“What happened to me?” she asked.
“Don’t know exactly.” Creed leaned against the counter. “Best way I can explain it was like a cat going into heat. You had some sort of hormone flare and starting putting out fuck-me vibes.”
“Oh.”
“Which is why the doc socked you full of sedatives and took off with your buddy.”
“Did you…”
“Take you up on the invitation? No. I’ve got this thing about screwing strangers in dumps like this.”
He forced a smile with the last sentence, hoping to reassure her. He could tell by the way her hands tightened on her cup that he hadn’t.
Out of words, like she seemed to be out of questions, he drained his cup and refilled it. The coffee was strong; he welcomed the caffeine as a stimulant. It might be a long time until he slept again.
Chiana sipped from her own mug, looking everywhere but at him, trying to ignore the elephant in the room. Creed wasn’t about to let her.
“How did he find you?” Creed asked.
“Who?”
“Your friend.”
“He’s not my friend, he’s my partner.”
“Whatever.”
Creed studied her, trying to decide if she was lying or out of the loop. If she was the senior partner, how did Mick find her? Either he was able to figure out from her cell phone’s GPS, or he’d followed a tracer. He shouldn’t have been able to find her. Tracking an employee was a job for someone inside
the agency’s special abilities unit with the highest clearance, and only after following well-defined procedures.
Every instinct inside him screamed trouble.
“Whose car was out there?” he asked.
“Mine. Why?”
“Either you called him when you got here or you’ve got a bug on your car.”
She shook her head. “Not any more. I took my baby in to have a bad ball joint replaced, and the mechanic found a little box that definitely wasn’t standard. It’s been off for more than a week.”
Creed scrubbed his face with his hand. If the car was untraceable, that meant she sent off the signal. And it meant that her partner, the man she should be able to trust most in the world, was keeping track of her every movement.
“Stand up,” he said.
“Why?”
“I need you to strip.”
Chiana shook her head.
“Trust me, it’s not so I can see you naked,” Creed said, impatient. “I had that chance and turned it down, remember?”
“No.”
“You were getting ready to show all of us what God gave you, so don’t start with the modesty crap.”
“Give me one good reason.”
“Just start taking off your clothes.
Creed started toward her, ready to undress her himself. She must have sensed it because, with a deep sigh, she stood up, arms hanging at her side.
“Start at your feet.”
Unlacing her boots, she kicked them off and shoved them toward Creed. He pulled a knife from the scabbard on his thigh and began poking the tip into the leather.
“Hey, those cost an arm and a leg!” Chiana protested.
“Keep stripping.”
She concentrated on unsnapping the jeans and pulling them off without losing anything from her pockets. That was so much better than watching Creed turn her boots into Swiss cheese. He grabbed the pants as soon as she tossed them to him. After checking the contents of the pockets, he ran his knife along the seam of the jeans.
“More.”
Chiana shook her head. “No.”
“Have it your way.”
Before she had a chance to protest, he grabbed the hem of her shirt and yanked it over her head. He ran his hand along the seams before tossing the garment onto the floor. Chiana instinctively crossed her arms over her chest as he slipped a finger under the back of her bra.
“Your choice,” he reminded her as his finger moved toward the front of the bra, sliding against her flesh. He stopped at the front of the flimsy undergarment, his eyes moving up to meet hers.
“If I have to take it off, I will,” he said.
The steel in his voice stopped her from arguing. She reached behind her and unclasped the bra, letting it fall to floor as she grabbed her shirt. Creed took the tip of his long knife and slit the V where the cups met, gently working a long piece of thin metal from the pocket that held the underwire. A small lump decorated one end.
“There’s a reason certain stores offer discounts to agents,” he said, dropping the tracer to the concrete floor and stomping hard on it. He picked up the mangled device, cut the exposed wires, threw it back on the floor and, as a finale, stomped again.
He turned his back as Chiana grabbed her pants with shaking hands. He examined what he’d found in her pockets, opening the leather case and holding one of the syringes up to the light.
“Designer drug to keep you normal, right?”
Chiana made a grab for it, but he was too quick. “Hormone shots. I’ve had problems since I was a kid.”
“Started when you were 13 or so, week or two before your first period, right? Hot flashes, weird dreams, temperature spikes and an aversion to certain foods.”
“So?”
“Somebody took you to the emergency room or a local doc, and they were baffled. Next thing you know, a social worker’s talking to your folks, saying how you need follow-up.”
He held the case by his fingertips. “And then this.”
“Don’t destroy those. Please.”
The dignity of her request affected Creed in a way he hadn’t thought possible. He’d given up caring about anything except the job. He’d learned to isolate himself from other people’s emotions. They only got in the way. Yet he could feel her fear and sense of betrayal as easily as he might a cold draft or a burn, which meant he was right about her.
“I know what you are,” he said. “I know about your visions.”
“Dreams. They’re bad dreams, nothing more.”
Creed shook his head. “You know better. And you know without these shots, Odin will find you. Or someone he sends. You’ll leave this plane, go back to his battlefields and do his work. You’re a Valkyrie.”
“My mother was.”
“And you have her blood. That makes you one, too. So talk.”
“My mother swore an oath. In order to save her lover’s life, in order to live to bear me, she promised Odin her child if it was a girl. She told me, but I didn’t believe her. Not until the dreams.”
“Now they’re coming for you.”
Chiana nodded. “If I leave this plane, I die, and my soul will be sent to hell.”
