Phoenix (28 page)

He is so handsome.

“You look nervous.” He observes. His tone is not accusational, but almost…sympathetic?

This is the part where I should smile a confident smile and assure him I know exactly what I’m getting into, that there’s nothing amiss and no reason for him to be suspicious of anything.

I open my mouth to speak. “I was hoping to hide it better,” I blurt, and bury my face in my hands.

Seriously, that’s the best I’ve got? Maybe I should have left with Jala. I suck at this seduction thing.

Ion places a gentle hand on my shoulder. I think maybe he’s trying to be comforting or reassuring or something, but his touch reminds me why I’m here.

This guy. I want to get close to this guy.

“There’s still time for you to catch up to Jala, if you don’t want to be here. But I was hoping you could help me with my shoulders. Xalil has gotten weak in his old age and hasn’t been able to pop my shoulder blades properly for months. I suspect that’s part of why he’s taken such an extended vacation—he knows he’s no use to me anymore. And Jala tries. I know she tries, but the poor girl seems afraid she’s going to hurt me.” He laughs as though the very thought is simply absurd, and I move my hands so I can see his face.

He is beautiful when he laughs.

Ion continues, his voice smooth, even a bit hypnotic, his English impeccable, with just enough of a hint of a Russian accent to make him sound exotic. “I haven’t been able to take a deep breath in months. I feel as though I’m being slowly strangled. I didn’t want to insult Jala—I know she tries—but that’s why I sent her on, in hopes that by explaining everything openly to you, perhaps you can help me.”

I’d half decided, at the beginning of his speech, to run after Jala and not come back. But by the time he’s done speaking I know I have to stay. Ion can’t even breathe properly? Arch-enemy or not, no one should have to live that way. And I do think I should be able to help him.

Besides that, his hand is still on my shoulder and I don’t really want him to let go. Although I suppose he’ll have to, no matter what I choose. “I’ll stay.”

The concerned look on his face blossoms into relieved happiness, and I can’t help returning his smile. At the same time, I’m marveling at how very young he looks. I’d always thought of him as this ancient dragon (I honestly don’t know how old he is) but like every other dragon, he’s only matured to adulthood and now he’s frozen in time, looking forever like any of the guys I go to college with back in the United States.

Except unlike the guys at school, who dress in sloppy slouchy things that are sold as athletic-wear but most often used for sleeping or shuffling to class, Ion has all the style and dignity of a man from a bygone era. He has a sort of post-Victorian, Edwardian-era vibe, with a tailored jacket over a crisp white shirt.

Ion opens the door and leads me into a small, warm interior room. He snaps on a light (electric, but not too bright), slips off his jacket, and starts unbuttoning his shirt.

And I realize he’s not so much like the guys back at college, not unless they’ve been working out for the past hundred years. It’s weird because he’s more slender than my dad and brothers, who are pretty crazy muscular, but at the same time, Ion is totally ripped.

Also, he’s been ripped up.

His unbuttoning reveals a horrendous white scar that forks across his chest like branched lightning. It stretches from ribs to shoulder and down past his navel, like a bony hand with too many fingers, all grasping and jagged across his torso, as if reaching in to pull out his heart.

How could anyone survive the kind of injury that would cause such a scar? My dad has a pretty wicked scar from the time Ion almost killed him, but it’s not nearly as impressive as this one.

“You understand about my shoulder blades?” Ion clarifies as he sets his shirt aside and hops up on the massage table. He’s sitting, facing me, and because the table is lower than his hip height, he’s no longer looming so high above me. He’s almost more approachable, except for the ripped, scarred chest.

“Jala explained all about it. Let me give it a try.” I gesture for him to turn around and lie on his belly, because frankly, I don’t know how much longer I can politely avert my eyes from his scar.

To my relief, Ion doesn’t protest or try to spell out the proper procedure. He just flops face-down on the table. “Use plenty of pressure. Don’t be afraid of hurting me.”

I step closer, hands extended, ready to adjust his back so he can breathe already, when the dim light of the room reveals something else.

He’s got another wicked scar on his back.

No kidding. This one’s every bit as big as the one on his chest, but gnarlier, like it didn’t even get sewn up properly, but healed in random clumps and stretches, with the skin puckered in some places and strained in others. It’s a pity, because otherwise his back would be lovely.

