Anthem of Ashes: Book 9 in the Spellsinger Series Page 14

  “London.” Torin made a face as if he smelled something foul. “In an obnoxious apartment.”

  “London?” Odin asked with a lifted brow. “Well, if you end up returning to the U.K., let me know. That's where Osamu is currently; I'm sure he'd be happy to help. If nothing else, he has connections there.”

  “What?” I asked as a chill coasted down my spine.

  “Osamu is visiting London right now.” Odin scowled. “Why are you looking at me like that, El?”

  “No, it's just...” Damn, I couldn't even bring myself to say it. Not on the heels of the conversation we'd just had.

  “Osamu is a fire witch,” Slate said it for me, “and you just told us he was in the vicinity of the man who murdered a phoenix and stole its ashes.”

  “So?” Odin growled.

  “A fire witch might actually be able to harness the magic within phoenix ashes.” Slate narrowed his silver stare at Odin. “That's a hell of a motive and it would explain a lot.”

  Odin's jaw clenched before he spoke, “Osamu is a witch leader; he is above reproach. There is no way that he would steal phoenix ashes. To do what? Add to his already significant power? And to what end? He already rules an Element of Witches. He can't rule us all; his very magic makes it impossible. So, what would he do with more magic?”

  “Make himself truly immortal,” I whispered.

  Odin gaped at me while my men went tense.

  I could see the possibilities working in Odin's mind while they unfolded in mine. Osamu would know all about Phoenixes; he loved studying Beneather races and a fire-based race would be of particular interest to him, and he would have the means to craft a spell to harness Fire magic. Fire magic without a body to protect it; pure power on the cusp of being reborn. The moment between a phoenix's death and rebirth would be the perfect time to sweep in and steal that transformative, eternal magic. Witches are immortal inasmuch as they will live forever if nothing fatal happens to them. But they are not invincible. They can still be killed; like most Beneather races. The lure of being truly immortal, of having the assurance that should you die, you'd rise from the ashes of your incinerated corpse, might be enough to sway the morals of even the most honorable man.

  Odin's left eye shifted.

  “You know something!” I pointed at him.

  “I told Osamu about Shava helping you train,” Odin admitted.

  “Motherfucking Witches!” Slate snarled.

  “Watch your tone, Gargoyle,” Odin growled as he stood to his impressive height.

  “Watch your people, Witch!” Slate snarled back as he jumped to his feet as well. “Your traitorous people!”

  He's so hot when he gets angry, RS sighed.

  “All right! Enough of that macho bullshit!” I pushed my body between the two men. “We don't know anything for certain and even if it is Osamu, that doesn't condemn Witches as a whole, Slate. Come on; this is Odin we're talking to. He's been there for me. My father is a witch, and Witches, as a whole, have supported me for my entire life. Hell, without a witch, Darc wouldn't have been able to take a piece of his magic out of the orb and use it to battle Lucifer. We cannot cast stones without proof; not at Shining Ones or Witches.”

  Slate sighed deeply. “You're right. I'm out of sorts. I apologize, Odin.”

  “It's forgotten,” Odin said quickly. “It's been one thing after another lately and it's put us all on edge.”

  Slate nodded crisply and crossed his arms over his chest, looking a little like a high-class bouncer in his dark gray suit. He had just come from his Zone, where he'd likely been handling business that he'd been neglecting for me.

  “Hey, why don't you go back to the Zone and finish whatever we interrupted?” I suggested. “There's nothing more for us to do.”

  “What about Osamu?” Slate asked.

  “I will look into Osamu,” Odin said firmly. “If he's the one behind the Phoenix disappearances, I will uncover his treachery.”

  Slate considered Odin a moment and then nodded. He shifted his slicing stare to me. “I'll leave if you promise to come by later and spend the night with me.”

  I glanced at the other men. Declan had just had a whole week, but I'd yet to have the anticipated reunion with the rest of them.

