Fleeing Fate Read online

  Chapter Three

  “Well, sweetness, that’s the last one, and I don’t see mention of banshees anywhere.” Jakuta closed the tome and rested his hand on the leather cover, watching the play of emotions crossing Gràinne’s face. “I guess your kind isn’t heavy into body art. I’m going to have to buy you dinner instead.”

  Despite the blush immediately staining her cheeks, she sent him a look that would quell a lesser man, and Jakuta sighed to himself, even as it made him want to laugh. They’d spent an hour going through Hervé’s books, with no luck. Every moment they spent together was subtle torment, and his temper was beginning to fray. Though she’d tried to keep her distance, occasionally Gràinne would come to lean over his shoulder, and her proximity spiked the need gnawing at his belly. There was only so much even a god could take. The restraint he’d displayed by not dragging her into his lap, kissing and touching her the way his body demanded, deserved a medal.

  Jakuta was inclined to give up, use the time to explore the wicked lust building between them, but he knew she wouldn’t agree. Something was driving her, forcing her to prowl with impatience, and he already knew she wouldn’t give up until she got it.

  “There must be some information.” She paced from the cushion-covered daybed on one side of the room to the opposite wall where bookshelves lined Hervé’s office so as to run her finger over the titles. “Banshees have been around for a very long time.”

  Watching the small digit skimming the spines of the books made a hot shiver of longing wash over his chest. He was drawn to her in so many ways it was almost frightening. Physically his need was almost painful, yet it wasn’t strong enough to negate his intense curiosity, the strange and overpowering urge to keep her safe, although she didn’t seem to be in danger.

  Unable to resist, he got up and moved to stand behind her, taking in a deep draught of her fresh, sea-spray scent. The urge to surround her with his arms, pull her into his embrace, made his voice rough as he replied, “Your kind may be old, but tattooing of the higher beings isn’t. Up until a couple hundred years ago only arcane wizards had the ability to bespell markings onto their skins, so the art is still growing.”

  She shivered, and he knew their proximity was affecting her, just as it affected him. His cock was harder than he could remember it ever being, desire pulsing through every vein, and knowing just standing close caused her body to react made the yearning that much more acute.

  “So I’ll be the first.” Gràinne’s voice was breathy, but determined. “You can figure it out, right?”

  His heart dropped into his belly. This was one responsibility he didn’t want. “Every new being who decides to get body art adds to the knowledge, but it’s risky being the first, sweetness.”

  She turned to look at him, her sea-foam-green eyes reflecting equal parts fear and resolve. “I’ve heard that, but I don’t care, Jakuta. I have to have this tattoo.”

  What the hell is she after?

  “Why?”

  But she only shook her head, lowering her gaze so he couldn’t read anything in her eyes. “What else can we do?” Spinning back toward the shelves, she continued perusing the titles. “There must be something in one of these damn books.”

  Suddenly the knowledge came to him, as though the Orixás whispered the information into his ear—whatever she was planning was dangerous, and it was up to him to…

  The intuition faded, leaving him floundering. What was he supposed to do? Help her? Stop her?

  Protect her.

  How?

  No answer came for the question, and he swore silently. What he really wanted was to strip her down, discover if the skin hidden by her clothes was as soft and pale as her face, if her body really reacted to his closeness the way his did to hers. He wasn’t given to altruistic impulses, had spectacularly failed in the role of protector in the past. The thought of having this one small banshee dependent on his ability to keep her safe filled him with something akin to fear, and a healthy dose of rage.

  “All right, sweetness.” His voice was harsh and he didn’t try to temper it. By Obatala, if he had to do this, he’d do it on his terms, ensure he got even a little satisfaction out of it. “I have an idea, but it’ll cost you to find out.”

  “What is it?” She spun to face him, and the eager trust in her eyes almost made him back down. “I don’t care what it costs, I’ll pay.”

