Heat Stroke(20)

Rahel clicked her talons dismissively. “You know better. She is the corpse at the murder scene, David. The crime, in the flesh. She comes.” This time, when she bared her teeth, they took on a needle-sharp ferocity. “Unless you want to leave her orphaned in this cold, cruel world. How long would she last, do you think?”

“Hey! Don’t talk around me, okay?” I barked, and stepped in between them. Rahel actually looked surprised at my outburst. “One of you had better start explaining to me what’s going on. Now.”

For a second, neither of them looked ready to spill the beans, but then the elevator came to a smooth gliding halt, and the bell rang.

David finally said, “We’re going to see Jonathan.”

“And I’m supposed to know who he is because…”

“Because he is the one true god of your new existence, little butterfly,” Rahel said. She wasn’t smiling anymore. “He is the Elder who was born at the first turning of the world. He is fire made flesh. And you really don’t want to piss that man off.”

The elevator doors cranked open. I don’t know what I was expecting—some cheesy B-movie interpretation of Hell, maybe—but what I saw was nothing but a clean white hallway stretching off into the distance.

Rahel said, “You will do as Jonathan requests. Your choice, David. If you do force me to fight, you know the outcome.”

“Do I?” His intensity was scary. So was the little half-smile on his lips. “Maybe I could surprise you.”

She tilted her head to one side. The beads in her dreadlocks clicked and whispered. No other answer.

David pushed away from the wall and stepped out of the elevator into the hallway. I followed, pulled even with him, and felt a bubble of panic threatening to rise somewhere in my not-entirely-solid throat.

“We’re in trouble, right?” I asked. I glanced back. The elevator doors were sliding closed. Rahel was nowhere in sight.

“Not—exactly.” He stopped, put his hands on my shoulders and turned me to face him. “Jo, you have to listen to me now. It’s important. When we get in there, don’t say anything. Not even if he asks you directly. Keep your eyes down, and your mouth shut, no matter what happens. Got it?”

“Sure.” He didn’t look convinced. I searched his face for clues. “So how bad is this for you?”

Instead of answering, he ran his fingers slowly through my hair. Weirdest sensation: I could literally feel it relax, the curls falling out of it into soft waves. His touch moved down, an inch at a time, teasing it straight. It felt so warmly intimate it made me feel weak inside.

“David—” I whispered. He put a finger on my lips to hush me.

“Your eyes,” he said, leaning closer. “They’re too bright. Dim them down.”

“I don’t know how.” His lips were about three inches from mine, close enough that I could taste them. “What color are they now?”

“Silver. They’ll always be silver unless you change them.” He had autumn brown firmly in place, looking human and mild as could be. “Try gray.”

I thought of it in my head, a kind of smoky soft gray, gentle as doves. “Now?”

“Better. Focus on that color. Hold it there.” His hands moved out of my hair and caressed my face, thumbs gently skimming my cheekbones. “Remember what I said.”

“Eyes down. Mouth shut,” I confirmed.

His lips quirked. “Why am I not convinced?”

“Because you know me.” I put my hands over his, felt the burning power coursing under his skin. Light like blood, pumping inside him. “Seriously. How bad is this?”

He pulled in a deep breath and let go of me. “Just do what I told you, and we’ll both be fine.”



There was a door at the end of the hall marked with a red exit sign. David stiff-armed it without slowing down, and I followed him into a sudden feeling of pressure, motion, intense cold, disorientation…

… and somebody’s house. A nice house, actually, lots of wood, high ceilings, a kind of cabinish feel while still maintaining that urban cachet. Big, soaring raw stone fireplace, complete with wrought iron tools and a big stack of logs that looked fresh-chopped. The living room—which was where we were—was spacious, comfortable, full of overstuffed furniture in masculine shades. Paintings on the walls—astronomy, stars, planets. I caught my breath and braced myself with my hand on the back of a sofa.

The place smelled of a strange combination of gun oil and aftershave, a peculiarly masculine kind of odor that comforted me in places that I hadn’t known were nervous.