“Got news for you,” Creed said as he tossed her wallet and other possessions back to her. “Staying here won’t be any picnic either.”
“I guess I’m screwed.” Chiana tucked in her tee, zipped her pants and tossed what was left of a very expensive bra into the trash. “Don’t expect me to go down without a fight.”
She held her hand out to Creed.
“Do me a favor and give me fifteen minutes before you call in, okay? And if you don’t mind, I’d like those syringes back.”
Creed slipped the case into his pocket.
“No.”
“Oh, come on, man.” Abandoning her bravado, Chiana kicked the table and swore. “Do you really have to be such a hard ass?”
“I’m not calling in. Unless your partner’s less loyal than you think, no one knows I’ve found you. We have a couple hours before they realize I’ve cut contact.”
“You’re going rogue?”
Chiana stared at him, stunned. She’d heard stories about agents who got so tied up in a case they took it underground.
Suspicion rose in her. One more trick, that’s all it was. Like making her take her clothes off and feeling her up. He’d try to lull her into believing him, and then, as soon as they were clear of this place, a collection team would come swooping in and take over.
Creed spotted the change the instant it began. Her face flushed, and her hands rolled into fists. Her eyes narrowed as she fixed a cold stare at him, assessing him. He tensed, preparing himself as she rose to the balls of her bare feet, her shoulders squaring and seeming to widen.
“You’re not doing this, you bastard.”
Her voice was cold, sharp and loud. Her sudden anger seemed to crystallize as she spoke, giving Creed a glimpse of how fierce a Valkyrie must be in battle. As she launched herself toward him, Creed began chanting the words he’d memorized. He repeated the phrases even as Chiana scratched and kicked, screaming again in that strange language, until his throat burned and she sagged against him, her rage defused.
As his arms closed around her, he repeated the last line, this time in English and not Sumerian.
“I bind you to me, woman of war,” he whispered, “so your weapons cannot hurt me and your spirit shies from wounding me.”
Lifting Chiana against his chest, Creed unbolted the door and began to climb the steps to daylight. By the time they left the building, she could stand.
“Let’s go.” He strode toward his SUV, turning his back on Chiana. If the spell worked, she’d come with him.
Chiana paused by the passenger door, shading her eyes against the afternoon sun.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
Creed shrugged. “Damned if I know. Get in.”
“Just like that. Trust you, no questions asked.”
“I’m leaving. Do what you want.”
Chiana hesitated for only a second before she opened the door and climbed in. Creed fired up the engine and headed back toward the main road. So far, so good.
She was sullen, staring out the window without speaking, which suited him fine. He needed time to reconcile himself to the responsibility he’d taken on.
Ever since Haiti, he’d worked alone. When he returned from the island nation, the agency told him to see a shrink. Said it was policy. He told them where they could put their policy, threw his agency-issued equipment on the desk and went on a three-day drunk. He was still sobering up when a director showed up at his doorstep, offering him a position as a free agent.
Free agents were the worst kept secret in the place. Everyone knew they were close to crazy, impossible to put with a partner. Officially, no such thing existed. The agency disavowed knowledge of agents like Creed. Unofficially, they got the assignments that needed to stay off the record, the ones where the chances of winding up dead were better than the chances of being alive to get that exorbitant paycheck.
If Creed cared about money, he would be a wealthy man. He was in this for a different payoff, the chance of dying. Raised to believe suicide was a coward’s way out, he couldn’t take his life. He had no problem with someone else doing it for him.
“What did you do back there?”
The question came as they hit the interstate and blended into the flow of semis and cars.
“Used a binding spell.”
“Which means?”
“No matter how wonked out you get, you’re not going to hurt me. You may want to, you may try to, but if it works like it’s supposed to, you can’t.”
“They ought to sell that sucker in Wal-Mart, huh? Bars wouldn’t need bouncers then.”
Creed came close to smiling. “It’s like a pharmaceutical. There may be side effects.”
“What, you turn into a toad at midnight?” Chiana asked. “Or I do?”
Now Creed did smile, an unaccustomed action that made his face feel strange. “Do you always ask so many questions?”
Chiana shook her head. “Only when I’m nervous.”
“Do me a favor and calm down then.”
To his surprise, she shut up. The miles rolled by, the sun slid toward the horizon, and they rolled north past the Tennessee welcome sign as dusk fell. Creed glanced at the fuel gauge. Heading toward empty, but enough to reach their destination, he hoped. He knew where he needed to go now, and he wanted to get there fast.
Chiana stared longingly at the restaurant signs as they rolled past another exit. Her body was still revved up, and she felt like she hadn’t eaten for days. When she’d complained about hunger, Creed had dug around in a duffel bag and found a couple of energy bars that tasted like honey-glazed cardboard. She’d hated them, but she’d eaten them.
Glancing at her watch, she calculated the hours since her last shot. Unless Wil had sneaked a few into Creed’s pocket, there was only one syringe left. Until this morning, one hit every twenty-four hours, precisely timed, had kept her Valkyrie side calmed down and her human blood in control. She couldn’t forget to watch the clock, not since she’d been located.
“Still hungry?” Creed’s inquiry pulled her back to the highway.
“Famished.” She wasn’t exaggerating.
“We’re almost there. It won’t be long.”
“If I don’t get some food soon, there’s going to be a corpse in this car.”
Creed said nothing, although his foot went down heavier on the gas.
“I don’t mean mine,” Chiana added. “Yours. I’m about ready to take a bite out of you right now.”
“Look under the seat. There might be another energy bar.”