The Fury (5 page)

“It has a leaf-shaped blade and is double-edged. It’s light.” He swung it in demonstration. “The hilt is large enough to accommodate the size of your hand.” He placed it back in the baldric and handed it to Dagan. “You hang it over your right shoulder across your back and it will go unseen under your coat.”

Dagan unsheathed the sword and swung it through the air crisscross in front of his body. “It swings evenly.”

Pyre nodded. “Just remember that it’s double-edged so you don’t slice off a finger.”

“I’ll remember.” Dagan slid the baldric over his shoulder, brought his other arm through and adjusted his new weapon to sit between his shoulder blades. He then practiced bringing his hand behind his head, grabbing the hilt and pulling the sword free.

“If you can manage to do that every time without cutting off an ear, it will be a miracle,” Pyre mumbled.

“It’s a fine sword, P. Thanks.”

“And the human? You did what you were supposed to do, right?”

“Yes. It’s done.”

Pyre clapped his hands together. “Damn good then. She won’t remember you, and you will do your job and be gone.”

Gone
. That thought didn’t sit well with him.

“Go on and get out of here so I can continue my work.”

Dagan faced Pyre. They both placed their fisted right hands over the left side of their chests and then took the same fisted hands and banged knuckles.

“To duty until peace,” Dagan said.

“To disposal of the creature,” Pyre replied.

Both men grinned.

Chapter Four

Three hours later, Reese woke. She lifted slowly to a sitting position. The pounding in her head felt like someone was doing roadwork using several jackhammers. It took a while for her eyes to fully focus. Why was she lying on her couch? What time was it?

The filigree hands on the antique clock showed two-twenty. She must have laid down for a nap. But now, she needed to get to her office. Though she’d told the others not to come in until Monday, Reese had planned to spend today contacting potential investors. First, she needed drugs to get rid of the serious headache that threatened to keep her home. Strolling into the kitchen, she noticed two Styrofoam cups sitting on the counter, one half empty. Maybe she’d forgotten to pour out what she’d drank last night.

“That’s strange.” She shook her head and then cursed because shooting pains speared into her eyeballs.

Did she drink wine at The Bistro? Actually, she couldn’t remember much of last night. Her archeological team had met to discuss a new dig on the Turkey/Iraqi border. It had grown dark and snow started to fall when she’d left, but after that, no memory at all.

She poured the cold coffee into one cup and put it in the microwave for one minute. The first gulp stopped her dead in her tracks. It tasted awful, too strong and bitter. What was going on?

At the end of the counter, the amber light blinked on her answering machine, letting her know she had a message. Reese pushed the button.

“Hello, Reese, this is Dr. Berticelli. Can you please call my office as soon as possible? I need to—”

She pressed the delete button. She didn’t want to hear the rest. She’d heard it all before. She set the cup on the table and grabbed her jacket. “Maybe some fresh air will help the headache.” Before she left though, she downed a couple of Tylenol.

Reese spent the rest of the day phoning people and sending e-mails. To her frustration, no one seemed interested in backing a full scale dig in an area so close to the Iraqi hot zone, and some were downright rude. A few alluded to the fact that the State Department had put the word out the area in question was under martial law. She slammed the receiver down on its cradle a little too hard after the latest rejection. The area being under martial law would provide an insurmountable obstacle.

Resigned to the fact that there could be nothing more accomplished today, Reese gathered her papers into a pile and shoved them to the side. The phone she’d abused moments before now glowed like a beacon. Her father’s condition overshadowed the exciting news about the find. She knew what she had to do.

Lifting the receiver as though it were lead, Reese dialed Dr. Berticelli’s private line and waited for her to pick up.

“Good morning,” the older, well-seasoned psychiatrist intoned.

“Good afternoon,” she replied in a nervous voice. “This is Reese Whittaker. I got your message. Do you have a few minutes to speak with me, or is this a bad time?”

“No, it’s fine. Please give me a minute,” the doctor said before placing her on hold.

Reese thrummed her fingers against the worn oak desk. She picked up the pencil and twirled it while staring at the oil painting which hung on the opposite wall, a chaotic piece that reminded her of her own life.

The doctor came back on the line. “Okay,” she sighed. “Your father brought himself in here Thursday night. He wanted to be admitted to the hospital, but I refused.”

“You did?”

“Yes.”

Reese envisioned the thin, white-toothed smile on the doctor’s face.

“He does not need to be admitted. He needs to be with family and friends. To get past the grief, he needs to work, at home in the yard, at his office, go to the grocery store. He needs to do normal things.”

“He seems reluctant to do so, as you well know,” Reese offered.

“Yes, that is unfortunate.”

In a barely audible voice Reese said, “He loved her very much.”

“I know, dear. But it has been three years and he is a virile, healthy man. Is there no way for you to get him out to be with other people?”

“He does go to work, but most times he’s like a robot, going through the motions.”

“Perhaps a dinner party or birthday party. It will help direct his thoughts in a positive direction.”

“I’ll speak to his vice president, see about throwing a cocktail dinner for their clients.”

“That’s a very good idea.”

“I’ll see what I can do, doc.” Reese rubbed her eyes. “I’ll keep you posted.”

After her mother’s death from cancer three years ago, Clive Whittaker, the once capable and dynamic owner of Whittaker Investments had nearly ceased to exist, heartsick over the loss of the woman he’d loved more than life. Her sister left for Europe after a year of trying to cope. She claimed it was to be with Steve or Tom, Dick or Harry, whoever the latest boy toy had been, but Reese knew that Riley had run. Tears stung her eyes. She needed to concentrate on something else or she’d fall into a sorrowful pit.

Reese grabbed her purse, exited the building, and headed toward her car. She’d call Tony Bloomfield, her father’s partner, on Monday about the cocktail party.

