Page 55 of Anatomy of the Immortal Species
Kathrine approached him. “Do you have any explanation for her odd behaviour?”
A dark curtain fell across Sevar’s face, concealing his emotions. “Even a snake waits for the right moment to strike.”
She clenched her jaw.Somethingwas off with the Queen. and once again Sevar refused to acknowledge it, although he’d noticed it as well. “All our lives we’ve been prepared to conquer the species who’d erased the memory of our existence on Earth, and when we’re on the threshold of doing so, she does nothing?”
“Stop questioning her, Kathrine.” Sevar rose, his towering demeanour emphasising the palpable threat in this tone. “Only a bowed head is not cut by the sword. And you’ve always been one to search for answers.”
She didn’t flinch. “Why aren’t you?”
Sevar pursed his lips, fingers unbuttoning his creased shirt. Without saying another word, he walked to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.
Kathrine put on her boots and headed to the training hall. In moments like these, the memory of her throwing the old Oracle from the helicopter didn’t weigh as much as it usually did. She had crushed the clairvoyant to pieces, thus giving her the freedom.
21
Being a hybrid was not the worst fate one could suffer in the immortal world.
For example, having a tail in both forms – a rare defect in the transformation of some lycanthropes and manticores – was quite a nuisance. It significantly hindered free movement among mortals and was an absolute anti-aphrodisiac, at least for most creatures. Another unfortunate destiny was being born into one of those fanatical witch covens who worshipped obscure deities and believed that drinking bodily fluids from their companions was the highest form of reverence.
Of course, one could also be a mortal brat with a penchant for gambling and violence, the proud owner of an expunged criminal record, and cursed with an ambitious mother who, by the time one turned eighteen, had realised her offspring would never amount to anything. Yet she would continue to inflate her child’s ego with money, unable to face the reality that she’d failed as a parent.
Mrs. Vrabcheva, now Mrs. Bogdanova, aka Stilettos, had a red leather purse adorned with the same shiny details as her shoes. She pulled out a gold credit card and handed it to the manager with a dismissive gesture. Then she signed the receipt as though she were a celebrity caught giving autographs during a break. The party, a gift for her son’s twentieth birthday, was clearly wrapping up early for her. Some might assume she was stepping out to give her grown-up son some space. Those who knew her better would say she was rushing for a rendezvous with ayounger lover.
Zacharia understood she was leaving – for good.
Tonight, the wheel of the Mercedes wasn’t in the inexperienced hands of some powdered companion, but firmly in hers. However, this time, Stilettos was retreating. The game had proven bigger than her. Mrs. Bogdanova was so seasoned that she’d almost convinced Zacharia in her indifference to the late Kaliope Gazis’ picture. Yes, she probably didn’t suspect her husband’s mistress was a witch, but the severed head was a message everyone could comprehend.
Her escape tonight was well planned. Her suitcases had been packed and sent to the airport by a hired man who would wait to hand them over. So much effort to ensure no one knew Stilettos intended to leap from her son’s party onto a flight to Barcelona. There, a friend married to a wealthy eighty-year-old Spaniard – who swallowed Viagra like vitamins and was expected to kick the bucket any day – would be waiting for her. But the ‘old bastard still clung to life’. Mrs. Bogdanova might have been meticulous in her secretive departure, but she’d forgotten the cardinal rule – poorly treated servants spill household secrets with eagerness, especially to strange men offering generous gifts.
Zacharia tailed Stilettos to the airport. She parked her car within the lines – a careful driver, even when she was leaving the Mercedes behind for good.
When the engine died, and the doors unlocked, Zacharia slid into the passenger seat. “I admire women who respect the art of driving.”
“Hey… You again?!” Stilettos’ eyes darted from Zacharia to the empty parking lot.
He lifted an eyebrow. “I’m no longer a ‘fun rendezvous’?”
“You never were!” she snapped. “I’m in a hurry, darling. Get out, or I’ll scream.”
“No, you won’t. Because you don’t want to attract attention.”
“For heaven’s sake…”
“Now shut up and listen.”
She gripped the steering wheel, her leg twitching beneath it. Her body language suggested she didn’t perceive Zacharia as a threat, more as an annoyance hindering her escape from the real danger.
He spoke in a much more serious tone, “I sense you’re not the type for long explanations, so I’ll get straight to the point. I’m a hybrid – half lycanthrope, half vampire.”
“You’re also pretty insane, boy…”
“Boy?” Zacharia smiled. “Would you believe me if I told you I’m over five hundred years old?”
Stilettos glanced at the watch on her wrist. “No. And I have a flight to catch soon. Look, I still don’t understand what you want from me, and I don’t know how you got that photo of my ex-husband’s dead mistress—”
“So you believe me when I say it’s not Photoshopped.”
“—and frankly, I don’t care.” She bared her teeth. “I just want to board that damn plane and never hear about any of this again!”