  “If we go home this very instant, I think we can squeeze in enough time with you to satisfy us and allow you a night with the Gargoyle,” Torin said to me and then glanced at the others, who nodded in agreement.

  “I'll leave you to your satisfaction.” Declan kissed me goodbye. “I still have some things to deal with in Alexandrite. Don't do anything I wouldn't do.”

  “So, that leaves nothing,” Gage teased.

  “I do have limits,” Declan protested. “Starting with filth; bodily or otherwise.”

  “Please do not continue,” Torin begged.

  “Dear Gods,” Odin grumbled, “your love life is giving me a headache, Elaria. Just take your men and get the hell off my island. I'll look into Osamu while you wait for the Darkness Thief to reveal himself. If I learn anything, I'll contact you.”

  “Thanks again, Odin.” I pulled out my traveling stone and went home to Kyanite with my consorts; Slate included. He'd need to travel back to Oregon from Tír na nÓg.

  Yeah; it was an exhausting life, but I wouldn't trade a second of it for a month of relaxation.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  I spent a lovely day languishing in the arms of my men; lips tingling from their kisses and skin soaking up their love. When we could finally move again, they gave me a massage, each man focusing on a section of my body, and then they lured me out of bed with food and drink. We lazed on chaise lounges on the balcony in the afternoon sun, ate decadent food, and sipped heady Shining One wine as we waited for desire to take us again. Then we started the process all over. It was deliciously hedonistic and just enough to satisfy my men so that I could leave them at dusk.

  Kyanite, by some stroke of luck, corresponds to Oregon as far as time zones go. That puts Kansas, and therefore Banning, a couple of hours ahead of us. It's not a big deal most of the time, especially not with just two hours to worry about, but when we start traveling to other parts of the Earth, it can get tricky. Tonight, though, I was going straight to Slate's Zone.

  I appeared inside Slate's office. He took the top floor of the military-plain, gray building for himself. Like a lot of buildings in the Zone, this one was made of solid stone, carved from the earth when the Zone was created. Working stone is a Gargoyle specialty, and their expertise clearly showed in this simple but impressive building. After the dull, gray facade, the gleaming, sin-black stone that lined the interior was a bit of a shock the first time I saw it. Polished to a mirror-shine; the floors, walls, and ceiling impart a disconcerting feeling of hovering in space. I could only deduce that the Gargoyles had discovered a pocket of this midnight rock within the more common gray and used their magic to carve it into this bi-colored creation.

  The two lower floors are used for storage and to house Slate's men. There's also a hallway/bridge that extends from the second floor to Slate's arena box. The top floor has an office/living room dissected by groups of furniture and an open, central fireplace with a hovering, sword-shaped chimney poised over it. The polished stone foundation is muted here, with rugs covering the glassy floor and ebony panels hung over the walls. Priceless artwork adorns the wooden paneling, brass gallery lights set over them to create glowing islands in the shadowy room. Night had fallen and Slate hadn't bothered to turn on the overhead lamps. Even though the Zone is underground, the Gargoyles adjust the cavern lights to fit the time of day. It alleviates the enclosed feeling and, combined with a genius ventilation system, it makes the Zone feel as if it were an open-air city on the surface.

  Slate's desk, an imposing darkness crouching before a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows, faced in so that the glittering expanse the underground city served as a backdrop for its master. Beneathers bustled through the streets out there, living their lives in safety,
thanks to my boyfriend. Slate and his men keep the peace and maintain order through laws they created and uphold. Gargoyles run their zones with firm, clawed hands, but not unfair ones. Every beneather knows that they can depend upon a zone to provide a place where they can walk the streets without hiding their true selves and without fear of being attacked; either by other beneathers or by humans. Just as long as you obey the laws, that is. Break them, and there would be no trial. No jury of your peers. You'd be at the mercy of the Gargoyles, and Gargoyles aren't known for being merciful.

