Getting Wilde (17 page)

Eventually, of course, she had to go back and do her actual job. Kreios ambled over, looking entirely too smug as he sprawled in his own seat. I’d sat across from the Magician just
the day before in almost identical positions, of course. But while Armaeus had breathed refinement and control, the quintessential European aristocrat, the Devil was like a half-drunk frat boy, lounging with one leg over the arm of the plush leather seat, his body canted back, his gaze several shades too contented.
 

“How long is the flight?”
 

“Twelve hours, give or take,” he said. “Armaeus has a several-hour head start on us, but I’m sure he’ll be eager to see you again.”
 

I looked at him, my curiosity finally getting its moment in the sun. “So, before we go further: you’re not the
actual
devil, right?”
 

“A matter of semantics, I suspect.”   
 

“Uh-huh. And what exactly was SANCTUS hoping to do with you—or Barnabus, for that matter? Because they had to keep you alive for some reason, and I don’t think it’s because of your sterling personality.”
 

“So quickly does the rose turn to thorn.” Kreios shrugged. “But it is a worthy story, and since Armaeus did not see fit to share it with you, I shall. I was heading to Hungary quite some time ago, if it is truly now late spring…?”
 

I nodded, and he continued. “On very good information from a man who, while not a
friend
, precisely, had certainly never been my enemy before now.”
 

“Barnabas.”
 

“No. I’d contacted Barnabus after receiving the information about Hungary. He was to help facilitate my meetings there. Barnabus was also, up to this point, someone I did not consider an enemy. It seems my trust has been very misplaced of late.”
 

“Yeah, you might want to work on that.” I considered his words. Hungary had become a hotbed for the underground antiquities market over the past few years, but I’d managed to avoid
the place so far. And the country was too far east for its lost children to find their way onto Father Jerome’s list. Though based on the map I’d seen at Armaeus’s family homestead, we should be paying more attention to those children, and pronto. Their value was definitely heating up. “What’s in Hungary?”
 

“A family of mystics, as it happens. Very old, very well respected. They had gone to ground around the turn of the last century, and there was some indication that perhaps they had resurfaced with the recent…global rekindling of interest in the magical arts. A member of their line had once upon a time been part of the council, and a very strong part at that.”  
 

“I take it you didn’t find this family?”
 

He shook his head. “Regrettably, no. I no sooner landed in Budapest than I was met by a group of very earnest young soldiers who, apparently, Barnabas had directed toward me.”
 

“They trapped you in the box?”
 

“A charming thing, no?” He leaned back as if imagining it in his mind’s eye. “
Diaboli Reliquiarum Thecam.
The Devil’s Reliquary. The last time I saw it was in Consta— No!” He snapped his fingers. “It was Istanbul by then. Ah, how things change with the passage of time.” He regarded me with his heavy-lidded gaze. “A dear friend of mine, my mentor, if you will, had drawn the attention of some very unfortunate men, rigid adherents to a code of religious practice that we found tedious at best, despicable at worst. My friend, he had grown to become a person of prominence by this time, and to see him brought down by such unfortunate parasites was, as you might imagine, quite affecting.”
 

I watched him, tracking the danger in his tone. Though his manner remained easy, the edge in his words was unmistakable. “And how long was
he
in there?”
 

The Devil shrugged. “As far as I know, they cleaned his ashes out of that accursed box in order to put mine in. And to that
we should
drink
!” These last words were shouted, and the beautiful attendant materialized in the doorway to the cabin, hastening to his side.
 

“Do you have a preference, Monsieur Kreios?”
 

“Scotch,” he said, glancing at me. “It’s what the lady likes.”
 

I stiffened. I was a fan of scotch, yes, but there was no way that I had said as much to Kreios in the few words we had shared—and I certainly hadn’t been thinking it. And I could not imagine that my beverage preferences had come up in the conversation between Armaeus and Kreios on the phone. Nevertheless, as the attendant looked over to me for confirmation, I nodded. “Glenmorangie.”
 

