He was furious with her, because he was always furious with her, and she couldn’t really imagine him any other way. And his penis was stiff as a board.
She could do anything she wanted to him.
She massaged that heavy, thick work of art in her hands, watching him in the mirror over his shoulder as his long, rippling abdominal muscles tightened. If he tasted anywhere near as good as he looked, she could feast on him for days.
Her breath shortened, and her hands fisted. Part of her was horrified at what she was imagining.
Oh, not the sex fantasy part. The Quentin part.
She jerked her thoughts away from the image and cast about to focus on something else, anything else. Something excruciatingly boring. She thought of the paperwork piled up on her desk. She was already behind, and spending two weeks to a month away was only going to make it worse. Nobody was going to write those reports for her. It would all be waiting for her when she got back.
She wondered if there was anyone she could coax, coerce or blackmail into doing them while she was gone. Off the top of her head, she couldn’t think of anyone. With her and Quentin out of the picture, none of the sentinels back in New York would have the time, nor, after this morning’s little stunt, would any of them have the inclination to help her out. Those reports were her karma.
Her sharp hearing picked up muted laughter from the nearby galley. A couple of the people laughing were feminine, and one was unmistakably Quentin. He wasn’t doing anything interesting in the lavatory. He was flirting with the flight attendants.
The last of her lingering arousal soured into irritation. She twitched a shoulder, more annoyed with herself than with anything else. The longer he flirted with them, the longer he stayed away. They could have him.
Eventually Quentin came back and eased into his seat. Aryal kept her eyes closed. She sensed that he was looking at her. The touch of his gaze was almost physical, and the skin along her cheek tingled.
He shifted, a slight creak of leather boots and the brush of denim. She knew without looking that he was bending closer. She could feel the heat of his body, and her muscles tightened, twitching with the desire to smash her fist into his face.
Back off. Back off.
He whispered, “I know you’re not sleeping.”
The warm, moist breath from his words licked along her cheek in an invisible caress. It was intimate and sensual. It felt good.
Her body was a gun, and the desire for violence vibrated like a finger on the trigger. Just one good punch. One well-placed punch with the full weight of her body behind it would do a lot of damage to that sexy, treacherous face of his.
But it wouldn’t be just one good punch. It would be a match to dry kindling, and there were too many innocent, vulnerable people surrounding them in quarters that were much too tight. She was going to have to wait.
She held still, not breathing. He hesitated then eased back into his seat. Then the hours scrolled by slowly, flowing over the plane’s wings into the past, and they didn’t speak again for the rest of the interminable flight.
Eight o’clock in the morning in Prague was as bleak as New York had been, the temperatures hovering just above freezing. The skies were overcast, gray streaked with pale light, and as the plane dropped in altitude and prepared to land, Aryal could see a light snow sprinkled on terra-cotta-colored rooftops and in fields surrounded by dense hedges and stone walls.
Disembarking was an excruciating process. They were on a Boeing 757 and Aryal guessed the plane had carried over two hundred and fifty passengers. When it came Quentin’s turn, he slipped into the aisle and gestured for her to precede him.
Even though they were still surrounded by other people, she couldn’t bring herself to put her back to him. “That’s all right,” she said. “You go ahead. I’ll be off in a minute.”
Watching her with a narrowed gaze, he inclined his head and moved forward when the line allowed. She waited until he was ten people ahead of her then slipped into line too.
They kept their distance from each other as they went through customs. Entering the Czech Republic was a longer, more involved process than leaving the States had been. Along with their passports, they had to provide documentation of their sentinel status, declare their weapons and purpose, submit their packs to a thorough check, and then wait for the Czech customs officers to make phone calls and independently verify their presence.
Aryal’s temper was shredded by the time they were finished. She was tired, bitchy and starving, and her right fist was still stuffed full of that one good punch that she had not yet thrown. That fist kept asking her, When? When? She didn’t know, other than that it needed to be outside of the airport, and preferably out of Prague itself.
