“All right,” she said. “You may order me something, if you like. If I don’t care for it, I can always wear my own clothes.”
“Of course,” he said. “What size do you wear?” He ran his hands down her sides to explore her narrow waist. “I’m guessing a size eight. Your shoe size?”
Then she did smile. “Six and a half, narrow. I don’t need to hear how you got so accurate at guessing women’s sizes. I can guess.”
“None of them meant a thing to me, darling,” he told her, his husky voice turning even deeper.
Hunger pulsed again, along with the urge to bite him. She managed to articulate, “I’m going to take that shower.”
“Have fun,” he told her. That dazed look on her face was so goddamn sexy. If they weren’t facing such serious issues, he would have offered to join her. He had gobbled her down and now he wanted to savor. The thought of standing under the spray of hot water with her and soaping those luscious curves he had barely had a chance to enjoy, let alone taste, made his groin tighten until he was in actual pain. But she was right, they had so much to do and so little time in which to do it. He gritted his teeth, took a step back and let her go.
Then because he was being so damn good, he gave himself a good-boy cookie and watched her beautifully rounded ass sway gently as she walked away from him. She looked like heaven and moved like sin. She stopped to swipe up one of the knives she had dropped on the couch, and his eyebrows shot up. He wondered what that was about. What an incomprehensible, crazy-hot wicked witch. She was like reading a murder mystery novel, all cliff-hangers and smoking guns, only she was so much more fun.
The suite had two bedrooms. She disappeared into the nearest one, and he forced himself to get relevant.
His first phone call should go toward the issue that would take the longest to accomplish. He used switchboard services to connect to the Illinois Cook County morgue then went through a long series of voice prompts until he reached the Medical Examiner’s Office of Paranormal Affairs. He had been prepared to leave a voicemail message, so he was pleasantly surprised when Seremela picked up and said, “Dr. Telemar speaking. Make it brief, or I’ll get bored and hang up on you.”
“Seremela,” Rune said. “How are you doing?”
The medusa’s voice warmed with surprised pleasure. “Rune! How nice to hear from you. I’m doing fine, thank you. Things have calmed down considerably around here. My office hasn’t seen a single dead body since the last time we talked. How are you? How was your trip to Adriyel?”
He smiled. That was her polite way of saying things had calmed down ever since Tiago and Niniane had left Chicago. “I’m doing well, thanks. Adriyel was eventful, but at least the coronation took place, and the last I heard, Niniane and Tiago were fine. Listen, I’m afraid I’ve got to cut right to the chase. I’m involved in an issue in San Francisco that’s turned urgent, and I was hoping you would be available for a consult.”
“That sounds intriguing,” Seremela said. “ And you already know my workload here is less than hectic. What’s the issue?”
“I can’t tell you over the phone,” he said. “The consult would have to be in person. But you would be compensated handsomely for your time, and of course for all your travel expenses.” He would see to that personally. He waited a short time for her to process the request. Then he said, “I need you here quickly, Seremela. This is life or death.”
The sound of his own words punched him in the face. Fuck, it really was life or death. Carling’s life, Carling’s death. He broke into a cold sweat.
Don’t panic, son. Get things done.
The pleasure in Seremela’s voice turned somber. “Of course,” she said, so immediately he could have kissed her. “I’ll be glad to help in any way I can. I’ll book the first flight I can get.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ll charter something for you instead. It’ll get you here more quickly.”
“Guess I’d better hang up so I can go home and pack a bag,” Seremela said. “I’ll head straight for . . . O’Hare?”
“That’ll do. Give me a cell phone number so I can get in touch with you in transit if I have to.” She rattled off a series of digits, and he jotted them down. “Seremela. I’m going to owe you a big one. Thank you.”
“Forget about it, you’re welcome. Now get me that flight.”
She hung up, and Rune dialed Tucker, the Wyr-badger in Chicago who was on retainer to handle such local needs on short notice. A taciturn, rather unfriendly individual, Tucker worked well in isolation outside of the Wyr demesne. Rune didn’t bother to explain that he was acting outside of the Wyr demesne’s interests. He wasn’t sure Tucker would get the distinction, or care anyway.
