Déjà Vu & Gin Read online

  My breath stops as he twists to face me. His eyes are closed, head still tipped back to the spray. Soap runs down his chest in foaming rivulets diverted by the most impressively chiseled abdomen I’ve ever seen in person. It’s hardly the only impressive thing the man is sporting. It’s been rather a long time since I’ve seen a cock up close. But I vaguely remember what they’re supposed to look like.

  This is not what I remember. Not by half.

  I can’t tear my eyes away. He’s so deliciously thick, my throat tightens in tandem with other parts of my body. My thighs press together and I grit my teeth.

  I don’t want to imagine him inside me, but I can’t help it. A strangled sound escapes my lips, loud over the gentle pounding of the water, and it startles me enough to yank my gaze back to his face.

  His eyes are open. Staring right at me.

  There’s not an ounce of shame to the man. Tyr doesn’t flinch, doesn’t turn away. Lazily, he finishes rinsing off, not seeming to care in the slightest that he’s bare-ass naked, wet and sinfully hard.

  Finally he reaches back to shut off the shower. Then he stands there, dripping, looking at me, one eyebrow raised.

  He’s enjoying this.

  “Will you put some damn clothes on?” I snap. My voice cracks, the sound emphasized in the tiled room.

  Tyr shrugs and takes a step forward.

  I squeak and jump back.

  He raises his hands, which only makes him seem even more naked. “You’re standing in front of the towels, love.” His tone is dry but shaking with laughter.

  I reach behind me and angrily toss him a half dozen, aiming for his face, but he easily catches one out of the flurry. He takes his time toweling off, still watching me.

  “Could you hurry up?” I huff. “It’s not like I want to see you naked.”

  His lips twitch. “You do have the option to turn around, Anastasia.”

  I blink. Then immediately give him my back. His chuckle seems to rumble from my toes up the base of my spine. I wrap my arms around myself and curse silently.

  “I take it you got my message,” he says quietly.

  “Yes.” I’m not sure it’s safe to turn around yet, so I keep my eyes on the door in front of me.

  “I wanted to give you a heads-up. Something unpleasant will be happening to your sister soon.”

  Without thinking, I whirl. “What?”

  He’s still shirtless, but at least he has pants on now; soft, clinging ones, something like sweats. “I can’t say.”

  “When?”

  “Can’t tell you that either, love.” He pulls a thin black T over his head.

  “Did you call me here just to frustrate me then?” I watch him gather up the towels and toss them in a bin, tapping one of my heels against the tile floor.

  “Looks like you have plenty of frustration to go around.” His knowing smile makes me flush with fury and something far more embarrassing. “But to answer your question, no. I called you here as a courtesy. My other engagement is demanding results. I have to give them something. Luckily for both of us, murder is not on the table this time.” He cocks his head. “What is won’t look good, however. I thought it only prudent to warn you.”

  “And you won’t tell me anything else?”

  “Can’t. Bad enough I’m telling you this much.”

  “How soon?”

  “Soon enough.”

  “C’est des conneries!”

  “You really should try something to work off all that anger.” He runs a hand over his chin, looking at me speculatively. I tense. “I know. Have you tried yoga?”

  With another chuckle, Tyr walks out, leaving me alone in the shower room.

  7

  I was thinking of her. Of course I was. Then poof, I opened my eyes, and there she was. Like magic.

  It’s a good thing I opened my eyes right then, or Anastasia would have gotten more of a show than she did. I shift my hips, stifling a groan as the soft, thick fabric drags over my still-engorged and damn sensitive tip. My balls are heading into the this-doesn’t-feel-so-good-anymore ache of long-delayed frustration. Anastasia isn’t the only one who needs to work something off. From the shock in her eyes and the way that haughty chin went up in the air, she’d never acknowledge the obvious solution to our mutual problem.

  Though, considering the way she was looking at me before she knew I caught her looking . . . My lips curve as I shove on my boots outside the locker room door, but my amusement fades rapidly.

