Deadly Descendant (17 page)

Steph had once told me she thought my tendency to fall for inappropriate or unavailable men had something to do with my quite understandable fear of abandonment. As long as I fell for men I knew from the beginning could never work out, I never had to risk having someone walk out on me unexpectedly. She made this diagnosis on the basis of having been a psych major in college, but though I always told her she was seeing things that didn’t exist, I had the secret suspicion that she was right. And if I ended up pining for Jamaal, it would just be more of the same.

He carried me all the way to my bedroom in silence, not setting me down until we’d reached the bed. I felt almost unbearably awkward, having no idea what to say to him at a moment like this.

I finally settled for a mumbled thanks as I tucked my legs under the covers and lay down with a sigh of relief. Instead of leaving, Jamaal sat on the edge of my bed.

“Go ahead and close your eyes,” he said, looking at his clasped hands, rather than at me.

I wondered what was going on, why he hadn’t left yet, but my eyelids had grown heavy, and asking questions seemed like too much effort. Despite a shiver of dread, my eyes slid closed.

The moment my eyes closed, the darkness descended on me, pressing on my chest, smothering me, making my pulse race.

“Just focus on the sound of my voice,” Jamaal said, so softly I had to strain to hear him.

And then he started to sing just as softly.

His voice was a rich, low baritone, so warm I wanted to wrap myself up in it. I didn’t recognize the language he was singing in or the melody, but if I’d had to guess, I’d have said the song was a lullaby of some sort. It had a lilting, soothing quality that wrapped me in a cocoon of warmth and somnolence.

There was no room in my head for anything but the sweet sound of Jamaal’s voice, no room for thoughts of death and darkness. I focused on that sound, losing myself to it, letting my muscles relax one by one.

When sleep pressed around the edges of my consciousness, I wanted to hold it off just a little while, wanted to preserve this moment when I felt so serene and peaceful. But my exhausted body had other ideas, and I faded away before the song was finished.

It echoed in my dreams that night, keeping the nightmares at bay.

When I next awakened,
the sun was high in the sky, the light pouring through my windows telling me I’d slept until almost noon. I yawned and stretched, then pushed myself into a sitting position and waited to see if the effort made me dizzy.

When a minute passed without any hint that I might be about to collapse, I slid out of bed and cautiously stood up. My head felt fine, and there was no telltale quivering in my knees.

I showered and dressed and even blow-dried my hair, and still I felt pretty much normal. Maybe a little weak but not enough to interfere with my day. Sleep had obviously done me a world of good.

I smiled when I remembered the sound of Jamaal’s voice singing me to sleep, feeling somewhat bemused by the gesture. Clearly, there were sides of him other than the bitter, angry, dangerous man I thought I knew. Sides I had no business being intrigued by, I warned myself.

Whatever redeeming qualities he had, Jamaal was bad news.

My mood faltered as I made my way down the stairs toward the kitchen in search of a late breakfast. Sleeping till almost noon might have done wonders for my physical woes, but it meant there were now only about thirty-six hours before the killer was likely to strike again. I had to tell Anderson what I’d found out about the victims and their resemblance to Konstantin and then hope that Anderson could pry the killer’s identity from his archenemy’s lips. And that learning the killer’s identity would help us find him. Oh, yeah, and that we could actually
stop
him if we
did
find him.

“One step at a time,” I muttered to myself, picking up my pace as the sense of urgency increased. I’d have skipped breakfast entirely, except I was hungry enough to eat a whole elephant, and I feared if I ignored my body’s needs, I’d end up weak and sick and useless again.

The scent of what I guessed was pizza wafted on the air as I neared the kitchen, and I figured that meant some of Anderson’s
Liberi
were having lunch. However, when I stepped into the kitchen, there was only one
Liberi
in sight: Emma.

She sat at the kitchen table, a slice of pepperoni pizza drooping in her hand, her eyes glazed and vacant. I expected her to blink and come to herself the moment I came into view, but she didn’t. I took a couple of tentative steps closer, but she still didn’t blink or move.

“Emma?” I queried, just in case she was lost in
thought and hadn’t noticed me, but she didn’t react. She might be present in body, but her mind was taking a break, wandering off to wherever it went when she entered this fugue state. It had been happening less and less often as she continued to recover from her ordeal as Konstantin’s prisoner, but obviously, she still had a ways to go.

Most of the time, I couldn’t stand her. She was jealous and possessive, bossy as hell, and sulky when she didn’t get her way. But when I saw her like this, I still felt a twinge of pity. No matter how much of a bitch she was and no matter how miserable she made Anderson, she didn’t deserve what had happened to her.

Not that I thought for a moment she’d appreciate my compassion.

The pizza box was still laid out on the kitchen counter, so I helped myself to a slice. It was ice-cold, fresh from the fridge, and if Emma hadn’t been sitting there, I’d probably have nuked it. However, I preferred to be gone when she snapped out of it, so I merely grabbed a paper towel to serve as a napkin and munched on the cold pizza—breakfast of champions!—as I made a quick getaway.

It showed how little I wanted to face Emma that I left the kitchen without even getting any coffee.

Still stuffing my face, I headed back upstairs, hoping Anderson would be in his study. I got lucky for once and found him right where I wanted him. Unfortunately, the sight of his usually pristine workspace brought me to a jerking halt.

Papers and books lay strewn on the floor, along with a smattering of pens, a stapler, and enough paper clips to supply a high school or two. One of his guest chairs was lying on its side, and broken glass from an overturned lamp peppered the carpet.

Anderson sat at his desk, his head bowed as his fingers pinched the bridge of his nose. Everything except his computer had been swept off the desk, but based on how scattered it all was—and on the damage to the chair and the lamp—I didn’t think it was Anderson who’d done the sweeping.

