Dark Oracle (13 page)

She gasped and he drew back, with effort. Her cheeks were flushed with cold and desire. “Harry, I. . .” Tears glittered in her eyes. “I’m more broken than you think. I’ve been cut up, dissected, head to toe.” She seemed to force herself to say the words, to be honest with him.

“It doesn’t matter to me.”

“How could it not?” she said, and her tone was hopeless. “How could it not matter to you?”

“It just doesn’t. What matters is what you feel. What I feel. The rest is immaterial.”

She sniffed, ran her gloved finger under her dripping nose.

Still caging her in his arms, he told her, “You come to me when you’re ready. I’ll wait.”

B
ARBARA
D
I
R
OSA CLICKED HER CELL PHONE OFF AND STOWED
it in her purse. She walked briskly down the busy midday street, the wind tearing at the edges of her coat. Her shoes clicked along the pavement, and she clutched her briefcase tightly. In sharp contrast to the time she’d spent lately in radiation suits, her taste in civilian clothes was impeccable and expensive: wool pencil skirt, silk blouse, custom-tailored jacket. When she was in civilian attire, she eschewed the anonymous shapelessness of the white plastic suits she was forced to wear day after day.

Her heart hammered in fear, and she kept glancing behind her to make sure she wasn’t followed. She just had to hold on until tomorrow. She could stall Gabriel until then, keep Magnusson’s correspondence safe until she could turn it over to Li.

Blinking, she stared up at the blue sky. It was impossible to believe Magnusson was gone, dead or otherwise. She’d fallen—hard—for her mentor months ago. And she was beginning to believe he was starting to return her attentions. He’d seemed so apart from the rest of the research team, walking distractedly along another plane of theory. She longed to bring him back down to earth, for there to be something more.

And it seemed to be flowering. He let her feed him. DiRosa had dragged Magnusson to half the restaurants in town after work. Over filet or dim sum, he was still guarded. He rarely spoke about his personal life. Most of it seemed to center around his dog. Their conversations were overwhelmingly work-related, though Magnusson seemed to tentatively probe the edge of sensitive subjects:

“What brought you here?” His slender fingers sketched the world outside the window of the bistro they once sat in. “How did they bring you in all of this?”

DiRosa paused, twirling her linguine around her fork. “Honestly?”

“Honestly.” His blue eyes seemed hungry for the answer.

She shrugged. “Nobody else could afford me.”

That didn’t seem to be the answer he was looking for. He pushed his ravioli around in silence.

“How about you?” she asked. “Why are you here? To be honest, you don’t really fit in.”

“Any more than Prada does among the jarheads?” He was teasing her now. He always called her Prada.

“Hey, we established that I’m here for the money. What’s your excuse?”

Magnusson’s eyes seemed hungry. “I’m here for the machines, Prada.”

DiRosa glanced at him coyly over the moist rim of her wineglass. “Boys and their toys.”

He sighed, pushed away his plate. “It’s what the other boys will do with the toys that bothers me.”

“Why does it bother you? What they’re going to do with our research is too far above our pay grade to worry about,” she chided him.

“I guess I’m naϊve, but I’d like to know what they’re going to do with it. Make sure they’re not going to start World War Three. That kind of thing.” His hand was balled in a fist around his napkin.

DiRosa rested her sharp chin in her hand. “You are being naϊve. But it’s kind of endearing.”

“Prada, I suspect that they’re gonna weaponize it.”

She paused. The possibility had been so much a part of her reality for so long that she was shocked Magnusson hadn’t seriously considered it. He was more naϊve than she thought. “And. . . ? Look, our government has always had the shiniest, most expensive toys. Some of them go boom. Loudly. It’s better we develop them before someone else does, right?”

Magnusson took a swig of his wine. “Right.” He didn’t sound convinced.

She frowned at him. “We’re here not just to serve our own interests. Part of the deal is that we also serve. . . and national security is part of that.”

“Right, Prada.”