  Yeah, she was pretty damn turned on for a minute there, but she was also horrified at the thought of wanting me. It was plain as the little upturned nose on her face. After all, she’s meant to be a queen. I head across the hall, slamming my door. Why in the gods Vasilisa let her get away is beyond me.

  Of course, she may not need him. I think of the rhyme I’ve heard whispered over and over in the Dark Council chambers lately. A rhyme that everyone thinks is about the Gosse sisters.

  Scattered like leaves, but Queens all . . .

  According to that rhyme, my witchy pain in the ass will be wearing a crown one of these days, Firebird Prince or not. And queens don’t take their pleasure with the likes of me. I glance around the room, trying to focus.

  If I’m ever in a town for long, I make a point to spend at least part of my stay at a homeless shelter or in transitional housing, if it’s offered. I’m not trying to be a wanker and take a bed away from someone who needs it. In fact, part of the reason I go through the process is to get a feel for how these places are doing their job. Whenever I leave, I make a nice, hefty donation. It doesn’t keep the nightmares of Newgate away, but it serves the dual purpose of soothing my conscience and staying incognito. No one looks for an assassin at a homeless shelter, and no one pays much attention to who goes in and out.

  I’ve never cared for any place that smacks of permanence anyway. Even hotels make me twitchy. The only reason I was able to endure Sessrúmnir as long as I did was because half the time I slept in the woods rather than the castle. I guess blood will tell, even blood that never wanted you.

  The room is bare, but clean. There’s an overhead light and a small window with faded curtains. One bed, one dresser, one nightstand. It’s not like I need fancy.

  Time to move the Fetters again. I do it every month now. The reason I called Anastasia here today was not really to warn her about my plans for her sister. That was just the excuse. Now that I know the damn woman can scry, I needed to make sure she is otherwise occupied before I hide them again.

  My sword lays unsheathed on the bed. I never worry about anyone stealing it; the handle would burn any would-be-thief to the bone. It likes me and doesn’t take kindly to us being separated, as it’s proved too many times to count. I was kidding when I told the witch I had named it, though. I haven’t—because that would be presumptuous on my part. It may not be precisely sentient, but neither is it a normal blade. I touch it once, watching the blackened blade flare crimson under my fingers. With a smile, I get to my knees on the worn brown carpet.

  The Fetters are in the sheath under the bed. I draw them out. They fit in the palm of my hand. Light, innocuous, scarcely thicker than my little finger and less than three feet in length. The gods constructed them to bind that which cannot be bound. Fenrir. A monster. Call him a wolf or a dog or a beast from beyond, but not even Odin himself was capable of caging the creature. So he asked the gnomes to create something that would. Legend says they created the Fetters out of five impossible things: the sound of a cat’s footfall, the beard of a woman, the roots of a mountain, the breath of a fish and the spittle of a bird. The gnomes presented the Fetters to Odin and by all accounts the god was well pleased, but he never got to use them.

  Fenrir had vanished.

  No one knows where he went, though I’ve heard rumors. Some say he rules a world all his own, others that he guards the underworld for Hel herself. I have my own suspicions, but really I’ve no interest in Fenrir himself, only a keen interest in shack
les that cannot be broken.

  Not even by a god.

  I tuck the Fetters into one of the pouches on my belt and sling it around my hips. I sheathe the sword and glance out my window. A bright silver-blond head bobs down the street. With any luck, I’ll have the Fetters in their new home before the witch reaches hers.

  8

  Seph is the first one home for dinner. I’m ridiculously relieved to see her, especially after Tyr’s warning today. I’ve been antsy ever since I left him and my usual methods for managing my mood aren’t having any effect.

  Seph shimmies onto the counter while I’m pulling tarts from the oven. I set them on a wire rack to cool before grabbing the cream I’ve been keeping in an ice bath.

  “What’s up, Ana? You look out of sorts. More out of sorts than usual,” she amends, reaching for a tart. “We’ll find Luna, you know. Eventually.”