The Wyr-badger listened as Rune explained what he needed. Then Tucker said, “What you’re really saying is you want me to get snakes on a plane.”
Rune coughed out a laugh. Tucker was so often surly, his odd, rare humor usually came as a surprise. “You are not at all PC, my friend.”
“That’s why I live all by myself.”
“I need this as fast as possible.”
“I’m on it.” Tucker hung up.
Rune moved on to other things. He called the concierge desk to request a personal shopper. He got connected with pleasing alacrity to a woman named Gia. He was in the process of explaining to her exactly what he wanted her to acquire when the call-waiting on the phone beeped. He switched the line over.
Tucker said, “Flight is chartered. A plane will be waiting for Dr. Telemar when she reaches the airport. The good doctor will be with you by evening.”
“Awesome.” The clench in his gut eased a bit.
“Just so you know, the company we use is wicked booked right now. I had to get them to bump a couple of other contracts to get a plane. This is going to cost you.”
“Cost is irrelevant,” Rune said. He switched back to the shopper, finished his order and hung up.
What did Carling want with that knife?
He ran his hands through his hair, and a knock sounded on the door. He strode over to answer it. A slender young woman with a sleek blonde pageboy, wearing a hotel uniform, stood smiling in the hall. When she caught sight of him, her smile died and her eyes went very wide. She looked poleaxed. She said, “Oh. My. God.”
“Sorry about that,” Rune said. “I should have put on a shirt.”
“Not on my account,” breathed the young woman. Her gaze fell as if under the weight of gravity and remained riveted on the trim waistline of his jeans.
“What can I do for you?” Rune said, impatient.
“Whatever you want,” she told him in a strangled whisper. Then her gaze flew up to his, as her cheeks turned a bright scarlet. “Ohmigod, I’m so sorry. Don’t tell anyone I said that, okay? I could lose my job.”
“I won’t.” He smiled at her, in spite of himself. “What I meant to ask is, why are you here?”
“The assistant manager, Mr. Rowling, sent me up to warn you and Councillor Severan that several members of the press have arrived. He’s downstairs dealing with them now. He wanted you to know that if you would like some privacy when you need to leave the hotel, just call down and he’ll arrange for you and the Councillor to have access to one of the service entrances.”
“Thank him for us.” He emphasized the “us” and watched her face fall. “We’ll call ahead if we need to.” Although he had no intention of needing to. It was one of the reasons why he had booked a suite with a balcony. He immediately had his own private entrance. Given the limited space, takeoffs and landings called for some finesse, but it was well within his ability.
“Yes, sir.”
He closed the door and turned around to face the interior of the suite. Two bedrooms, two baths. He didn’t need to wait for Carling to finish before he took his shower.
But he was still curious about why she took that knife.
He raised his voice and called, “How are you doing in there?”
“I’ll be out in a few minutes,” Carling called.
She had found the bedroom she had picked as elegantly decorated as the living room. There was another vase of fresh-cut flowers, the bed was made with French linens and another pair of French doors opened onto the wrought-iron balcony. The marble bathroom was large and as luxurious as the rest of the suite.
Carling stared at her reflection in the bathroom. She was halfway through cutting off her hair. She had luxuriated in the hot shower, soaping herself all over with the complimentary soaps and shampoo. Then she had toweled off, and considered the long wet tangled mess that hung down her back, and her without a brush. So she had reached for the knife.
She could only achieve a ragged cut without hair scissors, so she considered the teenage boy with the choppy hair style and tried to mimic that effect. She left just enough length so it could be restyled with more finesse at a later time. She finished quickly then fluffed the damp silky locks and considered the effect.
A stranger in the mirror looked back at her. The short ragged hair emphasized the stranger’s high cheekbones, full lips and narrow jaw, and turned her long dark eyes huge. After wearing the heavy waist-long length for so long, her head and neck felt so weightless it was dizzying.
It would do for now. She suffered yet another pang when she looked at the large pile of hair on the marble floor, but the sense of freedom was a much stronger lure. She smiled, shrugged on the hotel bathrobe and walked into the living room.