If she were on vacation, she would have enjoyed playing tourist, touring Prague Castle and Old Town and drinking Czech beer, but Prague was just a leg on their journey. The crossover passageway to Numenlaur was located a couple of hours’ drive away from the city, deep in the heart of the dense Bohemian Forest.
On her own, Aryal would shapeshift and fly the distance, but she didn’t have the capacity to carry someone as large and heavy as Quentin for any kind of distance. Hands on her hips, she studied her enemy. He looked as tired and as irritable as she felt.
She said abruptly, “We need a hot meal, and we need to rent a car. We should pack some supplies in case we run into any issues with hunting for food, and right now I can hardly stand to look at you.”
Quentin’s lean features wore a sour look as he contemplated her. “Go rent a car and get something to eat,” he said. “I’ll get supplies. I know a good camping store, and there are Tesco grocery stores dotted throughout Prague. We’re both predators, so I know you need a lot of protein too. Meet me in two hours southwest of here, at the junction of highways E48 and E50. We’ll need to take E50 for the first half of the journey to the Forest.”
She cocked her head. “You’ve been here before.”
“I’ve toured Europe,” he said, his tone short.
“Fine,” she said, relieved he had come up with a solution that meant she could get a break from him. After all, working in partnership didn’t mean they had to be joined at the hip. “Two hours.”
He pointed at her. “Then we talk.”
Oh yay. Her fist was ready for that conversation. She gave him a tight smile, flipped him off and strode away. After a quick look around the airport, she bought some Czech koruny, the local currency, as the Republic hadn’t yet converted to the euro. Then she located the car rental companies and rented a Peugeot 207 Affaire from Europcar, which was supposed to be a van, but by American standards was just a hatchback. While at the rental counter she bought a map, and after consulting it, she drove through the narrow European streets until she had found the highway junction Quentin mentioned.
She stayed on local streets and cruised around, studying the area. A heavily industrial section lay spread out near the highway junction with what looked like warehouses, many of which were boarded up and had the appearance of long neglect. The gray day and half-melted snow didn’t help matters. The whole scene looked dismal and bleak, and utterly deserted.
Deep in thought, she went on the hunt for some hot food.
By then the local time was almost eleven o’clock. She found an old, crooked pub with dark, worn wooden tables and benches. The pub had just opened for the day’s business, and she ordered a huge meal of a double helping of pork, potatoes and bread dumplings, and cooked cabbage, and she washed it all down with a beer from a local brewery. As both a predator and a large avian Wyr, she needed a lot of calories and she ate like a trucker. The hot food steadied her and sharpened her thinking.
Afterward she ordered three donutlike pastries called koláe, much to the fascination of her taciturn server. When she was finally through with eating, she ordered a second beer and nursed it between her hands, staring out a dirt-streaked window as she contemplated the upcoming “talk” with Quentin.
How in hell was she supposed to get along with him? She had no idea. If they tried to clear the air, they might just kill each other after all. If she sucked it all down and tried to pretend—well, she was horrible at pretending and hiding how she felt. She might as well go back to clearing the air again.
That led to killing, which she actually didn’t have a problem with, except that she wasn’t supposed to kill Quentin. She was supposed to find some outside agent in the guise of an act of God that was supposed to kill Quentin. Pushing her beer to one side, she thunked her head on the table. Argh, Dragos! How did this whole thing get so complicated?
Actually, she might feel bad about her whole plan except that she knew Quentin was a career criminal, a dangerous man who could not be trusted. Getting rid of him really would be the right thing for everybody.
A soft voice sounded at her elbow. “Miss, eat too much? Maybe need some plop plop, fizz fizz?”
She lifted her head and squinted at her well-meaning server, a middle-aged woman with a kind, apple-dumpling-soft face. “I’m fine, just exasperated.”
“Oh, sorry,” the woman said, looking apologetic. “No understand hisaxpillated.”
As most ancient Wyr did, Aryal knew a variety of different languages, but she didn’t know Czech. She pointed at her empty plates. “Good lunch.”