Kreios raised his brows. “You seem quite confident that it’s in stock.”  
 

“And you seemed quite confident of my drink of choice. Why is that?”
 

“One of my many charms.” He spread his hands, anticipating the return of the attendant with the glass at his side. She smoothly handed him the drink, then presented me with a cut-crystal tumbler as well. When she’d withdrawn to whatever antechamber served as her holding cell, Kreios lifted his glass high. “To Marcus, long of life,” he said robustly, the lilt in his voice breaking through, betraying his Greek heritage. “That he did not die in vain.”
 

“To Marcus.” I nodded. The scotch was as smooth as I had come to expect, but it burned a fiery trail down my throat. “That he had not died at all.”
 

“Well, I’m not sure I would go that far,” Kreios said, angling his glass to me. “After all, without his death, there would have been no becoming for me. And then, my dear Sara Wilde, we would not have met. That
would
have been a pity.”
 

I tried to hide my curiosity, but Kreios peered at me, his eyes missing nothing. “You have not worked with the council long, but there is no excuse for Armaeus not to have introduced us.”
 

“I’m not in the city much.”
 

“Of course you aren’t.” Kreios’s smile was far too knowing. “Still, something could have been arranged, before my unfortunate excursion, don’t you think? It is a curiosity that we have not met. And curiosities interest me.”
 

I shifted uneasily in my seat. “I can’t see how it matters.”
 

“Perhaps you are right,” Kreios conceded. “One evening of carnal pleasure with Armaeus, no matter how intriguing, does not a relationship make.”
 

I scowled at him, knowing he was baiting me but unable to resist the challenge. “As you say.”
 

His smile broadened, and he leaned forward, his entire being focused on me. The effect was heady, dangerous. “Well then. Since the Magician does not
now
share your bed, perhaps you can tell me how I might be of service.”
 

“And perhaps,” I said, leaning forward as well, my gaze lingering on his eyes, the curve of his jaw, his sensual lips, “you could tell me
specifically
why SANCTUS stuck you in that box. Or why Barnabus suddenly hates you so much that he wanted to turn your brain to rice pudding.”
 

Kreios’s laugh was a thing of raw, primal beauty and did nothing to ease the tension in the cabin. He took another sip of scotch, regarding me more closely over the rim of the glass. “Old prejudices die hard, Sara Wilde,” he said as he gestured with his glass. “The men who captured me are not the exact caste as the priests who incarcerated Marcus, but their desires are the same, as are their needs.” He rolled the glass in his hand. “As it happens, needs and desires are my stock-in-trade.”
 

“What, the damning of souls lost its shine for you?”
 

His smile was wicked. “Do you have a soul you’d like to be damned?” His gaze rested on my mouth again, stoking an alarming response until he settled back in his chair again. “I assure
you, my role on this earth is nothing so tedious. How much do you—ah!” His beautifully arched brows lifted high, as if he’d had a flash of inspiration. “Has Armaeus told you so little, then?”
 

I rolled my eyes. “Do you do that all the time, answering your own questions?”
 

“Forgive me.” He inclined his head. “You will find that as cloaked as our dear Armaeus can be, I am his opposite. In this as in so many things. He uses deception and illusion to gain his ends. I find that the truth can be far quicker—and, when skillfully applied, far more devastating.” He set his glass beside him, then clasped his hands together. “But I was telling you of my unfortunate altercation with SANCTUS.” He said the name with a delicate twist of his lips, making it sound like an epithet. “What do you know of them?”
 

He had the grace to allow me to actually answer this time. “Evil minions of some cardinal, dedicated to destroying all the Connected in the world, starting with their icons, statuary, and twenty-sided dice.”
 

Kreios nodded. “The role of the Arcanan Council since time was born has been to maintain the balance of all magic. ‘All magic,’ of course, presupposes that there will be dark to counter the light. Dark, as it happens, is my specialty.” He patted his own lapel, the soul of modesty.
 

