Dead of Eve (26 page)

“I might consider forgiving your daft theatrics”—he waved his hand to the bike sprawled on its side—“if ye tell me wha’ you’re about.”

I just had a conversation with an aphid. He wouldn’t understand what was going on with me. I didn’t even understand it. “I don’t know.”

He ground his teeth and sheathed his sword. “We fix the banjaxed pipe then back to the gaff straightaway.”

“No.” My chin thrust out, as did my chest. “I need books.” I nodded to the carnage. “Insect books.”

Fury seared his every syllable. “I had a canary when ye leapt off the bike. So you’ll tell me wha’ ye were doing with that messenger bug.”

“What? How do you know it was a messenger?”

“They den’ fight. They gawk.”

“And you know this how?”

“Lloyd.” A heavy sigh. “He heard a rake of stories from the minks passing through.”

“If that was a messenger, was it here to deliver a message?” From who? A human? Another aphid?

“They collect information and take it back to their hives.”

“Hives? Dammit, we’ve been together for months. Why am I just hearing about this?”

His whiskered chin tipped to the sky, an exhale pushing through his flared nostrils. Then he dropped his head and leveled his glare at me. “I’m not withholding anything from ye. I told ye they were evolving. The messengers, the hives, I den’ know what it means.”

“I understand them. I swear I felt it say ‘Found you.’
Felt
being the operative word, Roark.” After it chanted
Drone
through my veins. The hairs on my neck rose. “Something’s not right with me, and to understand what’s going on, I need to understand them.” If I could get my hands on an entomology tome or maybe layman’s texts on natural selection and DNA mutation…“I need a fucking library.”

He squinted at his curled fingers. I followed suit with impatience. What, did he need manicure?

When he raised his gaze to mine, my stomach dropped. My theatrics had put shadows in those deep green eyes. Oh, my fickle priest. What had I done?

He watched me, seemed to be debating something. Then he straightened his back, decision made. “I must be a gobshite.” His tone was on the hurtful side of contemptuous.

He stalked to the bike. “There’s a university a few kilometers north.”

Roark found and repaired the break in the pipe without incident. A couple hours later, we stood in the cathedral style foyer of the college library. The mustiness of unused books stagnated the stuffy space. A high window streamed a golden bar of sunlight across the brick floor and illuminated the cloud of dust stirred up by our boots.

A whisper of jade peered from under his lowered lashes as he stepped before me. “We den’ know if we’ve been followed. Root quickly and den’ put the heart crossways in me again.”

“Hold on to your canaries. I’ll steer clear of trouble.”

Even bleak in spirit, his beautiful lips turned up. I rose on tiptoes and tilted a closed mouth over his. He met me with a tentative caress of lips. Too soon, he pulled back.

Head down, he nodded to the right. “Science and Nature is that way.”

We secured the building then separated in the closed off corner of the library. Three stories of stained glass windows veneered the west wall and soaked up the last hour of sun. I scuffed down the aisles, loading my arms with every primer I found on bugs, evolution and genetics.

Honey-tinged curls flashed between the books one aisle over. I leaned on the shelf that separated us. He pretended to ignore me, keeping his eyes on the text he cradled.

I pushed a few books out of the way. “You must be in the
1000 Ways To Pleasure a Woman
section?”

His lips teased a smile. “Actually, this is
Temptress for Dummies
, but”—he glanced up—“I’m on me way to the
How To Make Her Bugger Off
aisle.”

Dusty hardbacks framed his sculptured face. As we stared at each other through the opening, something crept from the green lagoons of his eyes. That something spiraled through me, reaching places I couldn’t reach myself. The way he looked at me, I felt attractive, admired, and secure. My body went rigid. I squeezed the books in my arms, thankful for the bookshelf between us.

He nodded toward the end of the aisle and disappeared in that direction. I followed. Snapshots of his heated expression flickered between the books as we advanced.

My mouth went dry. I planted my feet. What would I find at the end of the aisle? A neglected vow? If his control wavered, could I be strong enough for both of us? An irresistible impulse hummed through my body.

Listen to the song.

I lingered in the too quiet stillness, longing to go to him, arousal pumping my pulse.

The scuff of boot treads sent a bird flapping to the rafters. A soft thump up ahead. Another. Then Roark’s shout. “Run—”

My body jerked forward, my feet stumbling to catch up. Toward his voice and around the corner. The books plummeted out of my arms.

He was on his knees. A shotgun barrel pressed against his temple. The man behind the gun eyed me up and down. Twice. Deep pockmarks pitted his face. The curved beak that was his nose angled to the side, the misshaped cartilage toughened and old. His boot pinned Roark’s sword to the floor and out of reach.

A fist wrapped around my hair. “I don’t believe it,” a second man whispered, his pierced lips hovering inches from my face. Faded tattoos sleeved his arm, which aimed a sawed-off shotgun at Roark. “Are you real?” Rot wafted from his gaping jaw. His too-large head bobbled on a pencil neck as if it might fall off if he moved too quickly.

The daggers itched on my forearms. I could maim Pencil Neck next to me, but I wouldn’t be fast enough to stop Broken Nose from pulling the trigger. I needed one or both of them distracted. So I improvised. “I’m a demon sent by God in his scorn for man’s sins to entice thee with”—I cringed—“a voodoo vagina.”

Roark’s eyebrows climbed up his forehead.

“Release this soldier of Christ and God will show mercy.”

Silence blanketed the library.

Broken Nose’s saucer eyes didn’t blink. “I thought women…I never thought I’d see one again. But here you are. In the flesh.” He thumbed his ill-fitted nostrils. “Let’s see the voodoo vagina.”

