Dylan rolls into me, tightening his arms. I feel the heat of his kisses across my shoulder, the hard length between his legs. I push back and raise an eyebrow.
“Don’t even think about it.”
“Good morning to you, too,” he says with a smile. A bit of the angst he usually carries is gone for the moment.
His eyes look a different shade, a brighter blue, and I want to ask him what he’s thinking—about his words the night before. His jaw clenches and I think maybe he’ll say it—speak the truth--but he licks his lip and then licks mine.
I squirm beneath the weight of his body, loving the feel, loving this brief moment in the wake of war.
“Dylan,” I say, successfully pulling away from him. “Do you really think we can beat her?”
“Yes. And we’ll get them back.”
My stomach knots, snuffing out the flicker of hope. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
His hand clenches around my wrist. “I never do, Morgan.”
I brush my thumb over his lip and again the heat and intensity boils between us, the kind that fuels my power and makes me stronger. I’m realizing that I’ll need all the strength I can get when the doorbell echoes up the marble floors and wooden stairway.
Dylan frowns. “Are you expecting someone?”
“No.”
He groans and rolls over, taking the heat with him. “Then we probably need to go see who it is.”
Chapter 8
Dylan
Professor Christensen stands in the foyer, looking every bit the part of University faculty. His suede jacket is only missing the patches on the elbows, and a pipe would make an excellent prop. His gray hair makes him appear distinguished as well as trustworthy.
I’m never exactly sure if he is either one.
“Dylan,” he says as I walk down the stairs. I straighten the wrists of my shirt. “It’s good to see you. I wish it was under better circumstances.”
“Good to see you, too. If you’re looking for good news, sadly we don’t have much.” I do tell him about Sam’s camera and my attempt to recover the photos. “I haven’t been able to access them yet but hopefully later today.”
Christensen lowers his head and asks in a soft voice, “How is she handling all of this?”
I rub the back of my neck. “Twelve hours ago she was on the brink of a breakdown. Paranoia, rage, regret. She feels guilty and lost. She’s overwhelmed by the loss of the other guardians. But we’re working through it. I think we made some progress last night.”
“She needs to be strong.”
“I know. She does, too. She’ll be ready.”
We both look up when we hear footsteps on the stairs. Morgan slowly walks down, dressed for the day in jeans and a fuzzy blue sweater. Her hair is twisted in a knot behind her head. She’s wearing boots, ones I know have a sheath next to her ankle for a small blade Damien gave her. Her cheeks carry a reddish blush, and pride swells in my chest knowing I helped put it there.
She’s the opposite of the Goddess of War, yet just as lethal. I’m learning that. Heat makes her grow. It makes her strong, and I’ll do my part to stoke the flames, but we’ve got to get the others back.
“Professor,” she says, reaching the final step. “I didn’t know you were coming.”
“I got your message about your, uh, guest downstairs. Thought maybe I’d take a crack at her.”
“You can try,” she says, glancing at me.
“I’m going to get to work on the camera.” I turn and head for the stairs. “You two have fun.”
Morgan rolls her eyes. “Yeah, like talking to a psychotic bitch is going to be fun.”
Christensen holds out his arm, offering to escort Morgan to the dungeons. It’s a ridiculous pose, knowing what’s downstairs and what we’re dealing with. Morgan accepts and links her elbow to his. They’ve just rounded the corner when I hear him say, “I suspect this may be more entertaining than you may realize.”
Chapter 9
Morgan
I still find it odd that the Professor is part of all this. That he’s as old as the Guardians, if not older. His role is historian, documenting the Morrigan and her destruction through the centuries. He and Dylan hope that I will continue the trend by writing a firsthand account of the current attempt at evil taking over the world.
“Where’s the Valkyrie?” Christensen asks as we get to the dungeon door. It’s locked and I fish the key out of my pocket.
“She needed a break.”
The look he gives me is questioning, but he doesn’t say anything further. The door swings open and we’re assaulted by the smell, the stench from Anita’s cell. I flip on the exhaust fan built into the ceiling. An empty tray of food left this morning by either Davis or Sue sits on the floor. Anita’s expression doesn’t change when she sees her former supervisor, but unlike many other times I’ve been down here, she does speak.
“Came to see it for yourself? Gawk at me like a monkey in a cage?”
“I’m saddened to see it come to this. It didn’t have to.”
“No?” she asks. She bares her teeth. Maybe she is a little like a zoo animal. Is that what being caged does to a person?
“You could have told Morgan or Dylan how Bunny got the gate open. How you jumped from realm to realm.”
“And what? They’d let me go?” Her eyebrow arches. “My secrets are the only thing keeping me alive.”
“We’re not killers,” I tell her. “If anything, we’re the opposite—trying to stop this bloody virus from spreading further.”
She leans into the bars, clutching the iron with both hands. She glances between the two of us. “What if you could only get one thing from me? One secret, which would you pick?”
I sigh and rub my forehead. “What are you talking about?”
“You’re right, I do know things. I know how to get back to the Otherside. I know where Bunny is. I know how to stop the virus.” Her blue eyes skim over me. “I know where your precious guardians are being held.”
I shake my head. “I don’t believe you.”
She shrugs. “You figure out what you want to know the most, and maybe we can make a deal.”
Christensen has been silent next to me this whole time. I don’t know what he thinks of his former student. Or even what he thinks of me allowing her to live in such conditions.
“What sort of deal do you want?” he asks.
“I want to go back to my mistress.”
“Even though you’ve failed?”
Her body stiffens. “I’m bound to her—like you are to your little birds. In every lifetime, we find one another.”
Christensen’s eyes narrow, studying Anita closely, as though he’s searching for a memory.
“Tell me what you know,” I declare, “and I’ll send you back—in a casket.”
“You get one secret, Morgan. Only one. Choose well.”
I shake my head. Why does this girl think she dictates anything? Is it because she’s a spoiled brat? Is she delusional? Maybe I need to let her shower—have a little sunlight.