She leaned forward. “Why are you all right with building a power source for engines of war, but actual weaponry is wrong? Where do you cross that line?”

“I don’t want to be Oppenheimer quoting the Bhagavad Gita.” He swished his wine around in his glass. ‘Now I am become Death, the destroyer of Worlds,’ and all that.”

“You’re not Oppenheimer.”

He snorted. “I want to build things. Not destroy them. We’ve got an amazing opportunity to build technology that could end the energy shortage around the world. . . This could create a tremendous positive impact on human history.”

“And we will. But there’s a price to pay for that.” He never sounded convinced that they were on the side of the angels. She’d had to kick him in the shins in meetings for asking too many questions. And she worried what he had found out. Damn the man for being saddled with such a limited, simplistic ethical range.

DiRosa wiped at her watering eyes with her glove as she walked down the street. For a smart man, Magnusson could be really stupid when it came to politics.

“Dr. DiRosa.”

She turned, nearly tripping over her expensive Italian shoes.

Major Gabriel was striding toward her, hands in the pockets of his military coat. His face, as always, was carefully neutral. Had he been following her?

“Shouldn’t you be at work?”

“Had some errands to run, sir.” The fewer details she gave, the better. She could feel her ears turning red. She was a terrible liar. And Gabriel had a more. . . evolved sense of situational ethics than she did.

“Come walk with me.” He grasped her elbow, and DiRosa knew that she had no choice but to go with him as he pulled her down the street with an iron grip. She furtively glanced around her, wondering if she could make a break for it in her impractical shoes. She wondered if anyone would come to her aid if she screamed.

“Have I ever told you the story how I got into this business, Dr. DiRosa?” Gabriel asked, his tone conversational.

She swallowed. “No, sir.”

“In-house, we call it the Clean-Up Crew. We’re good at cleaning up other peoples’ messes. I put in for the transfer after I saw what happens when well-intentioned people don’t have a view of the big picture.”

“What do you mean?”

“I used to be with Criminal Investigation Command, investigating a breach of intelligence at the Centers for Disease Control. There was a guy there who didn’t think that the lab should be studying a strain of a hemorrhagic virus that could infect humans. Felt that the hazards were too great, and he felt the need to share his concerns with the press. He talked to the papers off the record.

“But the damage was done. The leak inspired a group of would-be terrorist lunatics who wanted to create some snazzy new bioweapons. They cobbled together enough intel to intercept the delivery of the virus samples.”

DiRosa’s brow wrinkled. “I never heard of that.”

“Of course you didn’t. We caught them before they crossed the state line, contained the samples. Well, we contained most of them. Two of them disappeared.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I want you to understand why we have to contain leaks.”

Gabriel walked her to a car parked on the side of the street, where Richard Corvus sat behind the wheel. Corvus nodded to him, the satisfied look of an owl whose shadow was falling over a mouse.

Chapter Twelve

T
ARA STARED
at the shadows of tree branches on the ceiling. Beside her, Cassie lay curled up in a tight ball, asleep. Maggie lay perpendicular to her, as long as she could stretch out, shoving Tara to the edge of the bed. In the living room, Martin snored softly on the couch. All was quiet, but her thoughts raced.

Adrienne was after her. She hadn’t told Harry. . . How could she tell him that a member of a secret society of women was harboring enough of a grudge to try and chase Tara down? He’d send the men with the white coats after her for certain.

She’d called Sophia this afternoon, when Harry and Martin and Cassie had been outside with Maggie. Sophia had picked up on the first ring. Unnerving, that habit of hers.

“Adrienne has been at your house,” Sophia told her.

Tara swallowed. “Is Oscar okay?” If that bitch had hurt Oscar, she’d tear her throat out.

“He’s fine. He’s with me. He’s eaten two chicken sandwiches from the drive-through and is taking a nap.”

“What the hell does she want from me?” Tara dimly remembered her as a tall, grubby girl who rarely spoke. They’d probably exchanged a half dozen words that she remembered.