  The window-wall, with its view of Slate's demesne, extended out to either side of the Zone Lord's desk and then disappeared down twin corridors. The hallways led to social rooms on the left and bedrooms on the right. But I didn't need to venture down either one to find the Zone Lord. He sat on his throne before me; a padded leather executive chair pulled up to his ebony, hand-carved desk.

  Silver Gargoyles glared out from the corners of the desk and an inset, silver battle scene laid beneath thick, protective glass on the surface. Slate doesn't like a lot of nonsense cluttering his world and that includes his desk. A monitor, an intercom, and a cup of steaming coffee were all that sat upon it. Those and the Zone Lord's folded hands.

  When I appeared, Slate had been leaning forward on his hands, speaking to Jago, who lounged like a rebel in a leather chair in front of Slate's desk. Both men gave a slight start at my sudden arrival and then grinned; Jago's a little more of a smirk. The Gargoyle Warden had once looked after me when Cerberus and I had been forced to fight in Slate's arena, and we had become friends. Don't ask me how an inmate befriends a warden; it's about as miraculous as an inmate and a zone lord falling in love. But both of those things happened during my imprisonment and now, these men were important to me.

  “Diva!” Jago declared as he slid his knee off the armrest and jumped to his feet.

  “Hey, J-Bird.” I hugged him tightly. “How you been?”

  “Same ol' shit, you know; criminals killing each other for the amusement of the plebs.” He shrugged, his dove-gray eyes gleaming with mischief.

  All Gargoyles have eyes in a shade of gray but, so far, Slate's the only one I've met with a silver stare.

  “Well, you look good, baby.” I smoothed back Jago's blond hair.

  He chuckled and grinned wider; the “baby” had been in reference to a song I'd once dedicated to him. It had been a gritty FU to Slate at the time, and Jago had loved every second of it.

  “Thank you, Diva.” Jago gallantly kissed my hand. “But I think I'm going to beat stone out of here before my face gets beaten in for your comment. Catch you two later.”

  I sidled around the desk as Jago hurried away, and Slate's smile slowly turned into a leer. He set his coffee to the other side of the monitor.

  “Do you know what I've wanted to do since the first time you walked into this room?” Slate asked as he stood.

  I lifted a brow at him.

  “So fucking cocky; then and now,” he growled, his voice diving into that primal rumble I loved. “You strode in here as if you were trying to decide what to destroy first.”

  I laughed. “I may have been a bit angry.”

  “And I may have been a bit turned on by it.” He lifted me up by my waist and sat me on his desk. “You demanded that I release Tessa and then offered to fight in her stead. Fuck; you had me spinning. I couldn't figure you out. They told me you were evil and yet, there you were, bargaining for that child's life. I wanted to strangle you and force you to tell me the truth.” He angled his hips between my thighs and pressed his hard body against my softness. “And you were so damn beautiful.” He brushed his soft lips—the only soft thing about him—over mine. “Those fucking eyes; staring at me as if you wanted to stick a dagger in my heart and kiss me while I bled.”

  “You were rather sexy, sitting there behind your big desk.” I pushed his jacket over his shoulders and down his arms; enjoying the feel of his thick biceps as I did. “All grim and smug. Gods; you were a bastard. I hated myself for wanting you.”

  Slate shrugged out of the jacket, and I started on his belt while he rapidly unbuttoned his shirt. Low, dangerous sounds were gathering in his chest and ripping up his throat while his silver eyes gleamed with desire.

  “I thought I was falling in love with a psychopath.” He chuckled. “I was so sure that you were playing with me; using your velvet voice and beautiful body to make me forget that you were dangerous. I never forgot but it didn't make one whit of difference; I still wanted you. Every fucking waking thought was yours; What is she doing right now? What is she thinking? What does she think of me? What does she want from me? I spent more time watching you and contemplating your motivations than running my zone.”

  “And I spent my time alternately planning your murder and fantasizing about fucking you,” I whispered.