  I glare at her as I start whipping the cream. I’ve no interest in discussing the werewolf. Or the sudden disappearance of Jack Frost. I have the feeling this is the calm before the storm, and I’d like to hold onto it for as long as I can.

  “I’d be perfectly agreeable if people wouldn’t sit on my counters or snatch my food before it’s ready,” I snap.

  “Don’t get pissy.” She waves a hand, licking golden crumbs off her lips. “Though I gotta say, I feel prickly myself today. Bit poor Benji’s head off,” she says ruefully. “That’s why I came home early, figured I’d give the poor guy a break from my nasty self.”

  “So what’s got you out of sorts?”

  “Don’t know.” She shrugs, licking more tart crumbs off her fingers. “Maybe there’s something going ’round. Something wicked this way comes and all that.”

  A shiver crawls its way up my spine. Despite his annoying obfuscation today, I am very glad I have the assassin on the job. “I think in most tales, that would refer to us.”

  “Oh come on, we’re not those kinds of witches. Green skin, warts and disgusting hair.” She tosses her own golden waves over a shoulder, winking at me. “We’re sexy bitches.”

  “Speak for yourself.” Carly slinks in, looking tired. “I feel more like a dried-up prune at the moment.”

  “Styx keeping you up late?” Seph questions tartly. I throw her another glare as Carly tilts her head and I fill the line of already cooled tarts on the counter.

  “Not like that. At least not yet.” She snags a tart of her own with a wary, cat-who-ate-the-canary smile. “But I’m working on it.”

  Seph and I look at each other, then away.

  “Be careful with that one.” I snatch her tart back to add a dollop of cream from the bag I just filled.

  “I know what I’m doing, Ana.” Her dreamy voice hardens at the edges, increasing my nerves. Carly is never ‘out of sorts.’ Unlike the rest of us, she doesn’t really do moody.

  “I find that hard to believe. You’re ridiculously innocent, and I’m quite sure Styx is not.” I wince. I meant to sound gentle, but as usual, the tone got twisted in my mouth and came out pompous.

  Carly’s eyes narrow. “What would you know about it? I’m pretty sure the last time you touched a man, this country didn’t even exist.” With a whirl of red-gold curls, she leaves the kitchen, her tart still in my hand.

  Seph sighs, giving me a look before she slips off the counter. “Jeez, Ana. Can’t you ever learn to dial it back a bit?”

  She grabs some filled tarts, muttering something about visiting Thomas, and then I’m alone.

  I set Carly’s tart back on the counter carefully and reach for the next in line, ignoring the burning in my cheeks and the ache in my belly. But it’s no good. Finally, I give up and lean against the counter, rubbing my eyes.

  My sister is right. I have a lot of nerve giving her advice on a subject I abandoned long ago.

  A subject I no longer have any interest in. Except that as soon as I close my eyes, I see water running down tanned skin and hard muscles.

  I frown and pick up the icing bag, trying to force away the image of Tyr in the shower. It doesn’t work. I remember the feel of his scruff beneath my fingertips and wonder what it would be like to touch him anywhere I wanted. Like those broad shoulders and that dark, scarred back. Sinking my nails into that hard, muscled ass. My hands start to shake and cream squirts all over the last six tarts. Cursing, I throw both the bag and the tray in the trash. This is crazy. I don’t want the assassin.

  But of course, I’m lying.

  Warmth curls inside me as I wonder if it would be different with him. He’s already provoked more of a reaction that any man I’ve ever met. Maybe with Tyr something inside me could catch fire again and I . . .

  I freeze as a simple, but breathtaking idea slips into my brain. I’m perfectly capable of having an affair with anyone I please—even an assassin of the realm.

  Tyr may not be the wisest choice, for a myriad of reasons. I roll my eyes. Well, of course he’s not, but he’s the one my body wants. Another image flashes into my pounding head, one of him leaning over me, the way he did the other night, except this time he’s naked and warm, that scruff rough against my skin as his lips trail down my body. I put a trembling hand against my lower stomach, trying to catch my breath.