The woman smiled and nodded. “Good!”
After Aryal paid for her meal, she thumbed on her iPhone. The cost of mobile roaming from Europe was astronomical, as much as two euros per minute or more, but it wasn’t worth buying local phones in case someone from New York needed to get in touch with them. Besides, very soon, they would be headed into an area where cell phones wouldn’t work.
She found Quentin’s number and texted him the location of the pub. Then she settled back, watched out the streaked window and waited.
Ten minutes later a taxi pulled up to the pub. Quentin slid out of the backseat, his long, lithe body moving with his signature boneless grace. Not even the gryphons moved like he did, their heavy, muscular lion’s bodies intermingled with the body of an eagle’s. Quentin was sleek and sinuous, a racy Ferrari surrounded by bulky SUVs.
The harsh, gray daylight emphasized his strong bones and hard, closed expression. His cheekbones were two sharp arcs slicing across his face. His short, dark golden hair and bright blue eyes stood out against the colorless surroundings.
Aryal’s heart pounded. She slid out of her seat and strode outside.
Quentin’s frowning gaze connected with hers with a clash she felt all the way to her bones. She jerked her head at the rental, and he gave her a curt nod. The taxi driver had parked and stepped out to open the trunk of his car. Aryal unlocked the hatch of the Peugeot and stood back as the two men loaded supplies into the trunk.
Just as he had promised, Quentin had known exactly where to shop, because not only had he bought food, but he had bought basic camping supplies as well. Packages containing two small dome tents, tarps and sleeping bags, and other gear went into the backseat. She thought she saw the tip of a liquor bottle in one of the bags. He had been fast and thorough.
After Quentin paid the driver, who left, he turned back to Aryal and held out his hand. “I know the route we need to take,” he said. “I’ll drive.”
There it was again, his love of control.
“You can’t,” Aryal told him in a pious tone. “You’re not on the rental policy. I drive.”
Like she gave a f**k about the terms of the policy, but she did get a lot of satisfaction out of denying Quentin something. Yeah, she was just that petty.
His face tightened but he didn’t bother to say anything. Instead, he pivoted and stalked to the car to slide into the passenger seat. She jingled the car keys in satisfaction and climbed in too.
Oh gods, the car was almost as bad as the plane had been. The small, enclosed space trapped the heat from their bodies together. Quentin’s male scent washed over her, tantalizing, even addicting. Her traitorous body reacted to it even as her uncertain temper teetered at the edge of some kind of cliff and fell off.
She jammed the car into gear and gunned the engine. They shot down the street.
Quentin muttered a curse as he braced himself against the dashboard and yanked on his seat belt. “You’re a goddamn menace.”
“I know,” she said almost happily as she headed for the warehouse area. Her fist tingled in anticipation.
They passed the entrance for the highway. Quentin twisted to stare at her. He said slowly, “You missed the turn.”
She didn’t bother to reply. Instead she pressed down on the gas pedal. They rocketed into the deserted area that she had found earlier. She could sense that Quentin’s long, powerful body had gone combat tense. He was waiting for her to pull the car to a stop, his fast catlike reflexes poised to respond.
So she punched him before she stopped the car.
Her right fist shot out and caught him square in the jaw. The blow snapped his head to one side and slammed him against his door. Aryal stomped on the brake hard. The car slid to one side, tires squealing on the wet, slick pavement. She jammed the gear into park, shoved open her own door and rolled out before the car ever stopped skidding.
As quickly as she moved, Quentin was just as fast if not faster. As the car shrieked to a stop, he poured over the roof and leaped at her, his whole body moving with fluid power and his face, released from civilized constraints, transformed by fury.
Aryal feinted and danced out of his reach, as he made a grab for her. He missed, just barely, and the tips of his fingers slid lightly down her face and collarbone like a lover’s caress. Her skin tingled from the contact, warm in the frigid wet air. Should she change and take to the air? Not yet. It felt too satisfying to get down and dirty with him here on the ground.