  Slate groaned and yanked down the bodice of my dress. His hands filled with my flesh as he savagely kissed me. My legs went wider for him as I set my heels on the armrests of his chair. Hot and hard against my core, Slate ground himself slowly against me. My skirt was bunched around my waist but it was still too much between us. I broke our kiss to lift my dress up and over my head. I hadn't bothered with underwear; I knew how it was with Slate. We went wild as soon as we were alone with each other; as if we couldn't believe we'd been given this time together or, perhaps, afraid that it might be taken away. After we spent that first flare of brutal passion, we could slow down and languish in love. But to start, underwear would just be an annoyance.

  Slate knew it too; he wore nothing beneath his tailored pants. He kicked off his shoes and then the pants before he settled back against me. That silver stare seared me as it moved from my face all the way down to my feet. Slate didn't miss a thing; he never does. He saw all of me and, judging by the way his breathing quickened, he liked it.

  “While you bargained with me that first time, all I could think about was doing this.” Slate slid his shaft inside me as he laid me back on the glass. Elegant but extremely masculine hands shifted over my body as if they couldn't decide what to touch first; cheek, hair, breasts, hips, thighs. He craved it all. “I wanted to know if your skin was as soft as it looked. What your lips tasted like. How it would feel to drive myself into you until you clenched around me and pulled the pleasure out of me.”

  Slate set a brutal tempo; his hands finally settling on my hips to pull me further onto him as he drove deep. I lifted my heels to the desk, but he grabbed my ankles and angled my legs over his shoulders instead. That solid desk didn't even creak as my gargoyle went wild with me. Maybe this was why he kept it so bare. I wouldn't put it past him.

  “This is what I wanted to do as soon as I saw you standing there in front of me,” Slate growled as he slid my legs down and dropped onto his elbows above me. “As soon as I breathed you in. Sweetness with a hint of smoke. I wanted to lay you across my desk and fuck you until we both forgot who we were. Until it didn't matter anymore.”

  “Until we became something new.” I slid my arms around him and pulled him closer. “Something beyond blood and pain and the past.”

  “Something we would forge together.”

  We did; we forged something beautiful there, on his conqueror's desk within the home he'd carved out of the earth. We drove away the past and bound ourselves together to face a future that we would build together. And when I pulled the pleasure from him at last, his gargoyle growl formed my name.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Hours later, I lounged on Slate's ridiculously comfortable bed—I don't know where he got his mattress from, but I want one—and watched as he got dressed; sliding into the costume that changed him from barbaric, stone-shifting gargoyle into sleek, powerful zone lord. He had already chosen a dress for me from the closet full of clothing in the bedroom next door. I suppose Slate is a step away from being a psycho, controlling boyfriend. I mean; what sort of man takes pleasure from choosing an outfit for his girlfriend? But that was part of Slate's
persona; it entertained him to put on fine clothes and play a role. Just as it entertained him to put clothes on me that would make me into his mysterious, spellsinger girlfriend. Also, I think it reminded us both of the time I spent as his captive; a time when he had full control over me. Now that he didn't have that control, the thought of being his captive became sexy and him picking out a dress for me made me feel pampered. Funny how freedom changes everything.

  And role-playing in public is even sexier.

  We were headed to his club, the Quarry, for a couple hours of reminiscing as we tossed back liquor in his private room with its prime view of the stage. I had even agreed to sing; yet another act I'd been forced into as his prisoner but which would now taste sweeter with freedom. Just one song, though; I didn't want to waste my night on stage. That was too far away from Slate for my liking. Individual time with my lovers is precious, and I wouldn't squander it.

  When the Zone Lord was dressed in his dangerous black suit, blood-red shirt beneath and open at the collar, we prowled downstairs arm-in-arm, and he helped me into his sleek sports car. Yes; I could have got in on my own, but that isn't the point. Things like that are a way for a man to show respect and affection, and I'm all for it. Call me old-school but I think chivalry should be encouraged, not squashed.