Aphrodite's War (18 page)

His body seemed to liquefy, slumping while everything he saw turned
to gold.

It was all so…shiny. He’d never had anything this good. What few
coherent ideas he still had in the back of his skull worried that it could be
too good. Anything this awesome had to be pretty expensive.

“You can have as much as you like,” Ares said. The grin on his face
seemed genuine….but that could just be the drugs making him look
human.

“Uh-huh…” Even in his haze of beautiful giddiness Kevin wondered,
“So what do you want?”

“I need you to do a few odd jobs for me.” Another pouch appeared in
the palm of his hand, this one a sandwich sized Ziploc bag full of
glorious white excellence.

“You want me to sell it?”
“If you wish. But this is all for you.”

Kevin’s mouth hung open. He could make a lot of money on this shit.
It got him higher than anything he’d ever done in his life, even heroin.

Maybe he’d hoover it all himself. Didn’t matter. He had to have it.
“What I gotta do?” he asked.

“Nothing too perilous.” Ares’s smile seemed pointy, like a shark. “Do
you like Bentleys, Kevin?”
“Hate ‘em. Hate the guys who drive them too.”
“Good,” Ares said, passing Kevin a new stiletto dagger. “Then you
will enjoy this.”
CHAPTER THIRTY

“Sarah?” At the sound of a booming knock, Strife checked the motel’s
clock radio. Twelve thirty. Ranjan arrived sooner than expected. He must
have sacrificed his lunch hour and surpassed speed limits to get here.
How sweet. “Are you there, Sarah?”

Strife arranged her silk robe off a creamy shoulder and strolled to the
door. She spared a moment for the mirror. She’d spent an hour styling
her tresses to this sleep-tousled look. It flowed like a restless night.

The things I do for men.
She spritzed spicy green apple perfume on her throat and wrists,
placing an appropriately scared expression over her features.

“Sarah?”
Three, two, one…

In a well-practiced move, Strife flung the door open and leapt into
Ranjan’s arms.
“Oh, Ranjan! I’m so glad you’re here.”
Strife articulated a loud sob, squeezing close. She willed moisture to
spill from her eyes until they tracked itchy trails down her cheeks.

“I was so frightened.” She nuzzled into his sandalwood-curry scented
neck as Ranjan led her away from the hot sidewalk, back into the airconditioned shadows indoors. “We could have been killed.”

“Sarah,” His voice held tenderness. “You sounded so scared on the
phone. We are perfectly safe, I promise.”
He settled her on the orange bedspread, his demeanor that of concern.
Until the television stole his attention.
“Is that it on the news now?”
“Hold me.” Her words dripped with damsel in distress drama, but her
hero fixated on the broadcast.

“Police are not saying whether the attack was the work of Frank
Fleisher’s vigilante group,” the newscaster said. “Or perhaps retaliation
for the bombing of Buddy’s earlier this week.”

“Pure speculation,” Ranjan said, his brow crinkling. “But it’s still not
good.”

Strife placed her hands on Ranjan’s jaw, pulling her aromatic body
parts in line with his nostrils. “I’m so scared,” She put as much tremor in
her voice as possible. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

She eased into his lap and wrapped her arms around his shoulders…
…And felt him stiffen in all the wrong places.

She glanced upward. Instead of the dull, adoring glaze she’d become
accustomed to, his narrowed stare defied her. How could this be?
Her olfactory spells and seduction had failed. Surely he must have
consumed the tainted city water at least?
But when she searched his coffee-colored gaze, she found no
madness, no drug induced haze, and no evidence of magick.
If anything, he seemed suspicious. She searched his mind and
feelings.

Apprehension crept up Strife’s spine. She’d gone too far. He found her
attempts to bed him reprehensible. Cheap and manipulative. His thoughts
stung her.

“I am sorry,” she said, sliding to the corner of the mattress. “I don’t
know what came over me.” An unrehearsed shiver raised prickles on her
skin. He hasn’t succumbed to my will. “I’m alone in a city that’s had two
bombings in one week.”

Kindness returned to his expression. “Edmonton isn’t usually like
this.” He reached out to stroke her back. “We don’t have explosions or
riots. Okay, maybe when the Eskimos or Oilers win cups.” Ranjan
shrugged. “This is the City of Champions.”

Strife relaxed somewhat. Perhaps she could salvage this fiasco. She
didn’t need alchemy to control this man, just old-fashioned feminine
wiles.

