Page 39 of Close Quarter
Damn them to their own fiery hell!
They had sent him to kill Anaxandros. Of all the soulless, they should have named Anaxandros to him. If he had known...
If.
Ifwas the reason. This wasn't the first time the Messengers had neglected to inform him of some important piece of information just to see what he would do, what path he would take. Free will, they said.
After all this time, he didn't need one around to hear their words.Would you have gone, hadyou known it was Anaxandros you faced?
And Rhys?
Would you have avoided him or sought himout? Should we have kept him from meeting you?
Or encouraged it?
He didn't have answers. He never did.
Quam minime credula postero. Trust not the future.
Silas forced himself to his feet. The Messengers could take their free will, carve it into a phallus, and shove it in their assholes. If they even had assholes.
Oh, he'd pay for that thought later. Because theyalwaysknew.
His nose itched, and he rubbed at it. The brief interaction with Rhys had healed the bridge and some of the wounds on his chest. Good thing he had forced Rhys to leave when he did. The man was too much temptation. Time would heal his other wounds.
The best medicine now would be to take a shower and then a nap.
After that, he'd sit in the garden and figure out how not to die when Anaxandros's soulless came for him.
And how to keep Rhys safe from the soulless.
And from me.
****
Rhys scanned another lounge, the third he'd checked so far. Still no Vasil. Maybe he hadn't survived the night? But then, the ship would be in an uproar, wouldn't it? He resisted the urge to shudder. Maybe not. No one seemed to care that three passengers had been turned into piles of ash.
The artificial sound of a digital camera's shutter clicked nearby. A woman in a bright yellow sundress tucked a phone back into her purse. He caught several other people watching him, whispering.
Right. He had forgotten about that. No one noticed him when he was next to Silas. But now?
He was Rhys Matherton, newly minted shit-for- brains millionaire, rather than quarter-fae and tasty vampire snack.
Damn it all, where was that waiter? Rhys slipped out of the lounge. Too bad Silas's clothes didn't come with fae glamour.
He had put Silas's jeans and shirt back on, added a pair of sandals. Casual clothes were fine for the day, and he felt better carrying a bit of the man with him.
His throat tightened. When this was over, would that be all he had left? Clothing?
Shit.Not what he wanted.
Time to look for Vasil in the one place he'd been avoiding--the garden. He stalked down the hallway toward the elevators.
He wasn't going to let Silas go that easily.
Not over something as stupid as him thinking he was anything like a vampire.
He wasn't. Rhys could turn over every moment of the time he had spent with Silas.