  He stepped near, smiled when her instinctive retreat brought her back up hard against the bookcase. Reaching out, he whisked the hat from her head, watched as a mass of fine, pale hair tumbled down to her shoulders and her lips rounded into a silent oh of surprise. Resting his hands on the shelf on either side of her head, he leaned in, reveling in the hot wash of color rising from her collar, the way her eyes darkened and became storm-tossed.

  “A kiss, and I’ll tell you.”

  The color receded from her cheeks and then rushed back even brighter. “Jakuta…”

  He shrugged, moved in closer, crowding her, knowing she’d feel the lightning sparking through his body as a physical tingling on her skin. “One kiss, sweetness.” The thunder of his blood colored his words, making them rumble and roll. “Just one kiss.”

  The rasp of her breathing scraped across his nerves, tightening them until they sang with need. She licked her lips and he groaned, desperate to taste her.

  “I shouldn’t.” Was it fear or regret that made her voice tremble? “It’s forbidden.”

  Shaking his head, he smiled without a shred of amusement. “I may be banished from my land, have lost my followers to an upstart, but I’m still Orixá, a god. Nothing is forbidden to me.”

  She was trembling, her fingers clutching at the shelf behind her hips, and he knew if he dipped his head she wouldn’t pull away. It was there in her eyes, in the way her lips softened and parted slightly. But he waited, wanting to hear her accept his offer. Nothing taken was as valuable as that which was given, and her kiss would be a hundred times more exquisite if proffered.

  “I don’t dare.”

  “Really?” He was so close when he inhaled he took in the breath her words were borne on. “I think you’re planning to dare far more tonight. Would one little kiss make it any worse?”

  Acknowledgement flared in her eyes, and he knew the instant she decided to give in to the temptation. By the time she went up on her toes to press her lips to his, the thunder of his heart was deafening, the anticipation almost painful.

  By the Orixás…

  At the first gentle touch of her mouth, tentative and questing, his brain ceased to function, and his body became a column of flaring sensation, centered on that one point of contact.

  For a moment neither of them seemed able to move, caught and held by the simple, but so very intimate touch. Jakuta breathed her in, absorbed her heat, pressed a little closer to sweep the seam of her lips with his tongue. A shiver climbed his spine as she held her ground, not moving away from the exploration. Then she moaned, her lips opening beneath his, and Jakuta tilted his head, deepening the kiss to the point of plunder.

  But she was right there with him, twining her tongue with his, nipping and sucking at his bottom lip, driving him crazy with the little sounds of pleasure she breathed into his mouth.

  Her arms came up around his neck, holding him, pulling him even closer, her fingers cupping his nape and shoulder. Everywhere she touched burned, the fire streaking through his muscles and sinews, arrowing into his cock, making his balls ache with arousal.

  Need consumed him, ate at his control, whispered for him to tear away the garments hiding her body, take his fill of her sweetness. Yet he couldn’t make his hands release their grip on the shelf beside her head, or his feet move so as to press against her the way he longed to. He’d said one kiss, and while everything inside clamored for more he’d hold himself to his word, even if it killed him.

  And it felt like it just might.

  The amazing intimacy of the moment seemed to bring all his power to fruition,
making it rise and swirl inside, fighting for release, as though to create the perfect storm. Already he could imagine the lightning, the gale-force winds buffeting them in time to the rhythm of his thrusting body. Warm spears of rain would fall on them, making their skin slick, so they glided against each other without friction, the only resistance provided by the clinging flesh of her pussy as it gripped his cock.

  By Obatala.

  The image was so strong he shuddered, nearing orgasm. Head swimming, he tried to pull back, but she came with him, refusing to allow him to break away. Taken to the brink of madness by her response, he grabbed her shoulders but couldn’t bring himself to thrust her away. Instead he took his time, gentling the kiss in the tiniest increments, slowing it down until their lips clung softly together, and then parted slightly.

  “Oh Goddess.”

