Demon Demon Burning Bright, Whisperings book four (22 page)

“Okay.” Two of them, three of us. We could
handle Cicero and whomever if this went the wrong way.

A cool breeze lapped us, the first I felt in
Bel-Athaer. It shuffled Gia’s hair on her shoulders and shivered
over my scalp. Easy to think it was an omen telling me to get the
hell out of here.

Now I was here, here was the last place I
wanted to be.

“Forty-eight hours,” she continued.

“Forty-eight. . . .” I stopped before the
sentence finished forming.
“
Hell, you’re not coming with
me.”

“I see you missed the part where I said
Plowman and I will wait for you. This is as close as we can safely
go.”

I regarded them with a scowl.

“Miss Banks, a word,” Gia said. She beckoned
with one hand and walked farther back into the canyon.

She looked back down the rock chute to where
Chris waited. Beyond him, the canyon’s rectangular entrance framed
a small section of the valley.

“What do you know of motherhood?”

That stymied me for a moment as my brain
tried to wrap around both question and concept. Motherhood? I’m the
first to admit my idea of mothering is warped by my experiences in
foster care homes. I know women who have kids, but I’m not privy to
what goes on in their homes, how they care for their children. “Not
much.”

“A mother loves her children. If they rebel,
she puts her foot down, perhaps she uses a little intimidation, or
threats. But she loves them; she does her best for them. There may
come a time when she must go outside her immediate family for
help.”

She paused as if expecting something from
me.

“Um. I guess so.”

“And don’t believe all you hear. Motives can
be misunderstood. History is not always as written.”

God, I was tired of her going all enigmatic
on me. “Why do you always speak in riddles?”

“But you’re so good with riddles.”

I glanced behind me. Although Chris stood
back from us, with his enhanced hearing he surely heard Gia. Yet
his face was a perfect blank. No surprise, nor awe, not even
curiosity. He knew the underlying message in Gia’s words, as I did
not.

I turned back to her, but she had
disappeared. I hate when she does that, too.

Chris joined me. “A kiss for good luck?”

His sheer gall amazed me. “You call yourself
Royal’s friend, yet coming on to his girl is okay?”

“You don’t belong to Royal.” His gray eyes
turned dreamy, drawing me into them. “A woman belongs to no man.
She is the perfect art form, beautiful, with the heart of a
warrior. A woman meets, overcomes and survives challenges that
would shrivel a man in his boots. A woman,” his fingers trailed
down my arm and closed on my wrist, “is not a possession. She is a
jewel to be cherished.”

I knew it was a load of malarkey, but my
pulse sped anyway. I wanted to lean in and let all my weight hang
in his arms. I wanted to cup his smooth face, trace the shell of
his ear with my fingers, put my lips to where his pulse beat in the
hollow of his throat. But a smidgen of sanity knew my attraction
was for what he represented, not the man himself. Tall, abnormally
fast and strong, with skin which burned me.

Royal.

Expression wistful, he put his hands on my
shoulders and gazed into my eyes. “Whatever happens in there, I am
your friend, and would be more if you allow. I will wait for
you.”

His face closed with mine very slowly and I
gazed, mesmerized, as I saw only his eyes. The softest touch of his
mouth, a baby breath, then firm and mobile, his tongue probing,
teasing, parting my lips. He kissed me unhurriedly. I felt sucked
into some sultry, languorous place where only he and I existed. His
slightly pointed teeth didn’t bother me as his long demon tongue
caressed mine. It was a kiss to make a girl swoon.

I could have kissed him back. I could have
fallen into him, enveloped by his heat, swept up by his scent,
enchanted by the promises his mouth and body made. It would have
been so easy.

But he wasn’t Royal. Royal’s kiss breathed
life into me.

I stepped back, hauled back, and slapped his
face. Astonishment kept him immobile long enough for me to backhand
his other cheek.

“Swine,” I accused. “You think I don’t know
what you did?”

Cheeks glowing, he flashed his pointed
teeth. “I kissed a beautiful woman and took pleasure in the
experience.”

“You used your whatever you call it on
me.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“Just a little, my Sweet.” He brought our
faces close again. “It didn’t take much, and don’t tell me you
didn’t enjoy it.”

