A Little Fate (22 page)

She'd stripped. The black leather lay piled on the bank, her sword, her dagger crossed over it. She'd pulled off her boots, her wrist sheaths, and was even now reaching up to lift the circlet from her hair.

She was, Harper thought, more mythical, more wondrous that the white-horned creature. Her body was curved and sleek, the color of the fresh honey she had poured over the breakfast bread. Her dark hair, arrow straight, rained over her shoulders, down her back, lay tauntingly over one magnificent breast.

His body tightened, his mouth went dry. For one blissful moment, he lost the power of speech.

“This is a sacred place,” she began as she laid her circlet on her crossed blades. “No demon can cross its borders. Take off your clothing, put down your weapon. You may take no cloth or metal into the falls.”

So saying, she dived.

It was a picture he knew would remain etched in his mind forever.

“Things are looking up,” he decided, and peeling off his jeans, he jumped in after her.

The water was cool, sluicing the sweat from his body in one glorious swipe. When he surfaced, he felt the last nasty dregs of the morning's hangover sink to the bottom of the river. In fact, he realized as he struck out after Kadra and the falls, he didn't just feel clearheaded, didn't just feel good. He felt charged, energized.

She waited for him at the foot of the falls, treading the churning water lazily. Her eyes were impossibly green, impossibly brilliant.

“What's in this water?” he shouted.

“Cleansing properties. It washes away negative energies.”

“I'll say.”

She laughed, did a quick surface dive that gave him a brief and wonderful flash of her butt. Then she rose again, a vision of black and gold, under the pounding spill of the water. She climbed nimbly onto a plateau of rock, stretched her arms wide to the sides, and let the water beat over her.

He lost his breath, and despite the cool relief of the water, his blood ran hot. He hoisted himself up in front of her, laid his hands on her hips. Her eyes opened again, and her eyebrow quirked.

“You're the most magnificent thing I've ever seen. In any dimension.”

“I have a good build,” she said easily. “It's made for fighting.” She bent her right arm, flexed her biceps.

“I bet it holds its own in other sports.”

Though she couldn't ignore the trip of her own heart, or the quick click of response in her belly, she only smiled. “I enjoy sporting, when there's time for such things. You're very handsome, Harper Doyle, and I have a yearning for you that is stronger than any I have known before.”

“Do you think you could pick one of my two names and stick with it?” Since she didn't seem to object, he slid his hands around her thighs, then over her silky butt.

“Harper is your title.”

“No, it's my name. My first name.” He really had to get a taste of that lush, frowning mouth. But as he dipped his head, she laid a restraining hand on his chest.

“I do not understand. Are you the harper called Doyle?”

“I'm Harper Doyle, and before this turns into a comedy routine, Doyle is my family name. Harper is the name my parents gave me when I was born. That's how it works in my world. I'm not
a
harper,” he added as the light began to dawn. “I'm not, what, like a minstrel? Jesus. I'm a PI.”

“A pee-eye? What is this?”

“Investigator. Private investigator. I . . . solve puzzles,” he decided.

“Ah! You are a seeker. This is better. A seeker is more useful on a hunt than a harper.”

“Now that we've worked that out, why don't we go back to me being handsome.” He drew her closer so that her breasts—cool, wet, firm—brushed his chest. His mouth was an inch from hers when he went flying.

He landed clumsily, swallowing water on his own curse. She was still on the rocks when he came up and swiped the hair out of his eyes. She was grinning. “You made a good splash. It is time to go.”

She dived, struck out for the bank. Oh, he was handsome, she thought as she hoisted herself out. Very handsome, and with a clever look in his eyes that made her want to join her body to his.

Something about him was making pricks on her heart, as if trying to find the weakness, the point of entry.

He would be a strong lover, she knew. And it had been a long time since she had desired one. If time and fate allowed, they would have each other.

But first, there was the hunt.

By the time he pulled himself onto the bank and put on his jeans, she was strapping on her sword. He didn't bother to think, just went with the moment. And tackled her.