  I could use this insane attraction to my advantage.

  Like priming a pump, Tyr could be the one to make me feel again.

  I purse my lips and let my eyes narrow as I think it through. I’ll have to convince him, but something tells me that might not be too difficult.

  9

  The text from the witch comes at an opportune time. It’s midmorning, though you can’t really tell in this pit. I’m listening to Jack Frost insist that Cerunnos retract the bounty. I think the elemental knows it’s hopeless at this point, but the son of a bitch keeps trying. I don’t get it. If he’s that keen to kill the witch himself, why hasn’t he done it already? Would’ve saved me a fuck-ton of grief and stress.

  My phone vibrates and I sneak a glance.

  Spellwork ready. I’m officially useful again.

  There’s also a smiley face. Huh. The witch doesn’t seem the smiley-face type.

  Belatedly, I realize I’m smiling. It slides from my face when I look up to see Loki watching me. I ignore the god and sidle from the room. I ditched the Dodge days ago, but a quick look around the Tettegouche State Park visitor’s parking lot nets me a Jeep with the keys dangling from the ignition. I shake my head as I get inside. Minnesotans are such trusting souls. Probably why their state is lousy with FTCs.

  I’m in Duluth in under an hour, knocking on a familiar door. To ensure the coast was clear, I replied to her text when I was ten minutes out.

  As soon as she opens the door, she pushes a leather case at me, a thick one. I have no magic, but I’ve always been able to sense it, a talent Freya boosted when she made me an immortal. My fingers tingle when they brush the leather, and I grin. There’s obviously some good stuff in here. “What’d you give me this time?”

  The satchel is yanked back before my fingers can close around it completely. “Come in and have some tea and we’ll talk about it.

  I blink. “Tea?” Talk?

  “Mmm, yes, and there’re tarts as well.”

  She’s already headed down the hallway, hips swaying. I watch, bemused and unable to resist admiring the shape of her. The dress is velvet this morning. A rich cream that makes her skin glow and outlines her ass to sinful perfection. I shift my own hips and warn my cock to behave before following her.

  There’s a table laid out all primly with a blue and white tea set that matches the blue and white room. My eyes narrow and I sit down gingerly, wondering what the hell is going on. I can feel her nerves from a mile off. I’ve been around this witch enough by now to know very little makes her lose her cool.

  “So, the spells,” she says briskly, pouring tea into my cup. “I included several transport ones, since you said those come in so handy. You won’t be as fast as Jett, but nearly.

  “Sounds gr—” />
  “And there’re a couple of silencing ones, too. Invisibility. Oh, and a really nifty one that will knock out everyone within several yards of you and—”

  She pours a bit of milk in her tea from a tiny pitcher on the table before offering it to me. I wince and put up a hand before taking a cautious sip. Everyone knows milk should go before the tea, but what can I expect from an American? It’s rather good, though, and while I’ve learned to enjoy coffee, I let the tea sit on my tongue, savoring the flavor before swallowing.

  “—also an accuracy one that will aim your blade exactly where you want it, to within a millimeter. And—”

  “Anastasia.” She finally shuts her mouth as I set my tea down. “Not that I don’t appreciate the scintillating conversation, but would you mind breathing for a second?”

  Obediently, her lips part and her chest heaves once, a rather distracting display, but I manage not to gawk. Much.

  “Now tell me what the hell has you so wound up?”

  Her cheeks turn faintly pink and she bites her lip, seeming to gather herself together. “Do you remember what you said to me, when I saw you in the . . . when you were . . .”

  Ah. I don’t bother to hide my amusement. “When you used me as your own personal peep show, you mean?”

  She glares at me. “I did not.”

  I lean back with my tea, not bothering to hide my smirk.

  She blows out a breath as I take another drink. “All right, yes, I did.”

  I watch her over the delicate rim of the cup. The way she blushes is delightful. Under other circumstances, I’d be—