“Can you get me out of here?” she asked. “I don’t want to be alone in
this ugly place.”
Ranjan’s sense of chivalry returned with puffing chest and a resolved
stance.
“Absolutely. I’m here for you, Sarah.”

“That makes me so happy.” Strife clenched her teeth in what she
hoped resembled a lovely smile. “You’re such a good friend. I’ll get
dressed.”

Ranjan beamed as she clutched modestly at her robe, backing into the
bathroom. Strife nudged damp, faded tangerine towels away with her
toes and shut the creaking door. She locked it, just to demonstrate
shyness. The human should believe she hadn’t been serious about her
intentions.

Musty fingers locked on her face. Another arm slithered around her
midriff in a constrictor’s embrace from behind.
Despite her closing airways, Strife smelled old wine on the breath of
her assailant.
Did you miss me, Strife?
Ares words hissed through her brain like rushing blood. Vomit burned
the back of her throat.
You’ve been slacking off, Strife. Going on pleasant excursions instead
of fostering war. I am not pleased.

The hand on her waist crawled to envelop her breast. He crushed it,
pinching the nipple until Strife whimpered and fought against his pitiless
groping.

You know what happens when I am not pleased.

Strife understood all too well, but her efforts to break free were
meaningless. Still, she writhed from the heat of Ares’s lengthening
member.

He crushed her against the wall with his chest. Even with her mouth
now free she lacked the ability to scream.
So you want some dark meat, do you Strife?

He pushed her ankles apart with his foot and shoved his calloused
fingers inside her, scraping and jerking them in a mockery of foreplay
before wedging his cock against her anus. Panic fluttered in her chest.

Please, master. Not that. Not again. Strife heaved sideways from the
wall with all the strength she had left. She took a sparse, noisy gulp of air
and shrieked as Ares gripped a fistful of her hair and dragged her down.
Her vision blurred with the pain of a tortured scalp and bruised knees but
she couldn’t shirk from the mottled prick before her.

Take it in your mouth, bitch.

“Sarah?” Ranjan’s muffled voice gave Ares pause. “Sarah, are you
alright?” The sharp rapping of knuckles on wood startled Ares into
releasing her.

Strife sank to the floor, grateful for the timely interruption and oxygen
flooded her lungs.
The lock on the doorknob jiggled, echoing in the cramped space.
“Sarah? Please open up.”
Strife sensed rage draining from Ares, watched his cock diminish in
size. He snarled in contempt, not bloodlust.
This isn’t over, Strife. Ares faded like a bad dream. His essence left an
odor of blood Strife nearly tasted.
“Sarah!”
Strife fumbled with the doorknob until she heard the clunk of
disengaging tumblers. Ranjan spilled inside to drop to the floor.
“Are you alright?” He tucked strands of wayward locks away from
her temple.
“I’m fine,” she said while the precious gesture, coupled with his
worried expression ruined her practiced stoicism.
Strife coughed forth a broken dam of relief. True tears gushed hot and
salty down her nose and mouth.

“Oh, hey…” Ranjan said, venturing closer to cradle her. She allowed
it, and he massaged her back again in that soothing way she’d grown to
appreciate.

Strife nuzzled into him, listening to the babble of some North
American soap opera on the television, as he rocked her shuddering
body. She preferred their perils over her own.

“Did you faint? I should get you to a hospital. The stress of this city
has really gotten to…”
“No!” Strife smeared sorrow from her face. “No hospitals. I’m fine.
Just…get me out of here. Take me someplace safe.”
She beseeched him with her eyes, knowing his immunity to chemical
charms. A war of indecision clashed in his mind.
His shoulders slumped. Fortunately his virtue won out.
“Alright,” he said, lifting her to her feet. “I’ll take a sick day. Where’s
your luggage?”
# # #
“Adrian? Earth to Adrian.” He jerked to attention, sitting up so fast
his paperwork scattered.
“My, aren’t we jumpy today.”

Adrian rubbed grit from his eyes. He must have dozed off. He
squinted through the sleepy haze to see the slim silhouette of his boss
looming.

“Mrs. Bailey,” he said, rushing to his feet. More important documents
hit the floor. “I’m sorry. What time is it?”

Mary or ‘Bones’, as many called her behind soundproofed doors,
Bailey checked her watch. “Quarter after one. I tried to call you, but your
messages are full.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, repeating his apology like an idiot. What else
could he say? He tucked his wrinkled shirt and tightened his tie. Caught
snoozing when he had files to process.