She let out a surprised little grunt and studied his face with some approval. “I misjudged. You do have speed.”

“Yeah, right, it'll help on the hunt. But right now . . .”

He lowered his head, all but tasting that beautiful mouth. And once more he went flying. But this time it was through the portal. The blast of light, and sharp, shocking pain.

He landed hard, with Kadra once more on top, on his kitchen floor. “Damn it!” He banged his head sharply on the base cabinet, felt the unmistakable shape of his gun dig into his bare back. “Give me some warning next time. A damn signal or something.”

“You have your mind too much on sporting.” She gave his shoulder a pat, then levered off him. Sniffed the air. “We will have more coffee, and plan the hunt.”

“Okay, Sheena, let's reevaluate,” he said as he got up.

“I am Kadra—”

“Shut up.” He slapped the gun down on the kitchen counter while her mouth dropped open.

“You would speak so to a slayer?”

“Yeah, I'd speak so to anybody who busts uninvited into my house and keeps giving me orders. You want my help, you want my cooperation? Then you can just stop telling me what to do and start asking.”

She was silent for a moment. She had a ready temper, something even her intense training hadn't completely tamed. To lose it now, she told herself, would be gratifying, but a sinful waste of time. Instead, she measured Harper, then nodded with sudden understanding. “Ah. You're talking with your man-thing. This is a common ailment in my world as well.”

“This isn't my dick talking.” Or at least, he'd be damned if he'd admit it. “I want answers. The way I see it, you're looking to hire me. That's fine. You want me to help you track down these . . . things. That's what I do. I find things, solve problems. That's my job. I work my way. Let's get that part straight.”

“You are a seeker, and you require payment. Very well.” Though she thought less of him for it, she wouldn't begrudge him his fee. “Come with me.” She started out, turned when she saw him standing firm. “If you will,” she added.

“Better,” he muttered, and followed her into the bedroom,
where she scooped up the leather pouch she'd tossed on the bed earlier.

“Is this enough?”

He caught the bag when she flipped it to him. Curious, he opened it. And poured a storm of gems onto the bed. “Holy Mother of God!”

“I am told these have value here. Is this so?” Intrigued, she stepped over to poke a finger into the pool of diamonds, rubies, emeralds. “They are common stones in my world. Pretty,” she admitted. “Attractive for adornments. Will they satisfy your needs?”

“Satisfy my needs,” he grumbled. “Yeah, they're pretty satisfactory.”

He could retire. Move to Tahiti and live like a king. Hell, he could
buy
Tahiti and live like a god. For one outrageous moment, he saw himself living in a white palace by the crystal blue water, surrounded by gorgeous, scantily clad women eager to do his bidding. Drinking champagne by the gallons. Frolicking on white sand beaches with those same women—not clad at all now.

Master of all he surveyed.

Then his conscience kicked in, a small annoyance he'd never been able to shake. On the heels of conscience nipped the lowering admission that the fantasy he'd just outlined would bore him brainless in a week.

He picked a single diamond, comforting himself that it was worth more than he would earn in a decade.

“This'll cover it.”

“That is all you require?”

“Put the rest away, before I change my mind.” For lack of a better option, he stuffed the stone into his pocket. “Now, we're going to sit down. You're going to explain this whole demon deal to me, and I'll figure out our first move.”

“They are out in your world. We have to hunt.”

“My world,” Harper agreed. “My turf. I don't go after anything until I know the score.” He walked to his dresser, opened a drawer, and pulled out a T-shirt. “Normally I don't meet clients at home,” he said as he pulled the shirt on. “But
we'll make an exception. Living room.” He headed out, took a legal pad from a desk drawer, then plopped down on the sofa.

However fantastic the client, however strange the case, he was going to approach it as he would any other. He made a few notes, then jerked his chin at a chair when she continued to stand. “Sit down. Bok demon, right? Is that B-O-K? Never mind. How many?”

“They were four. Sorak, demon king, and three warriors.”

“Description?”