Rune stared at her, stunned. “Oh bloody hell, you didn’t,” he muttered. He rubbed the back of his neck. “You look magnificent, but all that gorgeous hair.”
“It’s a season of change,” she said. And none of that hair was going to mean a blasted thing to her if she was dead, so she might as well enjoy the feeling of freedom while she could. “Who was at the door?”
“A hotel employee. The paparazzi have started to flock.”
“Of course they have.” She regarded him. “You haven’t showered yet.”
“I’ve been busy.” Rune grabbed a leather kit out of the duffle bag and gave Carling a quick kiss on the cheek. “Bloody fucking gorgeous, but fucking hell. I’m going to miss that hair. I’ll be five minutes. Wait to call the Djinn until I’m done, okay?”
Warmed in a way that had nothing to do with the physical, Carling touched his jaw in a brief caress. “All right.”
When he had left, she picked up her shredded caftan and looked around the living room for a wastebasket. She found one tucked discreetly under a table. When she pulled it out to stuff the caftan in it, she found a wadded-up piece of cloth already in the bin. Curiously, she pulled the cloth out and shook it open.
It was Rune’s T-shirt with the picture of the hairy man. What was his name again? Jerry Garcia. Rune had thrown his favorite shirt away when she wasn’t looking. He had to have done it just now, when she had been in the bathroom.
How about that.
She let the caftan fall into the wastebasket and pressed her hand to her mouth. She closed her eyes and put her face in the shirt. It was saturated with his masculine scent. She took several deep breaths. The worn cotton material was soft against her cheeks. Then she gently folded the shirt and tucked it into the bottom of her leather bag.
Rune was as good as his word. When he rejoined her, she had opened the balcony doors and was looking over San Francisco’s distinctive skyline.
He had forsaken the bloodstained jeans in favor of slipping on the other pair, dirty though they were, although he had elected to remain shirtless and shoeless for the moment. The sprinkle of hair on his chest was several shades darker than his tanned skin and still damp. His wet hair lay sleek against his strong, well-formed skull, and just a whiff of his clean, masculine scent was enough to make the backs of her knees tremble.
She struggled between pride and desire. But really, how much would she miss her pride in a few weeks when she was dead?
Even with that thought, it was still remarkably hard to do what she wanted. She jerked forward and hit an unreasoning wall of fear. She had to shove her way through it to reach Rune’s side. His arms were already going around her as she put her head on his shoulder and leaned against his chest.
That was what she wanted. Just that one thing, his arms around her while she rested her head on his chest, and reaching for it had been one of the hardest things she had ever done.
Rune put his cheek against the top of her head. The rough haircut had done startling things, like lend a hint of piquant charm to her face. The odd flash of fear in her eyes as she came toward him tore up his gut, somewhere deep inside where that fucking hook was embedded.
I’m so scared, she had said to him, back on the island. He could not imagine what it must be like to face the possibility of one’s death. The thought of facing Carling’s death . . . He couldn’t process the thought. His mind whited out.
“Rune,” she murmured.
He realized he had clamped around her with bone-bruising force, and he made himself ease up. He cleared his throat and said roughly, “Sorry.”
“Are you all right?”
He didn’t answer her directly, mostly because he didn’t know if he was all right. “You need to call the Djinn. We need to get him looking for the knife.”
“Yes, of course we do.” She straightened and ran a hand through her short hair, making it spike all over.
She looked so rumpled and it was so unexpectedly adorable, Rune breathed between gritted teeth and pivoted sharply away. His hands shook. He felt like an addict looking to mainline his next fix. He was so busy fighting emotions that bucked like an untrained stallion that he missed the next thing that Carling whispered, although he felt her Power shoot out like an elegant, laser-focused spear.
A moment shivered. It held the trembling tension of a droplet of sweat about to fall from the Titan Atlas as he strained to hold up the world.
Then Rune sensed a maelstrom of energy streaming toward them from some undefined, faraway place. It tore through the open balcony doors and filled the suite with such a chaotic roar of Power, for a moment the walls of the massive hundredand-ten-year-old hotel felt as thin, fragile and transparent as newspaper. Then the walls settled into place around them, and the Power coalesced into a defined point.