  Gràinne sounded as lost as he felt, her words just a breath of sound. Jakuta took in great gulps of air, forcing the tempest raging inside back until he knew it to be under control once more. Reaching up, he loosened her grip and brought her hands down, holding them at her sides. Her closed eyelids fluttered and the tip of her tongue touched the center of her upper lip.

  The storm rumbled, the sight of her passion-flushed face, trembling body and swollen mouth testing the boundaries of his discipline.

  Releasing her, he stepped back, knew it wasn’t far enough, and took another step.

  Her hand came up, fingers lightly touching her mouth as though in wonder, and he had to turn away, grinding his teeth so as not to go back and take her where she stood. His entire body trembled, and no amount of effort seemed able to stop it. Striding across to the desk, he flung himself into the chair behind it, suppressing a groan of pain as his jeans tightened across his engorged cock.

  Gràinne hadn’t moved, except now her eyes were open, watching him. He couldn’t read her expression, but her stillness called to him almost as strongly as her passion. Jakuta gripped the arms of the chair, felt the leather give under his hands with a creak of protest, and forced his brain back to the matter at hand.

  “Tell me your lore.”

  Frustration made his voice rough, the harsh tone hinting at the typhoon still roiling in his belly.

  “What?” She blinked, as though awaking from a dream, and shook her head. Her hand fell to her throat, plucked at the neckline of her coat as she repeated, “What?”

  “Banshee lore.” Jakuta’s voice faltered as Gràinne tugged open the first button of her trench coat and started on the second. A strip of skin came into view between the lapels, a soft valley, gleaming like satin, and he swallowed hard, trying not to drool.

  “Why do you need to know that?”

  “Eh?” She’d opened another button but now her fingers stilled. Dragging his gaze away from her cleavage, Jakuta blinked, struggling to remember what he’d been saying. “Sometimes knowing where a being originated can help determine the best way to ink them.”

  “Oh.” She still sounded slightly befuddled, but finally moved away from the bookcase, shedding her coat and throwing it over the back of a chair as she walked toward the desk.

  Finally he could see the shape of her body and couldn’t stop himself from staring. She was small but voluptuous, with beautifully rounded hips, strong thighs, a small waist and firm, high breasts. A dark-blue silk blouse made her skin pearlescent, the v-neck drawing his attention back to the shadowy cleft between her gently jiggling breasts.

  Sitting opposite him, she sighed and then said, “I don’t think banshee lore will help.”

  The words hardly registered.

  No bra.

  He tightened his hold on the arms of the chair, tearing his gaze away to stare sightlessly at one of the books in front of him.

  They are just breasts, Jakuta. When you ruled as king in the human world you had hundreds of wives, none of whom covered their torsos.

  And none of whom reduced him to this pitch of helpless hunger.

  “Lore says the banshee were one of the races created from the raising of the elves after the Great Purge.”

  “The Great Purge?” It came out as a question, although he hadn’t meant it to. He scrambled to get his brain out of his pants and back into his head, but his cock seemed determined to hold reason to ransom until Jakuta gave in to its demands.

  “You don’t know what the Great Purge is?” Her voice was equal parts scandalized and amused. “I thought everyone knew that part of Fey history.”

  That brought his eyes up to meet hers. Why did the Western races think their history was the only in existence, and the most important? Raising one eyebrow, knowing he looked haughty and not giving a damn, he asked, “Do you know the stories of Nana Buluku, of Oduduwa or Mawu-Lisa?”

  Confusion clouded her face, and then, with a rueful smile, she said, “No, I don’t.”

  Unable to help it, he smiled back. “I’ll tell you about them and all the Orixás of Dahomey one day. But now, tell me about this Great Purge.”

  Gràinne sat up straighter, leaned forward. “In the days when our world was still young, and the one beyond the Veil younger yet, the elves predominated and ruled wherever they dwelled. Two clans were the strongest, and each thought the other should swear fealty. They argued about who should rule all the land and soon arguing turned to fighting.”