She sprawled in a chair, all legs and attitude. He looked more scholar than warrior now, working with his odd scroll and quill. Though she had never found scholar appealing before, this aspect of him was attractive to her as well.

He has brains as well as muscle, she thought. Intellect as well as brawn.

“Description,” Harper repeated. “What do they look like?”

“They are deceptively human in appearance, and so often walk among people without detection. They are handsome, as you are. Though you have eyes blue as the marsh bell, and your hair is cropped short. Those who are foolish enough to be influenced by such things as beauty are easy victims.”

“We've established that you're nobody's victim, baby. Be more specific.”

She huffed. “They have good height, like you, but their build is less. It is more . . . slender. Hair and eyes are dark, black as a dead moon except in feeding or in attack, where they glow red.”

“Glowing red eyes,” he noted. “I'd say that's a fairly distinguishing mark.”

“Sorak's hair curls.” She demonstrated by waving a finger. “And is well groomed. He is vain.”

“They outfitted like you?”

It took her a moment, then she glanced down at her hunting clothes. “No. They wear a kind of armor, black again, close to the body, and over this Sorak wears the tunic and cloak of his rank.”

“Even in New York, body armor and tunics should stand
out. Maybe there's something on the news.” He picked up the remote and flipped on the television.

Kadra leaped up as if he'd set her chair on fire. Even before her feet were planted, her sword was out, raised high above her head in preparation for a downward thrust.

“Hold it, hold it, hold it!” He jumped and, as he might have done to save a beloved child, threw himself between the blade and his TV. “I don't give a rat's ass about what you did to the bathroom sink, but put one scratch on my TV and you're going down.”

Her heart pounded in her chest, and her muscles quivered. “What is this sorcery?”

“It's not magic, it's ESPN.” He hissed out a breath, then moved in to clamp his hands over hers on the hilt of the sword. She tipped her head back so their eyes, their mouths, lined up.

“It's television, which is arguably the national religion of my country. An entertainment device,” he said more calmly. “A kind of communication. We have programs—ah, like plays, I guess, that tell us what's happening in the world, even when it's happening far away.”

She drew a breath, slowly lowered the sword while she stared at the picture box where the machines called cars ran swiftly around a circle. “How is this done?”

“Something about airwaves, transmissions, cameras, stuff. Hell, I don't know. You turn the thing on, pick a channel. This is a race. You get that?”

“Yes, a contest of speed. I have won many races.”

“With those legs, baby, I'll just bet you have. Okay, I'm turning on the news now so we can see if there are any reports on your demons. So relax.”

“How can you use a thing when you have no knowledge of its workings?”

“Same way I can use a computer. And don't ask. I thought you said you knew about this world.”

“I was given knowledge, but I cannot learn it all at once.” It embarrassed her not to know, so she went back to sprawling in the chair, giving the television quick, suspicious glances.

“All right, we'll take it in stages. Just don't attack any more of my household appliances.” He sat again, flipped the channel to the all-news station, then picked up his pad. “Back to your demons. Distinguishing marks? You know, like two heads, for instance?”

Feeling foolish, she sulked. He had nearly slain a spider with the weapon known as gun, but she had not made
him
feel loose in the brain. “They are Bok, not Loki.”

“What makes them stand out? How do you recognize them?” Even as she threw up her hands, he tapped his pencil. “And don't say they are Bok. Draw me a picture.”

Taking him literally, she reared up, snatched the pencil and pad. In fast, surprisingly deft strokes, she sketched a figure of a man with long, curled hair, a strong, rawboned face and large, dark eyes.

“That's good. But it's going to be tough to pick him out of the millions of other tall, slim, dark-haired guys in New York. Doesn't shout out demon to me. How do you recognize them—as a species, let's say.”

“A slayer is born for this. But others might do so by their stench. They have a scent.” She struggled for a moment in her attempt to describe it. “Between the ripe and the rot. You would not mistake it.”

“Okay, they stink. Now we're getting somewhere. Anything else?”