She could do anything she wanted to him.
She massaged that heavy, thick work of art in her hands, watching him in the mirror over his shoulder as his long, rippling abdominal muscles tightened. If he tasted anywhere near as good as he looked, she could feast on him for days.
Her breath shortened, and her hands fisted. Part of her was horrified at what she was imagining.
Oh, not the sex fantasy part. The Quentin part.
She jerked her thoughts away from the image and cast about to focus on something else, anything else. Something excruciatingly boring. She thought of the paperwork piled up on her desk. She was already behind, and spending two weeks to a month away was only going to make it worse. Nobody was going to write those reports for her. It would all be waiting for her when she got back.
She wondered if there was anyone she could coax, coerce or blackmail into doing them while she was gone. Off the top of her head, she couldn’t think of anyone. With her and Quentin out of the picture, none of the sentinels back in New York would have the time, nor, after this morning’s little stunt, would any of them have the inclination to help her out. Those reports were her karma.
Her sharp hearing picked up muted laughter from the nearby galley. A couple of the people laughing were feminine, and one was unmistakably Quentin. He wasn’t doing anything interesting in the lavatory. He was flirting with the flight attendants.
The last of her lingering arousal soured into irritation. She twitched a shoulder, more annoyed with herself than with anything else. The longer he flirted with them, the longer he stayed away. They could have him.
Eventually Quentin came back and eased into his seat. Aryal kept her eyes closed. She sensed that he was looking at her. The touch of his gaze was almost physical, and the skin along her cheek tingled.
He shifted, a slight creak of leather boots and the brush of denim. She knew without looking that he was bending closer. She could feel the heat of his body, and her muscles tightened, twitching with the desire to smash her fist into his face.
Back off. Back off.
He whispered, “I know you’re not sleeping.”
The warm, moist breath from his words licked along her cheek in an invisible caress. It was intimate and sensual. It felt good.
Her body was a gun, and the desire for violence vibrated like a finger on the trigger. Just one good punch. One well-placed punch with the full weight of her body behind it would do a lot of damage to that sexy, treacherous face of his.
But it wouldn’t be just one good punch. It would be a match to dry kindling, and there were too many innocent, vulnerable people surrounding them in quarters that were much too tight. She was going to have to wait.
She held still, not breathing. He hesitated then eased back into his seat. Then the hours scrolled by slowly, flowing over the plane’s wings into the past, and they didn’t speak again for the rest of the interminable flight.
Eight o’clock in the morning in Prague was as bleak as New York had been, the temperatures hovering just above freezing. The skies were overcast, gray streaked with pale light, and as the plane dropped in altitude and prepared to land, Aryal could see a light snow sprinkled on terra-cotta-colored rooftops and in fields surrounded by dense hedges and stone walls.
Disembarking was an excruciating process. They were on a Boeing 757 and Aryal guessed the plane had carried over two hundred and fifty passengers. When it came Quentin’s turn, he slipped into the aisle and gestured for her to precede him.
Even though they were still surrounded by other people, she couldn’t bring herself to put her back to him. “That’s all right,” she said. “You go ahead. I’ll be off in a minute.”
Watching her with a narrowed gaze, he inclined his head and moved forward when the line allowed. She waited until he was ten people ahead of her then slipped into line too.
They kept their distance from each other as they went through customs. Entering the Czech Republic was a longer, more involved process than leaving the States had been. Along with their passports, they had to provide documentation of their sentinel status, declare their weapons and purpose, submit their packs to a thorough check, and then wait for the Czech customs officers to make phone calls and independently verify their presence.
Aryal’s temper was shredded by the time they were finished. She was tired, bitchy and starving, and her right fist was still stuffed full of that one good punch that she had not yet thrown. That fist kept asking her, When? When? She didn’t know, other than that it needed to be outside of the airport, and preferably out of Prague itself.