Damn. Not the usual god-fearers. Plan B. “Listen fuckers. I’m a hybrid nymph. And I’m hungry enough to dine on your low grade sap.”

Pencil Neck yanked back my head and wedged the gun barrel in my mouth, prying it open, gagging me. “No mutated bits in there. Aw God, her throat is perfect.” He shut my jaw and turned the gun back to Roark. “She’s going to take my cock in that sweet throat”—he thrust his enlarged groin against my hip—“while her soldier of Christ watches. If he behaves, he can have a go at her ass while we take turns filling her cunt. And I can see the weapons under that coat. Those come off first.”

I met Roark’s eyes. I’d seen that torment before. In my father’s basement.

“No, Evie.”

I rubbed my wrists. I failed Joel. I wouldn’t fail Roark. I removed the weapons and cloak. Roark didn’t lower his eyes from mine when I shed my shirt. The frigid air trailed cold fingers along my scar. Would its hideousness be enough of a diversion? I puffed out my chest.

Broken Nose made a choking sound. “Holy fuck.”

Wide-eyed, Pencil Neck lowered his barrel to bend down for a closer look. I shot my shin up and out, cracking his jaw
.
Then I kicked again, knocking the shotgun from his grasp and catching it before it dropped.

Broken Nose fired as Roark dove. Confetti of books showered the far side of the room. I flipped the shotgun and reached for the trigger.

“Den’ shoot.” Roark fisted the sword, angled like a hatchet over Broken Nose’s bowed head.

“Fuck that.” I shoved the shotgun against the other man’s trembling chest.

“If we kill them, we’re no different than they are.”

“You have no idea what kind of monster I am.” I put pressure on the trigger.

“Look at them. Look close. What do ye see?”

I looked into the eyes of the man who was willing to take turns raping me. A wet sheen rose over his gaze and broke free in one pathetic plop on his sunken cheek.

“Fear,” I said, “follows evil, and its punishment.”

“It also follows suffering. It weakens a man, makes him desperate. They’re scared, lass. Just like ye. And me.”

My trigger finger wobbled, strengthened. “If we don’t kill them, they’ll come after us.”

“No more blood, Evie. We’ll tie them up, find another way.”

Something moved near Roark’s boot. Broken Nose’s hand twitched over the hem of his bunched up pant leg. Then a flash of metal. Another goddamn gun.

I swung my aim and fired. His broken nose burst in bits of bone and flesh. A pitted flap of skin hung from his chin, quivering on his neck. His body toppled to the floor.

Pencil Neck launched, barreled into me. His hand wrestled mine for the aim of the shot gun. He was stronger, had more leverage. The barrel rose up, up, up until I was staring into the dark hollow tubes.

The sword whistled behind me. The shotgun dropped, followed by Pencil Neck’s too-large head.

Adrenaline drained from my shaking limbs as I scooted away from the headless corpse. I dressed and strapped on my weapons, fearful of meeting Roark’s eyes.

He was crouched over the bodies, murmuring what I presumed to be Last Rites. When he stood, I approached his back and leaned my forehead against it. His body stilled.

“I’m sorry.” For jumping off his bike. For the blood on his sword. For hiding my scar.

He stepped away and scooped up my abandoned books. “We’re leaving.”

I stepped out of the bathroom. The sweatshirt and cotton pants did little to calm my shivering from the ice cold shower. Roark sat on the edge of the bed, already showered and in his wool robe.

His gaze swiveled to mine. “Come here.”

When I sat next to him, he gripped me in a painful hug.

“Roark—”

“We have scads to discuss.” He released me. “But right now, I can’t get past the scar.” His fingers yanked through his wet curls. “Tell me that’s not the wee cut ye were stitching the night we met?”

I lowered my eyes.

“Bloody hell. Why?” He knelt before me. “I was right here. I could’ve helped ye. I should’ve helped ye.”

“Well”—I shrugged—“I was still trying to get over the fact that some bastard wanted to give me a mastectomy. I wasn’t really in a trusting mood.”

His jaw set. Red spots bloomed on his neck and cheeks. “And now? If it happened now, would ye let me?”

I cupped his face and rubbed my thumbs over his whiskers. “Of course, I would. I trust you.”

“Then show me the scar. I want to see it.”

I arched my eyebrows and tried to hide my surfacing nerves with humor. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours?”

“Ach, I’m not coddin’ ye. I can’t be more serious in me request.”

“Okay.” I threw up my hands. “Fine.”

He remained on his knees, eyes on mine.

“Now?”

He nodded.

So many times, I lost myself to fantasies of him gazing upon my body with an amorous ogle and a slackened jaw. But I knew his request wasn’t about sex. So I pictured my annual doctor’s exam. Latex gloves. Cold stirrups. It was just a health inspection.

I shrugged out of my shirt and lay back on the bed, propped up on my elbows. The chill in the room hardened my nipples, pointing them to the ceiling.

He sucked in a breath, his brogue thick. “Aw love, you’re a vixen.”

Doctor’s office. Acrid disinfectant hospital smell. Stiff exam table.

He stood over me. “Ye meant wha’ ye said? Ye trust me fully?”

“Yes.” That word was so much bolder than the voice that imparted it.

He removed his robe. His bare chest tapered to the slim waistline of his jeans, which hung low on his hips. My heart hammered.

The muscles in his arms twitched in the candlelight as he crawled over me. Sweat lined my palms.

When he straddled my thighs, my teeth sank into my lip. He moved my turquoise stone to the side and bent his mouth over my scar. His eyes held mine.

“Does he live?” he rasped. “The sodding bastard who did this?”

I shook my head. His gaze lowered to my marred chest. My lungs labored under his examination. His head dipped. I held my breath.