A strange feeling of being watched made the hairs on her neck rise. Pulling out her keys, she pushed the unlock button, slid into the front seat, locked the doors, and threw the gearshift to drive. The thought of a long, hot shower brought a warm flutter to her heart and an ache between her legs, a sexual ache.

The tense forty-five minute drive home left her right shoulder and low back hurting. Deciding it was better to take the shower before making dinner, she headed straight for the bathroom when she got home. She twisted the faucets, got the water to the right temperature, and stepped under the hot spray. Yeah, that’s what she needed to ease her muscles and dispel the bizarre thoughts that had plagued her all afternoon. Reaching for the soap, she leaned her head back to saturate her hair. She closed her eyes and imagined large, masculine hands rubbing it along her breasts and down her stomach, massaging her in all the right places. One hand moved between her legs and a soapy finger slipped through the fold. Her sensitive clit welcomed the attention and after several moments spasmed. The orgasm gripped Reese hard.

“I need to get laid,” she whispered.

Or had she already?

Why couldn’t she remember anything about last night? Hurriedly rinsing and toweling herself dry, Reese ran to her bedroom. She yanked the phone off its cradle and dialed Roberta’s number.

Roberta Stonewater, a rotund African American taskmaster, was the glue that held the archeology team together and kept it functioning. She prepared all the tedious paperwork, knew whom to contact for just about anything they needed and could usually get it. There were bets on whether she was ex-CIA.

When she picked up Reese said, “Roberta, it’s Reese.”

“Hi, boss, what’s up?”

“I know this is going to sound crazy but did I have any wine with dinner last night?”

“What?”

“Just humor me, please.”

Roberta paused. “No, you drank some tea and then coffee, but no wine. What’s going on?”

“I don’t know, probably nothing. I’ve had a bad headache all day and strange things have happened.”

“What kind of strange things?”

Reese wasn’t about to tell her colleague that she’d had an intense orgasm while fantasizing in the shower. “Nothing. Don’t worry about it, probably just too much caffeine. I’ll see you on Monday, Roberta.” She hung up before her co-worker could grill her.

She lay on the bed and pulled the comforter up to her neck. Rolling to her side, she closed her eyes and took long, slow breaths. An alluring scent of dark mocha tickled her nose and memory. She turned her face into the pillow. “This is getting really weird,” she murmured and drifted to sleep.

In her dreams, a tall, gorgeous man in a brown duster, armed with weapons and a charming smile, tackled her. His bottle green eyes were mischievous and compelling. Things were hazy. A dark, evil presence surrounded them, but an aura of white light played around Mister Rough and Tough and that helped ease her fear. During the course of the dream, dark mist with red eyes clawed at her skin, pop-up balloons squeezed her in a tiny room made from a cardboard box, and her hero took her on a roller coaster ride which ended with lots and lots of incredible sex.

Reese’s eyes flew open. Her brain registered some recognition and her aroused body acted as though her dream had been real. Granted, it had been a couple of years since she’d slept with a man but this imaginary guy cranked up her desire and sent it into overdrive.

She’d given up on relationships after a long string of failed attempts. They didn’t last because of her occupation. At least that’s what she told herself. Sometimes, she’d be gone for months at a time in some third world country. Most men couldn’t handle the distance thing and ended up moving on. Of course, she’d never found one that sparked more than an iota of interest.

Her job was her life. Going on digs to unearth bits and pieces of ancient cultures drove her. The fascination or obsession with Sumer had been with her from a very young age. Thinking of her past brought a sense of loss and melancholy. She hugged the pillow to her chest and begged her subconscious mind to recall the dream. Rather than dwell on an inevitable phone call she didn’t want to make to discuss a matter she had grown weary of dealing with.

Dagan shimmered to physical form, dripping wet, on the steps leading up to Eridu, the great sea-house and home of Enki. He hated coming to Abzu. He couldn’t seem to stay dry in the underwater city. Cursing in the old language made him feel a little better, but not any dryer.

He climbed the endless stairs until he got to the top. There, he saw the two
Lahamas
guarding the doors as always.

“Hello, Leotis.” He approached the dragon-like statue on the left.

“Dagan,” the statue replied in a bored tone.

“Is he in?”

“The master is home. Do you request an audience?”

“Yes.”

“Very well.” The statue rose from its perch on a pillar made entirely of sea coral and strolled lazily to the doors which opened wide.

“You’re looking well today, Natalia.” Dagan walked over to the other statue. In truth, she looked the same, like drab, gray stone with little flecks of glimmering lights reflecting in the imitation sun’s rays. Natalia ignored him. That too was usual for the beast.

Leotis returned. “You may enter.”

Dagan strolled through the doors and the
Lahamas
jumped up to his seat, sparing one quick glance at Dagan before resuming his pose.

“Dagan, my boy.” Enki’s booming voice bounced off the walls.

The majestic deity moved toward him wearing flowing robes in a rainbow of colors and a big smile on his unmarked face. His blond hair streaked with silver had been cut short since the last time Dagan had seen him.

Dagan bowed.

“Stop that,” Enki said and raised him while shaking his hand. “I saw your father the other day and he said he hadn’t seen you in a while.”

“
Galla
activity has increased lately, which keeps me busy.” He adjusted his now dry duster. His clothes were dry as well.

“He would be glad to see you.”

“And I him.”

“Come.” Enki led Dagan through the magnificent entry hall and into the huge amphitheatre room where he spent most of his time. On a large dais which had several sandstone steps leading to it sat Enki’s throne. Even in the huge room, the ominous fixture drew attention. It had a plush cushion stretched across the seat, two large seahorse statues on either side, and a back made from an enormous clam shell that had pastel colors of the rainbow snaking through it.