“The rest of it—the worship of an anti-God, fire and brimstone, eternal torment—that is not a construct of mine, nor of any of my predecessors, but the Catholic church does not see things in quite the same light, nor have they for centuries.” He shrugged. “I cannot blame them. Their zealotry has served them well. But—I, and Marcus before me, and all who came before him—we mean to
enjoy
this world, not bathe it in screams of terror.” He lifted his brows. “Which is not to say the occasional scream isn’t quite satisfying, in the right context.”
 

He grinned as I rolled my eyes. “But the ruination of the teeming masses is not, nor has it ever been, our purpose. It would be quite tedious, in fact, when there are so many pleasures to be had.”   
 

“Uh-huh. So if you’re not truly the enemy of the Church, then why—”
 

“Well.” Kreios spread his hands once more. “I never quite said I wasn’t an
enemy
of the Church. That would be a lie, and as I have told you—”
 

“Right. Champion of truth, defender of honesty, got that.”
 

He nodded. “Whatever you would know, I can tell you. Especially, as I have mentioned, your deepest needs, Sara Wilde. Your darkest desires.”
 

I considered that. My darkest desires had taken a turn of late. I wasn’t too comfortable with that going out on the psychic network. “My worst fears too, I suppose?”
 

“Never that.” He shook his head, shrugging off my surprise. “That, I must be told. You would be amazed, however, at the number of people who cannot help but share their worst nightmares aloud, as if begging for them to be unleashed in their midst. But do not evade the question.” He steepled graceful fingers beneath his chin. “What truths would you know, Sara Wilde?”
 

“Are the young women from Kavala in Las Vegas? Are they alive?”
 

“Too easy,” Kreios said. “But yes, and yes. Armaeus has told you this already. He would not lure you to a city you despise only to show you corpses. And why do you despise Las Vegas, Sara?”
 

So not going there. I refocused him on the more important question. “Where are they?”
 

“The young women? You cannot help them until we land.” He tilted his head, his green eyes searching mine. “But there are other questions you should be asking, and well you know it.”  
 

I felt the challenge in his words and knew the opportunity he presented. The opportunity, and also its unstated truth.
What else has Armaeus been keeping from me?
“Who else is on the council that I don’t know about?” I asked. “Are there actually the full twenty-one Major Arcana represented?”
 

“Too safe.” Kreios dismissed the question, his lush lips turning down in a pout. “And our current number is far less than twenty-one, I assure you. The Fool and High Priestess are in the city now. I suspect you have met them. They are well in the public eye. The Empress and Emperor are present as well, but remain uncommitted to the war that Armaeus would wage. The rest—scattered. Some of the positions remain unfilled. And the houses are all in ruins.”
 

I lifted my brows. “Houses? This is different from the families?”
 

“Of course. The minor houses that have always served the council.” He waved casually. “Swords, coins, wands, cups. They have not been mobilized since the reign of Charlemagne, though. No need, really. The world’s use of magic has risen and fallen as one with the tides of money and power.” He shrugged. “It might do so again, without our intercession, despite the current threat.”
 

I put aside the mind boggle of yet
more
minions of the council I knew nothing about. These people hand their fingers in way too many pies. “Is SANCTUS really all that powerful?”
 

“A year ago, I would have said no. But we have gotten lax, it would appear. We have seen, too long, solely what we want to see. It is why there are so few of us to hold the line as it is. Or to dance over it, from time to time.” His gaze flickered back to my face. “And speaking of the dance, that’s not all you want to know, is it?” he prompted. “I can see it in your face, hear it in your blood.”
 

I grimaced. “My blood?”
 

“It
sings
to me,” he said, leaning close. “And it tells me you have much to learn, that you are on the precipice of knowledge, on the very verge of slipping over, never to return.” His smile deepened, drawing me into his spell with his eyes, his voice, his words. “So tell me, Sara Wilde. What truths do you truly yearn to know?”