If she were on vacation, she would have enjoyed playing tourist, touring Prague Castle and Old Town and drinking Czech beer, but Prague was just a leg on their journey. The crossover passageway to Numenlaur was located a couple of hours’ drive away from the city, deep in the heart of the dense Bohemian Forest.
On her own, Aryal would shapeshift and fly the distance, but she didn’t have the capacity to carry someone as large and heavy as Quentin for any kind of distance. Hands on her hips, she studied her enemy. He looked as tired and as irritable as she felt.
She said abruptly, “We need a hot meal, and we need to rent a car. We should pack some supplies in case we run into any issues with hunting for food, and right now I can hardly stand to look at you.”
Quentin’s lean features wore a sour look as he contemplated her. “Go rent a car and get something to eat,” he said. “I’ll get supplies. I know a good camping store, and there are Tesco grocery stores dotted throughout Prague. We’re both predators, so I know you need a lot of protein too. Meet me in two hours southwest of here, at the junction of highways E48 and E50. We’ll need to take E50 for the first half of the journey to the Forest.”
She cocked her head. “You’ve been here before.”
“I’ve toured Europe,” he said, his tone short.
“Fine,” she said, relieved he had come up with a solution that meant she could get a break from him. After all, working in partnership didn’t mean they had to be joined at the hip. “Two hours.”
He pointed at her. “Then we talk.”
Oh yay. Her fist was ready for that conversation. She gave him a tight smile, flipped him off and strode away. After a quick look around the airport, she bought some Czech koruny, the local currency, as the Republic hadn’t yet converted to the euro. Then she located the car rental companies and rented a Peugeot 207 Affaire from Europcar, which was supposed to be a van, but by American standards was just a hatchback. While at the rental counter she bought a map, and after consulting it, she drove through the narrow European streets until she had found the highway junction Quentin mentioned.
She stayed on local streets and cruised around, studying the area. A heavily industrial section lay spread out near the highway junction with what looked like warehouses, many of which were boarded up and had the appearance of long neglect. The gray day and half-melted snow didn’t help matters. The whole scene looked dismal and bleak, and utterly deserted.
Deep in thought, she went on the hunt for some hot food.
By then the local time was almost eleven o’clock. She found an old, crooked pub with dark, worn wooden tables and benches. The pub had just opened for the day’s business, and she ordered a huge meal of a double helping of pork, potatoes and bread dumplings, and cooked cabbage, and she washed it all down with a beer from a local brewery. As both a predator and a large avian Wyr, she needed a lot of calories and she ate like a trucker. The hot food steadied her and sharpened her thinking.
Afterward she ordered three donutlike pastries called koláe, much to the fascination of her taciturn server. When she was finally through with eating, she ordered a second beer and nursed it between her hands, staring out a dirt-streaked window as she contemplated the upcoming “talk” with Quentin.
How in hell was she supposed to get along with him? She had no idea. If they tried to clear the air, they might just kill each other after all. If she sucked it all down and tried to pretend—well, she was horrible at pretending and hiding how she felt. She might as well go back to clearing the air again.
That led to killing, which she actually didn’t have a problem with, except that she wasn’t supposed to kill Quentin. She was supposed to find some outside agent in the guise of an act of God that was supposed to kill Quentin. Pushing her beer to one side, she thunked her head on the table. Argh, Dragos! How did this whole thing get so complicated?
Actually, she might feel bad about her whole plan except that she knew Quentin was a career criminal, a dangerous man who could not be trusted. Getting rid of him really would be the right thing for everybody.
A soft voice sounded at her elbow. “Miss, eat too much? Maybe need some plop plop, fizz fizz?”
She lifted her head and squinted at her well-meaning server, a middle-aged woman with a kind, apple-dumpling-soft face. “I’m fine, just exasperated.”
“Oh, sorry,” the woman said, looking apologetic. “No understand hisaxpillated.”
As most ancient Wyr did, Aryal knew a variety of different languages, but she didn’t know Czech. She pointed at her empty plates. “Good lunch.”