I did, and I still would have enjoyed his
lips if he’d not beguiled me. “Don’t try it again,” I said huskily
against his mouth.

He drew away. His lips hitched in a smile.
“I wouldn’t dare.”

I got my Ruger from my backpack and tucked
it in the back of my waistband, slung the backpack over my
unwounded shoulder. A little dizzy with dread, anticipation and the
lingering sweetness of Chris’ lips, I took the first step.

I looked back once. Chris leaned on the
rock, one leg crossed over the other. He saluted, then blew me a
kiss from puckered lips.

Distance on a mountain trail is deceptive. A
half mile as the crow flies developed into a dusty three-mile hike.
I walked faster as I neared the cave - Cicero’s text said he
expected Royal, perhaps Royal was here. Perspiration dampened my
back, neck and hollow between my breasts when I glimpsed wide,
deep, smooth stones steps leading up to a cave mouth like a circle
with the bottom sliced off, and six square openings in the wall
above.

Gray stone buildings with flint tile roofs
sat on the valley floor. Some, girdled by low rock walls, with
paths leading to their doors and tiny flowerbeds, could be homes.
Others were tall three-floor structures. Yet more were half-hidden
by trees. Smoke spiraled from chimneys. No paved streets, but wide
pebble paths wound and crossed to connect the buildings. Several
paths led to green or yellow fields and a large pond.

I watched for a few minutes, but nothing
moved in the cave’s entrance, nor in the openings. Resettling my
backpack, I trudged up the steps and inside.

Smooth, pale, lustrous pearl-gray, the walls
curved to meet overhead. I touched the near wall with my
fingertips; so smooth it could have been mechanically carved, or
channeled by a stream which flowed here for centuries. I followed
the tunnel as it wound, until I came to a staircase which ascended
inside a stairwell with an arched ceiling. I went up.

I came out in a room big as a cathedral with
high, ribbed ceiling. A dozen slim, looping stone arches either
side of me separated it into three areas. I stood in the middle
section and looking through the arches on my left saw square
openings in rock walls six feet thick. Daylight misted through
them, and I guessed the hazy green and brown was the valley
below.

Even the floor gleamed as if polished.

A tall figure clad in a white, floor length,
all-enveloping hooded cloak came through the arches. A curved chin
which made me think
male
, a pale mouth, but the drooping
hood hid the rest of his face.

“Cicero?” I asked.

He unfolded his clasped hands, lifted them
and unfastened the cloak’s clasp. The silky fabric slithered from
his head, slid off his shoulders and fell to pool on the floor
behind him.

Tall as me, wings of silver-white hair fell
either side of his pale face and back over his shoulders. Pale-blue
eyes regarded me from beneath arching silver brows. His white,
straight, round-necked robe covered his arms to his fingertips and
touched toes which peeped through the gem-encrusted bands of his
sandals. He looked familiar.

He looked like me.

CHAPTER
FIFTEEN

Smiling, he spread his arms wide in welcome.
“Hecate.”

I half spun, moved to my right as I reached
back and pulled my Ruger, clicked the safety off and pointed it at
the stairwell before you could yell,
she has a gun!
But no
one stood behind me. Still in a defensive posture, I turned my head
to keep the guy in my line of vision.

He moved two paces nearer, cupped hands held
out to me placatingly. His voice, low and harsh, seemed too deep
for his slender frame. “Hecate, as your parents named you, goddess
of magic, the night, moon, and ghosts,” he said gently.

Gray feathered his hairline and his smile
made fine lines fan from the outer corners of his eyes.

“Hecate Bon Moragh.”

Panic fluttered in my chest.

“I am your uncle, child. Your mother - ”

“No.” I shook my head as if to disperse a
swarm of gnats. I didn’t want to hear. I didn’t want to know. After
years of wondering, I was afraid. “Is Royal here?”

His voice cooled. “Ryel is not here.”

“He didn’t make it?” My gaze darted
frantically about the cavern. “But you expected him, right? If he’s
not here yet, he. . . .” Crushed, I lost my voice. I’d hoped to
find Royal here, and it would be over. No more searching, no more
worrying.

“I don’t expect him, Hecate. He has no
reason to come here.”