Putting this scene together with Emma sitting vacantly in the kitchen, I figured the two of them had just had one of their epic battles. Ordinarily, I’d have had the good sense to retreat, but the urgency was still riding me. I rolled the stale pizza crust in the paper towel and cleared my throat.

Anderson slowly raised his head. I tried not to gasp when I saw the angry red furrows that crossed his cheek, but I was too shocked to mask my reaction entirely. He frowned and looked around the room as if noticing the damage for the first time.

“This isn’t a good time, Nikki,” he said, sounding as exhausted as I’d felt the day before.

“Yeah, I can see that. But I’m afraid this can’t wait.”

He muttered something I presumed was a curse under his breath, then shoved himself to his feet, practically sending his desk chair rolling into the wall. With swift, jerky movements, he circled his desk and picked up the fallen guest chair, setting it upright with enough of a bang he was lucky it didn’t break. Then
he stalked back behind his desk and sat down, clasping his hands in front of him and spearing me with a look that made me want to tuck my tail between my legs and run.

“What is it?” he snapped impatiently when I hesitated.

I didn’t like finding myself caught in the crossfire of a domestic dispute, and the awkwardness had made me hesitant at first. However, I can only be tactful so long when someone’s being an asshole.

“If whatever you and Emma are fighting about is more important than catching the killer, then tell me to go away. Otherwise, I’d appreciate a little more common courtesy and a little less misplaced hostility.”

He glared at me a moment longer; then the tension suddenly drained out of his shoulders, and he laughed weakly. “I think I liked it better when you were intimidated by me.”

I snorted as I pulled back the chair and sat down. “Yeah, I’ll bet.” If he thought my snappish response meant he no longer intimidated me, then I was happy to nurture the illusion.

“I apologize for my manners. It’s been a lousy morning.”

I swept the room with a quick look. “No kidding?”

He frowned at my attempt at humor. “Keep the commentary to yourself.”

I pondered the possibility of telling him that Emma was sitting in the kitchen having an out-of-body experience but rejected the idea because it smacked of getting in the middle again. But Anderson
interpreted my silence as a different kind of commentary altogether.

“Don’t judge her,” he said as he reached up to rub the healing scratches on his cheek. “She’s having a really hard time readjusting to normal life, and I’m afraid I’m not making it any easier for her. Every time she does something out of character, I get furious at what those Olympian bastards did to her. Then she thinks I’m angry with
her,
and … she doesn’t take it well. None of this is her fault, and I wish I knew how to help her.”

Maybe I was reading into the situation, but it seemed to me Anderson was trying to convince
himself
more than me. Emma had suffered atrociously, but I didn’t think her suffering justified all of her behavior. No matter
what
she’d been through, surely she bore some responsibility for her actions. But Anderson was never going to see it that way, and he was perfectly happy to make excuses for her.

“Now, what did you need? You said it was important.”

I told him about the similarities among our killer’s victims and watched the shift in his face as the harried husband became the leader of a band of
Liberi
once more.

“That son of a bitch,” Anderson said when I was done, shaking his head in disgust. Then he sighed. “Well, we suspected Phoebe wasn’t telling us everything, so I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“Do you think Konstantin will tell us the whole truth now that we’ve partially figured it out?”

Anderson laughed. “You don’t know him very well.”

“And I don’t want to. But if he can tell us who the killer is …”

“He won’t. It’s just not his way.”

“But—”

“Phoebe, on the other hand, I might be able to talk into being practical.”

My mouth snapped closed on the protest I’d been about to raise. Of our two Olympian visitors, I would have thought Cyrus was the more likely to give us straight answers. “Not Cyrus?”

Anderson shook his head. “There’s a reason Alexis was Konstantin’s right-hand man instead of Cyrus. I don’t know how many of his own children Konstantin has killed over the years, but it’s a lot. He can’t ever bring himself to trust them, no matter how loyal they are. He wouldn’t share any sensitive secrets with Cyrus.”

I probably shouldn’t have been surprised that a man who had no qualms about slaughtering whole families would be willing to kill his own kids. It would forever be beyond my comprehension how someone could be so cold-blooded.

“And you really think
Phoebe
knows something?”

“She’s in love with him. Has been for decades, God only knows why. He treats her like garbage. But if anyone knows what he’s hiding, it’ll be her. And since I presume he’s sicced us on the killer because he knows he’s in danger, Phoebe might decide she has to confide in us for his own good.”

There was more uncertainty in this scenario than I felt comfortable with, especially when the clock was ticking so loudly in my mind.

“I’m going to invite her back to the house for a debriefing this afternoon,” Anderson said. “I’ll want you there, and I’ll want Blake.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Me I understand, but why Blake?”

Anderson’s smile was cold enough to make me shiver. “Because Phoebe won’t set foot in this house without her goon, and I need someone who can keep the goon occupied from a distance if things get antagonistic.”

My nose crinkled with distaste as I figured out what Anderson meant. “You’re going to ask Blake to seduce the goon?” I knew that Blake didn’t have any qualms about using his power against men, despite his clear preference for women, nor was he hesitant to use sex as a weapon, but still …

“When you’re fighting Olympians, sometimes you have to get dirty.”

“We’re supposed to be the good guys, remember?” I said with more than a hint of disgust in my voice. I’d probably have been okay with just conking the goon on the head but not with subjecting him to what amounted to rape, even if it never went that far.

For a moment, I thought Anderson was going to bite my head off for being a wuss. There was certainly a dangerous spark in his eye. But the spark faded quickly enough, and he reached up to scrub a hand through his already unkempt hair.