He pawed at the odd sensation on his mouth to find a stuck paperclip
covered in drool. Nice.
“Poor thing.” Behind her thick spectacles, Mrs. Bailey’s gaze drooped
as though tired herself. “Didn’t get much sleep last night, did you?”

“No…I didn’t.” His reluctance came from the truth. He didn’t have a
decent excuse for slacking. He shouldn’t have taken yesterday afternoon
off. If he hadn’t he wouldn’t be in this awkward situation.

“It’s understandable that you’re burnt out,” she said.
“I’m not. I just…”

Mrs. Bailey raised skeletal fingers to shush him. “Don’t argue with
me, please.” She positioned both hands on the maple desk and leaned in.
She hovered close enough for Adrian to smell tuna on her breath. So she
does actually eat, Adrian thought, suppressing a gag. “We need you in
top form, Adrian. I understand that the Frank Fleisher case is important
to your status in the firm.”

Not so much anymore, Adrian thought, but he wasn’t about to correct
her. Mary Bailey had no respect for anyone who wasn’t a team player.
Hints of resentment would cost him.

“But you’re no good to us if you’re sleeping on the job. Go home and
get some rest. None of these files are going anywhere.” She straightened
and adjusted her glasses before fetching him a nicotine grin. “We’ll see
you tomorrow, bright and early.”

“Yes, ma’am.”
Mrs. Bailey departed without further comment, leaving Adrian to
collect his wits. Lucky him.

He gathered photocopies and triplicates as fast as his groggy state
permitted. Old Bones wasn’t a moron. Sooner or later she’d catch on.
He’d take her advice and get the hell out of here before she figured out
he’d been dipping his wick instead of working.

Adrian’s groan echoed in the empty office. Poetry. She’d been on his
mind all day.
He’d been a jerk this morning.

The drive to her loft had been worse than uncomfortable, without
small talk or eye contact. Adrian hadn’t missed how her body language
went from the bowed shoulders of brooding acceptance to the rigid
posture of indignation. He didn’t need a criminal profiler to know she’d
written him off as a creep. Poetry’s terse goodbye as she slammed the car
door rang in his memory. Adrian cringed, feeling the cold breeze of
manufactured air on his gums. It sucked to be an asshole.

At the time, he’d worried about how her temper affected his wheels.
You don’t just wing the door shut like a Ford truck, for God’s sake.
But right now he cared more about her mood than his precious
machine.

He stood and stretched until his back cracked. Adrian surveyed his
clean but cluttered surroundings. His sigh came back to him in a tinny
vibration.

Just yesterday Poetry came to see him, looking like Little Blue Riding
Hood with beer and other goodies. An unexpected smile stretched his
face. He could almost smell garlic.

If this were a movie, she’d stroll in right about now with forgiveness
in her eyes and an unseen orchestra would play something cheesy and
romantic. He shook his head. She wouldn’t be out there today. He’d seen
to that.

He put the image out of his mind. Since when did he think like a
paperback romance? He must be wrecked.

He began straightening his paperwork, but decided against it. He’d be
back in the morning. Time to disappear. He grabbed his cell phone and
headed for the underground parking. This way he’d steer clear of any
ambitious reporters.

It wasn’t a long walk, just a contemplative one. He twirled his keys,
pondering his case.

Frank Fleisher was a jackass, for sure. He admitted to racism and
shooting the trespassers because of some misguided ideas. Would he lie
about the bombings? Truth be told, Adrian probably wasted time
worrying. It wouldn’t hurt his case, they couldn’t link his client. Frank
had been in jail.

Cool basement air enveloped Adrian. He was grateful for the deep
chill; it kept him alert. Nothing disturbed the hush, save his footsteps. He
pointed his remote starter, reassured by the eager tweeting response and
instant ignition. The Bentley purred to life. Damn, he loved his beautiful
beast.

Adrian couldn’t wait to get home. His pillow called to him.
Headlights illuminated the gloom, and Adrian’s weariness evaporated
in a moment of rage. His keys clanged to the concrete.

His heart lodged in his throat when he caught sight of the scarred
remains before him. Glass littered the ground. A can of spray paint lay
discarded next to a pillar.

“What the fuck happened to my Bentley?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Poetry reached for her kitten with trembling fingers. She wanted his
soft warmth and rumbling purr, a comfort during emotional rough
patches. Her hand found nothing but emptiness on the pillow where Amir
slept. The spot still held his body heat. He must have just left.