find Ryker rubbing the light stubble edging his jaw. At this rate, he’s going to rub that dimple right off his face.
“What’s holding you back?” he asks. “You’re not even trying.”
“I am so trying.”
He shakes his head. “Your efforts are pitiable at best.”
“Don’t be such a hard ass,” I snap.
I clench my hand tighter when he frowns. “And don’t look at me that way when I accuse you of being a hard ass. You’ve had years, and bodies, and loads of practice. I had one experience.” I hold out a finger. “One. I was terrified, and angry, and watching Fae folk die around me. For you to say I’m not trying is bull. . .”
Like the strike of a match, something fires within me. The burn, the one I attempted to describe, flares when those horrible memories of the Glen resurface.
Pink light, that’s right, pink, floods from my hand and into the handle.
“More,” Ryker says. “Feel it and let it fuel you.”
I scrunch my face, sensing the flame start to die.
“Olivia, do not allow it to fade.”
I swear and grit my teeth, struggling to reignite it.
“Olivia.”
“I’m trying!”
The light vanishes as if snuffed. It’s all I can do not to throw the ridiculous thing across the room. I clasp, my free hand over my face, trying not to scream. “Sorry,” I say. “I’m doing exactly what you tell me to do. But it’s like something is missing....”
Ryker’s arm slips around my waist, crossing over my belly and latching tight to the opposite side. He pulls me against him and those damn fine baby-makin’ hips of his. My eyes widen to frisbees. It’s bad enough to feel his stiff, rigid body against me, but then my butt cheeks develop a mind of their own, clenching and unclenching, seeking out his Nether regions.
“Um, Ryker?”
“Shhh,” Ryker whispers low in my ear, his chest vibrating against my back. “You described your magic like a burn. Can you feel it? Is it hard?”
“Ah . . .”
“Good,” he rumbles. “As it grows, allow the heat to travel through your core.”
“Oh, it’s travelling,” I mumble, my pelvic floor aching.
He lowers his chin, curving into me. “This is what I want, what I seek. Build that heat and allow it to encase every part of you.”
My eyes roll into the back of my head. “You don’t know what you’re asking,” I stammer.
“Yes, I do,” he rasps. His free hand smooths over my knuckles, maintaining my hold over the handle of the whip.
The now familiar spark takes life, smoldering rapidly.
Blinding fuchsia light skids along the whip, extending past the tip and swerving in serpentine motions across the floor. The sudden sizzle has nothing to do with my rage and everything to do with Ryker’s body closing in.
“More,” he begs me. “Give me more.”
The heat within me sputters, rising mercilessly between my breasts and tightening the tips. I arch my back and gasp, my eyelashes fluttering.
Ryker’s hold magnifies. “Don’t fight it,” he pleads. “Allow the release and let it consume you.”
Dear. Lord.
A groan breaks free from my throat. Something primal and hungry detonates, gifting my female parts with more hum than Vanessa.
Ryker’s breathy voice brushes against my flesh. “Just like that. Don’t stop.”
My thighs quiver, batting against him. Without warning, my power rocks through me like a horny rhino who caught view of a nice ass to ram. Sharp pain launches from my belly, burrowing its way south.
I wrench away from Ryker, stumbling backward and landing on my ass.
I’m not happy. I’m not sated. I am mortified.
It takes me a full minute to pry my fingers free from my scorching face.
Ryker kneels by the abandoned whip, nodding approvingly as the leather smokes with bright pink energy. The entire floor smells of burnt wood. Swirls and patterns brand the floor and far wall. Under Ryker’s “tutelage” I could have burned the whole damn building down.
“This is excellent, Olivia,” he says. “Well, done.” He does a double take when he catches sight of my pathetic and panting self. “Are you all right? Your face is flushed.”
No, I’m not all right. I think I had an orgasm. “Fine, fine. Just fine. A little hot, nothing more.”