The woman smiled and nodded. “Good!”
After Aryal paid for her meal, she thumbed on her iPhone. The cost of mobile roaming from Europe was astronomical, as much as two euros per minute or more, but it wasn’t worth buying local phones in case someone from New York needed to get in touch with them. Besides, very soon, they would be headed into an area where cell phones wouldn’t work.
She found Quentin’s number and texted him the location of the pub. Then she settled back, watched out the streaked window and waited.
Ten minutes later a taxi pulled up to the pub. Quentin slid out of the backseat, his long, lithe body moving with his signature boneless grace. Not even the gryphons moved like he did, their heavy, muscular lion’s bodies intermingled with the body of an eagle’s. Quentin was sleek and sinuous, a racy Ferrari surrounded by bulky SUVs.
The harsh, gray daylight emphasized his strong bones and hard, closed expression. His cheekbones were two sharp arcs slicing across his face. His short, dark golden hair and bright blue eyes stood out against the colorless surroundings.
Aryal’s heart pounded. She slid out of her seat and strode outside.
Quentin’s frowning gaze connected with hers with a clash she felt all the way to her bones. She jerked her head at the rental, and he gave her a curt nod. The taxi driver had parked and stepped out to open the trunk of his car. Aryal unlocked the hatch of the Peugeot and stood back as the two men loaded supplies into the trunk.
Just as he had promised, Quentin had known exactly where to shop, because not only had he bought food, but he had bought basic camping supplies as well. Packages containing two small dome tents, tarps and sleeping bags, and other gear went into the backseat. She thought she saw the tip of a liquor bottle in one of the bags. He had been fast and thorough.
After Quentin paid the driver, who left, he turned back to Aryal and held out his hand. “I know the route we need to take,” he said. “I’ll drive.”
There it was again, his love of control.
“You can’t,” Aryal told him in a pious tone. “You’re not on the rental policy. I drive.”
Like she gave a f**k about the terms of the policy, but she did get a lot of satisfaction out of denying Quentin something. Yeah, she was just that petty.
His face tightened but he didn’t bother to say anything. Instead, he pivoted and stalked to the car to slide into the passenger seat. She jingled the car keys in satisfaction and climbed in too.
Oh gods, the car was almost as bad as the plane had been. The small, enclosed space trapped the heat from their bodies together. Quentin’s male scent washed over her, tantalizing, even addicting. Her traitorous body reacted to it even as her uncertain temper teetered at the edge of some kind of cliff and fell off.
She jammed the car into gear and gunned the engine. They shot down the street.
Quentin muttered a curse as he braced himself against the dashboard and yanked on his seat belt. “You’re a goddamn menace.”
“I know,” she said almost happily as she headed for the warehouse area. Her fist tingled in anticipation.
They passed the entrance for the highway. Quentin twisted to stare at her. He said slowly, “You missed the turn.”
She didn’t bother to reply. Instead she pressed down on the gas pedal. They rocketed into the deserted area that she had found earlier. She could sense that Quentin’s long, powerful body had gone combat tense. He was waiting for her to pull the car to a stop, his fast catlike reflexes poised to respond.
So she punched him before she stopped the car.
Her right fist shot out and caught him square in the jaw. The blow snapped his head to one side and slammed him against his door. Aryal stomped on the brake hard. The car slid to one side, tires squealing on the wet, slick pavement. She jammed the gear into park, shoved open her own door and rolled out before the car ever stopped skidding.
As quickly as she moved, Quentin was just as fast if not faster. As the car shrieked to a stop, he poured over the roof and leaped at her, his whole body moving with fluid power and his face, released from civilized constraints, transformed by fury.
Aryal feinted and danced out of his reach, as he made a grab for her. He missed, just barely, and the tips of his fingers slid lightly down her face and collarbone like a lover’s caress. Her skin tingled from the contact, warm in the frigid wet air. Should she change and take to the air? Not yet. It felt too satisfying to get down and dirty with him here on the ground.