Irrational anger boiled in me, I tasted it
as acid on my tongue. “What the
fuck
are you saying? You
sent a message to his phone.”

He shook his head, hair rippling on his
shoulder in a silver-white wave. “I did not message him.”

“Then - ”

“I messaged you.”

My mind went blank. “I don’t understand.”
The barrel of my gun angled toward the floor.

Then I did. My voice grated. “There are
these things called invitations. You write on them and mail them
out. Or you send an e-mail, or. . . .” I paused to shoot him a
poisonous look. “Or send a text. That text on Royal’s phone was for
me. You had him leave it where he knew I’d find it. Why didn’t you
contact
me
? Why make me come here?”

Hands now clasped at his waist, he came
closer. “I know you are confused, Hecate, but all will be made
clear.” He smiled. “Come with me to my apartments where we can
speak in comfort.”

I moved back. “Not another step till you
tell me where Royal is.” I brought my gun up. “And don’t call me
that. My name is Tiff.”

His lips firmed, then he nodded. “Tiff,
then. For now. I do not know where Ryel is.” He waved one hand
dismissively. “We planned this meeting, he understands why it must
happen this way, but his participation is over. He could be
anywhere in Bel-Athaer or the human realm.”

“Well goody for him. How about you explain
why
it has to happen this way, and what the hell
it
is.”

He dipped his head, hair bunching on his
shoulders. “I know this is difficult for you. Please, let us go
where we can talk.”

All this way for nothing.
I shook my
head. “I’m leaving. Don’t try to stop me.”

“Tiff, I can tell you everything you want to
know. The questions you have asked yourself. Will you walk away
from that?”

Bile seared my gut. I was tricked, duped
into coming here. I wanted to storm out, just to show them they
couldn’t manipulate me, though I wasn’t sure who
they
were.

But maybe it wasn’t all for nothing. I was
here and stupidity is not my middle name. I wanted to know how a
human man - my uncle? - came to be a Seer in Bel-Athaer. And if he
could tell me about my parents. . . .

Think, Tiff, think. What evidence do you
have he’s your uncle?
None, but he sure looked a
lot
like me.

I swallowed a hard nodule in my throat. He
was human; he didn’t have the speed and strength of Gelpha or Dark
Cousin. He’d have a fight on his hands if he tried to keep me here.
I’d listen to him, then get the hell out.

I nodded abruptly.

He sucked in a small, sharp breath. “What is
wrong with your arm?”

I glanced at my arm. The bandage was still
white but for a tiny red dot and my arm barely stung now. “Don’t
worry about it. If you want to talk, let’s go.”

He held out his hand. “Come.”

He turned and walked away, confident I would
follow. His silver-white hair hung halfway down his back to where
two blue leather cords cinched it tight; from there it fell to his
ankles.

He went through one of the arches. “I call
this the public room. I am told it’s intimidating.” He turned his
head to wink at me. “Which is the desired effect. I meet the
occasional visitor here.”

He liked to intimidate visitors? Well, he
didn’t intimidate me.

Okay, so a little.

He walked slowly, perhaps to let me catch up
with him, but I stayed ten paces behind and kept my eyes sharp.
Yellow globe lights recessed in the walls six feet apart brightly
illuminated a square passageway. I would see anything coming at
me.

We passed several wooden doors. The passage
split, going left and right. We turned right. Cicero’s sandals
scuffed on the floor, his long hair swayed. An odd little sound
made me realize he muttered under his breath. No, he sang a melody
to himself, a breezy little tune I didn’t recognize.

He seemed completely at ease. I felt wired
from the tips of my toes to the top of my head.

We reached four closely spaced doors and
stopped at the first. He unlocked and opened it. “My suite.” He
stood aside and ushered me in.

Obviously an office, with a large black desk
on a square of worn, faded carpet in the middle of the room, a wood
filing cabinet off to the side against the paneled wall. Stacks of
papers, books, a small, square container with pens and pencils, a
tray holding a coffeepot and a mug covered most of the desk’s
surface. Books packed floor-to-ceiling, bookshelves. Pale wood
paneling extended into the deep window embrasure in the third wall;
unlike those in Cicero’s
public room
, this window was
glazed.