I’m just going to ignore the scars and not try to imagine how someone would sustain an injury like that, let alone survive it. I place my hands against his left shoulder blade, the one closest to me, and position them with the butt of one hand on the flat of the blade, and the other all-but-tucked in the ridge below it.

I’ve done this dozens of times on my siblings and parents. Especially once I got the idea to come here, I started volunteering to pop anybody’s shoulders anytime they needed it. I’ve gotten quite good at it, although those were for misalignments that were only a few hours old. I’ve never tried to adjust a back that’s been lodged out of place for months. I imagine it will take more force to unstick it.

“Okay, take a deep breath,” I instruct Ion. For good measure, I pull in a deep breath, too. Is Ion the one who smells so delightfully masculine, or is it the aged cedar woodwork in this room? Maybe a mixture of both, but it goes to my head and makes me wonder if perhaps I’m the one getting seduced, here.

“And when I say three, let your breath out. One. Two. Three.” As I give the command, Ion exhales with a whoosh, and I press down for all I’m worth, counter-shoving with my hands to free the boney plates.

They make a horrific snapping noise, far louder than any pop my family members’ backs have ever made.

“Oh, no, I’ve broken you!” I gasp, appalled.

Ion laughs. “No, but you fixed it.” He turns his head and looks up at me with just his left eye. “I wasn’t sure you’d be able to, but you did. Ahh,” he makes a groaning, contented sigh. “I can almost breathe freely. Can you get the other side?”

Like Dorothy realizing how much the oil can helped the tin man, I hurry around the table and waste no time getting my hands in place. “Ready? Deep breath. Let it out on three.” I pause a moment, focusing. I’ve got to put just as much effort into this second one. I can’t get lazy just because the first one worked.

And I didn’t break him, which is a huge relief. I’m pretty sure one of the cardinal rules of seduction is don’t break the guy you’re trying to woo.

“One, two, three,” I count, and shove heartily.

The hideous snapping sound still startles me, and I can’t imagine how his shoulder blades haven’t broken clean in two (we dragons tend to be strong, even when we’re in human form, so I imagine I am able to push quite a bit harder than Jala or Xalil), but he moves his arms back and forth and flexes his shoulder, groaning with that contented sigh.

“Ah, that’s so much better. I can finally breathe. You can kill me now and I’ll be happy.”

I sort of freeze, not sure if Ion is joking. Surely he’s speaking figuratively, right? It’s just there was a note in his voice, almost as though he was giving me permission…

That can’t be right. I will just politely ignore what he said. “Are you ready for your massage?”

“If you are.” He pauses, so I make an audible mm-hmming sound, since he can’t see me nodding and I don’t really trust myself to speak for some reason.

“There’s massage oil there in the cabinet, various kinds. Pick whatever you’d like.”

I open the glass doors on the cabinet and look at the bottles, which are delightful alchemist-looking flasks with exotic labels, and I search for something that sounds seductive. Among the many choices, there’s a row of like-looking bottles that must have come in a set, labeled for various purposes: stress-relieving (which is almost empty), refreshing, relaxing, healing (completely empty), and seductive, which is full up, and in fact, I have to break the paper seal to open it.

Perfect.

I pour some into my hands to warm it to body temperature before starting in. “Mmm, that smells lovely.”

Ion inhales deeply. “I don’t believe I’ve smelled that particular scent before. Which one did you choose?”

“Um, uh,” I clap my hands against his back and start smearing the oil around. “Something massage oil. I can’t look at the bottle right now. I have oil on my hands.”

“I like it.”

He likes it! I am rocking this whole seduction thing. Look at me go. I popped his back. He likes the oil I chose. Let’s book a date for the wedding, shall we? Sometime soon, too, because I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up. My heart has been tripping over itself it’s been racing so fast. I think I’ve aged a year in the last ten minutes.

Has it only been ten minutes? My phone is in the little purse I brought, which I hung on the hook behind me, and my hands are oily so I’m not digging it out right now.

Instead, I focus on the techniques I learned in my massage classes, paying special attention to his shoulder-blade area, which I know is probably extra-achy from being out of whack for so long.