“She thinks you’re competition for the title of Pythia.”

“Whoa. Back the truck up.” Tara shook her head. “What?”

“She knows Juliane was the Pythia’s chosen successor. Juliane’s gone.”

Tara’s jaw hardened. “I want nothing to do with Delphi’s Daughters. Period.”

“I know that. But Adrienne sees things differently. She sees you as competition.”

“Well, the Pythia needs to jerk a knot in her tail.”

“It’s not that simple. The Pythia has. . . faded.” Sophia’s voice broke. Tara couldn’t imagine what it cost her to admit it. Sophia had always been unquestioningly loyal to the Pythia. “She’s not what you remember her to be. Her power has greatly diminished.”

“What are you telling me? That the Pythia has no control over Adrienne?”

She hesitated slightly. “Yes.”

“Shit.” Tara rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Look, I’ve got a bigger problem. I need a favor, but you’ve got to tell me if you’re going to be able to help me.” Tara was out of options; she had no choice but to ask.

“Anything.” There was no hesitation.

“I need you to hide someone for me. A girl. And you have to tell me honestly whether or not you can do it.”

Sophia had listened quietly to Tara’s request for sanctuary for Cassie and the laptop.

“Of course,” she said. “Meet me tomorrow.” She’d specified a meeting site several hours away, and Tara had scribbled the information down in a hurry.

“Sophia,” Tara said. “You might want to bring. . . reinforcements. There’s a strong likelihood I’ll be followed. And not by Adrienne.”

Sophia laughed her bell-like laugh. “Dear child, we will see that she’s safe. Don’t worry about us.” Her voice lowered in seriousness. “Worry about your current situation.”

Cassie had been reluctant to be handed off to another caretaker. Tara had told her, “It’s the only choice. Sophia can keep you safe.”

“Where will I be going?” The girl’s eyes were large with anxiety.

“I asked her not to tell me, for your own good.” Tara tried not to think of the worst case scenario, what could happen if Cassie and her location were revealed. “But you will always be able to contact me. And. . .” she added desperately, “Sophia is a wonderful cook. She makes a miraculous strudel.”

Cassie’s ears perked up at the mention of the word
strudel.
“I suppose a strudel maker can’t be that bad.”

Tara looked wistfully out the window, emotions churning. She hoped Cassie couldn’t sense her ambivalence about the situation. “No. She can’t be.”

Now, Tara lay staring up at the ceiling, hoping she’d made the right call. The only other option would be for Tara to go on the run with Cassie, herself. . . but her chances of discovery were higher with Adrienne in the mix. And, truth be told, she was reluctant to leave Harry alone in this mess. She sensed he was more alone than he knew, that Corvus would not be the backup he hoped for. It was as if she could see a trap closing around him, and was powerless to retrieve him from its jaws.

She sighed, turning over to watch the constellations tangle in the tree branches. Her emotions were getting in the way, and she was feeling too protective of him. She blushed, thinking of this afternoon’s kiss that made her lightheaded enough to cling to him. Emotions long buried, something hot and wanton, bubbled up within her, and they conflicted with her fears.

As gentle and determined as Harry seemed, she still doubted his ability to withstand the force of her fears, her fears about her body, and her fears about what he would think about how she worked. Her fingers brushed her lips, pausing to remember his kisses. Ah, to fall into that warmth, even for a moment. . . It was as if he’d kissed her awake. But he knew not what he’d awoken.

She listened to Cassie’s breathing, even and regular. Tara reached under the bed for her purse, leaned over to pull out her cards. By the dim glow from a tiny night-light, she shuffled them, her heart a conflicted knot of fear and desire. She imagined Harry asleep in the next room, was struck by the greater fear of him falling into Corvus and Gabriel’s trap, of never seeing him again, of never knowing what it would be like to feel her hands and breath on his skin.

She drew the card that she, on some level, knew she had no choice but to draw: the Lovers. In a sunlit field of lilies, two lovers gazed into each other’s eyes. It was a card of testing, of deciding whether to be ruled by one’s heart or one’s head.