  Jakuta shook his head. “And fighting to war.” Wasn’t that one of the oldest stories in existence?

  “Yes.” She nodded, used her hands to inscribe an arc through the air, a born storyteller in her element. “The war spread until almost the entire world had joined in and peace seemed unattainable. Effects of the fighting even began to encroach on the human side of the Veil, causing fires, floods and tidal waves. Eventually, when it seemed as though war would consume everything, the dragons intervened.”

  Having worked with Hervé for so long, Jakuta knew the fiery shifters didn’t suffer fools gladly. “What happened?”

  Gràinne’s eyes widened, animating the story with expressions as well as fluttering hands. “Using spies and infiltrators, the dragons precipitated a great battle and, as the fighting began, they swooped in to incinerate the assembled forces with magical fire. When the Great Purge was over the survivors fled in fear and horror, leaving the remains of their fallen behind, and the dragons, feeling their job was done, also departed.”

  She paused, and when she continued her voice was pitched low and sonorous, as though imparting a great secret. “But there were others who felt the destruction of the fey factions was insufficient to keep our world safe. Who was to say that other clans wouldn’t step forward to seize the opportunity, perpetuating the problem? The remaining elves were still in the majority, could easily begin warring amongst themselves again.

  “Two necromancers, Manzazuu and Skuld, were among those who felt the purge was not enough. Together they traveled to the site of the massacre and, combining their powers, began raising those who had perished. But they did not raise them as elves, or as minions to do their bidding. Instead they created new races—werewolf, vampire, troll, banshee and a host of others, each with its own special power—so the elves would have other clans to answer to for their actions.”

  With a sigh she sat back and lifted her hands as if to say, that’s it. The enjoyment she’d shown while telling the tale faded from her face, and her lips twisted slightly. Jakuta realized he’d been so enthralled by her story he was leaning over the desk, and settled back, crossing his arms.

  “So, you don’t believe the story?”

  Gràinne shook her head, making her hair swing around her shoulders, catching and reflecting the light so it appeared the sun danced among the strands. “Oh I believe it, to a point.”

  Jakuta raised his eyebrows. “Which point?”

  She shrugged, lids drooping so he could no longer read the expression in her eyes. “I think the raising has become…” She seemed to search for the right word. “Convenient. A way to explain the emergence of all the younger races.”

 
“Like yours?”

  “Like mine,” she agreed. “Although I don’t have any evidence to suggest we didn’t come into being then.” Her face tightened. “We may have.”

  He had to interject. “Don’t you know how old you are, when you came into being?”

  Gràinne looked away, a strange expression tightening the skin around her mouth and eyes. “Not really. I’ve lived quietly, in seclusion when on this side of the Veil. And time is different on the other side.” With a little shrug, she looked back at him. “I could have come into being then. I don’t know. If I did, at least it would be a place to start.”

  “It is.” Thank the Orixás, listening to and watching her tell the story had taken the edge off his desire, and he could function fairly normally again. He wanted to question her further, find out how it was she didn’t know when her life began, but he’d take care of the tattoo issue first. “The ink used on the races known to have emerged then is similar. There are only small variations, tailored to their particular attributes. With weres, we add silver nitrate. For the vampires, pulverized hawthorn.” He paused, enjoying the dawning realization widening her eyes. “I never tattooed a troll, so I can’t remember what we use for them, but I can look it up if need be.”

  Slapping her hands on the arm of her chair, she glared at him so fiercely it made him want to laugh.

  “You knew the story all along!”

  “Of course.” He grinned, saw her struggle not to smile back. “You could say it’s part of our lore as tattoo artists too. It’s the first thing we’re taught. If you’re part of that group, we should be able to figure it out.”

  She looked torn between amusement and annoyance. Annoyance won, if the killing look she sent him was any indication. “Dammit, Jakuta, why’d you let me waste time telling you something you already knew?” When he tried to reply, she cut him off by standing and beginning to unbutton her blouse. “If it’s that easy, let’s get on with it.”