He doesn’t believe me. There’s a shock. He offers me a hand to help me to my feet. Being the slick gal, I am, I lurch upward and almost ass-plant again.
Ryker eyes me like the psycho I no doubt resemble. “Are you certain you’re all right?”
“Yup.” I salute him. That’s how we cool chicks roll.
He watches me dust off which is ridiculous. Even with the burn marks, I can probably serve an eight-course meal across this meticulous floor.
I clear my throat. “Okay. What’s next?”
Ryker lifts the whip and holds it out to me. My magic, while evidently strong enough to singe wood and concrete, left the leather unaffected. “Take it,” he says. “Now that you’re more familiar with how to rile your power, practice maneuvering the whip. I’ll lead you from behind―”
I yank the whip from his grasp. “Nope. Not necessary. I got it.”
I flick my wrist.
And take out Ryker’s eye.
With a jump and a scream, I watch it plop on the floor.
Chapter Seventeen
“I’m, like, so sorry!”
“It’s fine.”
“If it’s so ‘fine’ why are you growling at me?”
Ryker holds tight to his bleeding face, glaring at me with the one good eye he has left after squaring off with my whip of doom.
I race around the kitchen searching for a dishtowel. I finally find an unopened pack and rip open the plastic packaging with my teeth.
Blood is seeping through his thick fingers. Like he has a hole in his skull. Which thanks to me, he does!
I run water over the towel and hurry to where he sits on the bar stool, his body curled. “Move your hand,” I say, my voice trembling.
“No.”
“What do you mean, ‘no?’” My voice is no longer trembling. “Move your hand now.”
“You won’t like what you see,” he replies.
“I already don’t like what I see.” I grind my teeth when he just sits there. “You are like the most stubborn Grim Reaper, ever.”
“You take off my eye, and now you’re insulting me?” he asks.
“It’s because I took off your eye that I should see. Now, move your hand.”
“I said, no,” he growls yet again.
/> I shove my face into his, livid. “Move it, or I’ll move it for you!”
One side of his mouth lifts into a mini smirk. “I’d like to see you try, Tinkerbell.”
I stiffen. “Did you really just go there?” The mini smirk widens.
Like the strike of a cobra, my hand grips his wrist and yanks. Twice. And once more. I throw my body weight into pulling his arm down and all I manage to do is slide my feet across the wood floor.
Damn slippery floor.
A barrage of deep rumbles follows a light choking sound. My jaw pops open. “Are you laughing at me?”
Ryker’s shoulders shake. “No,” he says.
“You are so laughing at me!”
“I don’t mean to.” He clears his throat. “I just find you . . .”
I scowl, at least, I pretend to. My spaghetti arms are pathetic at best. Still, I cross them and lift my chin defiantly. “You find me what? Intimidating, strong, imposing?”
“Sweet,” he offers, and drops away his bloody hand.
I take it back. He shouldn’t have shown me and I shouldn’t have asked.
My arms fall at my sides and lights dance in my vision like it’s prom night. A gash, as thick as two of my fingers, sliced through Ryker’s forehead, down where his eye is supposed to be, to his jaw, exposing bone. Shit. That’s bone! His eyelid dangles in two pieces, the ends flapping open when he breathes.
I swallow enough bile to punch through my belly like an Alien lovechild.
“It’s not that bad,” he says, watching me sway from side to side. “The bleeding has subsided.”
“Wha-wha.” I try to control my breathing. “Wh-why does it look like that?” I ask, pointing. “The viper whip―”
“Snake whip,” he corrects.
“Whatever. It couldn’t have done all―” I wave my crazy hands around his face “―this! You need stitches!”
“No,” he says calmly. “I don’t.”
“And a doctor.”
He shakes his head.
“And plastic surgery!” I don’t also mention a glass eye. I grab my purse and pull at his arm. “Mother of elves and hobbits, maybe Jane can help.” I take another glance and cringe. “But I think it’s going to cost you.”