She blew out her breath. She was decided.

She slipped the card under her bag, pulled back the blankets, slid out of bed. Her heart hammered as her toes clutched at the shag carpet, as she stepped into the hallway to Harry’s door, silent as a wraith.

She opened the door, tiptoed inside. She could see the waxing moonlight outlining his shoulder, the curve of his arm under an unzipped sleeping bag, the zipper glinting in the light. She closed the door, leaning against it with her hands behind her back. Surely he could hear her heart thundering loud enough to wake him?

It seemed she stood there for hours, watching the moon track over the planes of his face, his shoulder, running through his hair. She was jealous of the moon, the way it caressed his body, how it felt the rise and fall of his chest.

She approached the bed, crawled in behind Harry, and wrapped her arms around his chest. She felt his chest expand as he inhaled, the quickening of his pulse beneath her hands. Tentatively, she pressed her lips to the back of his neck, felt his sharp intake of breath as she did so. His hands laced in her fingers, and she molded her body to his, feeling his delicious warmth down the length of her body.

“You came,” he sighed.

He turned over, pulling her into his arms, and kissed her deeply. The kiss drove the breath from her and ignited long-dormant desire. Her hands slipped under his shirt, feeling the hard muscles of his abdomen tensing as he moved. She seized the chance to pull his shirt over his head and splay her fingers against the heat of his chest.

Harry buried his lips in her neck, trailing the neckline of the old flannel shirt, covering the scar crossing her collarbone. The fingers of one hand slipped up the small of her back, delicately exploring the fine white ridges crossing her flesh, while his other hand moved up to cup her breast.

Tara wanted to cry out, to let him know how his touch affected her, but she bit her lip to keep from waking Cassie and Martin. His thumb circled her sharp nipple, while his mouth covered hers, stealing a soft groan from her and pressing her into the pillows and blankets. He plucked open the buttons of her shirt and laid her chest bare to the dim light.

Her breath caught, fearing his judgment. But none came. Instead, a slow shower of kisses began at her collar, crossed over her ribs in the white feathery pattern of the scars. She wound her fingers in his hair, feeling his lips insistent on the scars, which seemed more sensitive than ever before. He turned his attention to her breasts, seizing a nipple in his mouth. Arching her back, she silently scraped her fingernails through his hair.

He didn’t judge her. He worshipped her with his mouth and hands, delicately skimming her flesh with the lightest of touches with his fingers and the firmest gestures of his mouth. His hands teased the sweatpants below her hips, kissing the hip bone exposed to the pale light. He pulled the rest of her clothes away, his attention riveted to her body, his hands sliding up the lightning-white scars on her legs, over the swell of her hips. In this light, they were not nearly as awful as she believed them to be in the day.

“Beautiful,” he murmured against her ear. “Like the Snow Queen.”

He gasped in her ear when she reached to stroke him through his pants before she unbuttoned them. She craved his hardness inside her, grasping his firm buttocks to guide him.

But Harry wasn’t having any of her impatience. “Not yet.”

He kneaded her muscles with his hands, sliding his touch over her stomach, over her hip, and parted her legs. Tara inhaled sharply as he buried his fingers in her warm wetness, teasing, exploring, withdrawing to work her clitoris until she wrapped her legs around him. She clutched his shoulder, pressed against him. She was certain she’d come if he so much as breathed on her.

“Not yet,” he whispered.

He teased her flesh with his mouth, down her breasts, over her navel. He parted her thighs, tenderly kissing the soft flesh inside, cupped her buttocks in his hands. . . and stroked her with his tongue so relentlessly Tara buried her fingers in the sleeping bag and her face in the pillow. When orgasm overtook her, she clenched her teeth to keep from crying out, trembling in a current of desire that left her gasping for breath.

Harry slid on top of her, his warm skin heightening the tremors that spasmed through her. Gathering her in his arms, he slowly worked his way inside her.