“Anything is particular you want me to focus on?” I ask once I find my voice again.

“You’ve already done far more than I expected. I really do appreciate it. Just do what you came to do.”

So I massage his back. I should probably make conversation, but he doesn’t seem particularly chatty, and I’m too nervous, and besides, I can’t shake what he said earlier. You can kill me now. Why did he say that? Surely it’s a figure of speech. I can excuse it away, but I can’t forget about it. It hit me wrong.

Before I know it, a little clock I didn’t even see, hidden away on a shelf, chimes the half hour, and Ion raises up on his elbows with a sigh. “That was the best massage I’ve had in years. Possibly ever. A generous parting gift.” As he’s speaking, he sits up and turns around, so now he’s facing me again, that awful white scar of his glaring at me in a manner that’s almost accusational.

I meet his eyes, instead, but there’s something welling in them that’s sorrowful and resigned.

Ion continues, “I know you’re nervous, so let me assure you. I won’t fight back.”

I’m staring at him, trying to think what he must mean or what he’s getting at, and it’s possible my mouth may have fallen open. Yes, wide open. I try to speak. “I don’t know—”

“I know who you are, daughter of Ram and Ilsa,” Ion continues, shoving a frustrated hand back through his shoulder-length hair and pulling out the low ponytail that’s held it out of my way. “Ugh, I’ve been wracking my brain trying to remember your name. You’re not Wren—she’s the one who married the Scotsman. And you’re not Rilla—she’s married to her studies. You’re the youngest one, the one with the made up name. It starts with a Z, but it’s not anything normal. Not Zora, not Zelphia—”

“It was my grandmother’s name,” I explain, though I can’t believe we’re having this conversation. He knows who I am? How? And what does he think I came here to do? “My father’s mother. Zilpha.”

“Zilpha.” Ion nods his head. “Zilpha Melikov. I am gratified to die knowing the name of my assassin. Now get it over with quickly. I’m ready.”

CHAPTER FOUR

“Assassin?” I’m shocked. Also a bit insulted. Really, am I that horrible at seduction that he mistook my efforts for attempted murder?

I should have studied more than just massage.

“There’s nothing to be gained by denying it.” Ion rises to his feet, and suddenly he’s absurdly tall, towering over me in this tiny room, the scar on his chest shooting daggers at me from eye level. He reaches for his shirt, slips his arms through the sleeves, and starts buttoning. “Will it be easier without looking at your father’s failed attempt?”

“My father?” I repeat dumbly, still trying to sort out why Ion thinks I’m here to kill him, and stranger still, why he seems to want me to.

“He gave me this scar,” Ion traces the main branch with one finger before buttoning his shirt closed, covering it. “It should have killed me, probably would have, but Eudora wanted information from me, and the only way she could get that was by making sure I lived long enough to be able to speak. And once I got to that point, I was too far ashore on this side of the Styx to cross over it the other way.”

“My dad almost killed you?”

“Yes. Doesn’t he boast about it daily?”

“I, uh, oh, no. He’s never mentioned it.”

“Ah, I see.” Ion sits again, which is a relief because at least then he’s not quite so tall. “He wanted you to think his anger toward me was justified. I suppose he’s told you all about the time I almost killed him.”

“Yes. His scar is not as big as yours.”

“It was a fair fight. I wasn’t even trying to start it, although I suppose, under the circumstances, it’s fully understandable he interpreted my actions the way he did.”

I don’t know what Ion’s talking about and I don’t even care that much, not compared to the many other things I’d like clarified, like the part where he thinks I came here to kill him. “I’m not here to kill you.” I purposely meet his eyes as I state the words. I’m trying to read him, but the man is a mystery.

“Then why are you here?”

I look away. No way can I explain this while I’m looking him in the eye. Instead, I look at the glass-fronted cabinet and the little bottle of massage oil labeled seduction. No, I don’t dare admit that. “I’m learning how to adjust your back so Jala can have some time off.”

Ion laughs.

His laughter is weird. My mom tried to describe it to me but she couldn’t, and I understand why. It’s not outright malevolent, even though you might expect a diabolical laugh from an evil arch-enemy. It’s almost…straining. It’s like a drowned, distant laughter that wants to reach for the sun but can’t.