It had been years since she had made love, but Harry was incredibly gentle. Though she could feel the taut desire in his body, he restrained himself, sliding into her inch by inch. Winding his fingers in hers, he began to thrust, slowly, evenly. . . Tara could feel his restraint, his fear of hurting her.

“You won’t hurt me,” she whispered. Tara took his buttocks in her hands and moved against him. Breasts pressed against his chest, hips moving below him, Harry lost all concentration, thrusting into her. . .

Tara arched her back as the second orgasm flooded over her. She wrapped Harry’s body with her legs and arms, clinging to him as he embraced her with one arm and clutched the headboard with the other. At last she felt him buck inside her, felt the explosive exhalation of breath on her shoulder as he came.

He raised himself on his elbows, looking searchingly into her face. “Are you okay?”

“I am. . . much better than okay.” She grinned back at him.

He tucked her hair behind her ears, kissed her. Harry rolled over, spooning her against his chest. She felt safe, protected. And that was a very rare feeling for Tara.

When she drifted off to sleep in Harry’s arms, the moon had set and plunged the room into darkness. Her sleep was entirely without dreams.

•   •   •   •

H
ARRY WOKE EARLY, BEFORE THE SUN ROSE
. T
ARA HAD LEFT
, slipping back into the bed she shared with Cassie. He’d been reluctant to untangle himself from her arms and the sleeping bag, wanting to bask in her warmth for as long as possible. He wanted to stay here, to put aside the next phase of the search for Magnusson, the misstep that could land him in harm’s way. These last hours had been glorious, and a twinge of fear twitched in his chest at the thought of losing what he’d just gained, this sense of serene wholeness.

But there was no stopping time.

Finally, he left the bed and trudged toward the kitchen to make coffee. Maggie lumbered along in his wake, her claws clicking on the linoleum.

On the couch, Martin awoke to the steam and hiss of the coffeepot. He turned over and fixed Harry with a bemused glance. “You never used to make coffee.”

“It’s definitely an acquired taste.” Harry grimaced as he took a sip. “And your taste in coffee takes more acquiring than most.”

Martin harrumphed. “That’s the good stuff. I ordered it from Australia. It’s made from fruit bat guano. The bats eat the cocoa beans, and then they collect the guano. . .”

Harry stared into the cup. “You’d better be pulling my leg.” He looked at the label. It was, indeed, from Australia.

“Maybe.” The old man crossed his arms. “Maybe not. You got something against fruit bats?”

Harry set down his cup. “Look, Pops, I appreciate everything you’ve done for us. I realize I put you in a bad situation. . .”

“You’re family, Harry. Anything I can do for you, you know I will.”

“There might be some people coming to look for us. You might want to take a vacation.”

Martin stubbornly waved his suggestion away. “This
is
my vacation. I’ve got it all under control. It’s you I worry about.”

“Everything’s gonna be fine with me, Pops.”

The old man looked under his tangled eyebrows at Harry. “Maybe there’s hope for you, yet.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Tara. She’s a good woman. She’s different from you, and that’s good for you.”

Harry rubbed his eyebrow. Shit. Had the old man heard them last night? “Is that what your book says?”

“That’s what your Pops says.” Martin picked up a coffee mug. “Differences can create conflict, if you let them. Or they can be complementary, and you can use them to compensate for each other’s strengths and weaknesses. It’s the law of the universe. . . the harmonious attraction of opposites. Yin and yang. . . dark and light. . . peanut butter and jelly. . .”

“Pops, I appreciate the thought, but it’s way too early for the cosmic ruminations. . .”

Martin wagged a finger under Harry’s nose, slurping his bat guano coffee. “You think your Pops doesn’t know what he’s talking about. But I’ll have you know, back in the day, I was quite the lady’s man. Do you remember your friend Tom’s mom from across the street?” The old man’s face split into a craggy grin. “Well, let me tell you about Mrs. Cloverfeld and the hot tub. . .”