Page 83 of The Geek and the Sheikh

Andrius slid his hand along the arm of the chair until he was gripping the handle of his cane. His gaze flickered to the door. Perhaps his manservant or his guards would come in to check on him.

“They’re dead… all of them,” the man shared, stretching his long legs out with a sigh as if he were a friend dropping by for a cup of tea and a conversation instead of an unknown killer.

“Why are you here?”

The man glanced at him before turning his attention back to the fire burning in the fireplace.

“I would have thought that was obvious. You did call me. I was planning on staying out of it… but—”

“It was you? You are the one Coldhouse warned me not to call? Why are you here? If you were offered a bounty, I’ll double it for you to walk away. I’ll triple it if you work for me.”

“I’m here to kill you,” the man calmly replied.

Andrius breathed in a shocked breath and warily watched as the man finished sipping his tea and placed the fine china cup on the table. He used the cloth napkin to wipe away the tea that had spilled from Andrius’s cup, and Andrius watched with fascination as the man snapped the napkin before folding it with the precision of a military guard folding the flag that covered a soldier’s coffin. When he was done, the man replaced the napkin on the table.

“Money and power are a funny thing. When you’ve lived as long as I have, they just don’t seem to be that important anymore.”

Andrius frowned. “Not important? You’d have to be a hundred years old for neither of those things to matter,” he scoffed.

The man chuckled. “I’m a little older than that.”

Andrius shook his head. The man didn’t look a day over thirty-five… forty tops. He curled his fingers around the top of his cane and pressed the release under the handle.

“What next? Obviously, you are not interested in truths, and from what you say, money or power. What is left? You plan to kill me? For what purpose? Some petty grievance or perhaps revenge for some slight I may have made?”

The man leaned his head back and sighed. “Evil really doesn’t change over the centuries. You’re all the same at a core level: shallow, pathetic, full of yourself, unable to see the larger picture. Sometimes it is necessary to kill evil because it has run its course long enough. In your case, I guess you could say I have some petty grievances and a thirst for revenge that not even your fine tea can quench.”

“Tell me what you think I’ve done. Surely, we can come to a compromise,” he said.

The man shook his head and continued to stare at the fire. “I could have looked the other way… possibly… if you hadn’t brought Junebug into it. That girl… is special. She makes a man realize that there are times when you can’t look the other way. She’s a lot like her mother was, and God knows, I loved her mother.”

“I’ll promise to leave her alone,” Andrius swore, desperation building inside him as the certainty he was about to die hit him. “I’ll even pay to have her protected.”

The man chuckled and looked at him. A cold sheen broke out along Andrius’ skin. He might have felt he had a chance to negotiate for his life if he hadn’t looked into the man’s eyes. He expected to see the same cold, hard look he had witnessed time-after-time in Coldhouse’s eyes. Even Allison had that same icy disregard. None of that was in this man’s eyes. He was looking at the Devil who was staring back at him with a look of pity.

Anger rose inside him and he snapped, “Can I at least know the name of the man who is going to end my shallow, pathetic life?”

The man looked back at the fire in silence as if he were contemplating whether he would answer the question. Andrius took the precious seconds the man appeared distracted to unsheathe the sword hidden in his cane. He swung it in an arc, slashing down with the sword as the man was turning his head. Shock ricocheted through him when the man stopped the blade from slicing through his throat by grabbing the slender, razor-sharp blade in his hand.

Andrius tried to pull it free, but the man just tightened his grip. Blood pooled along the bottom of the man’s hand. Andrius warily watched the man as he rose from his seat. He released the sword and held his hand out, his face paling as the man stood over him.

“Harlem. My name. It’s Harlem Jones… now. Over the centuries, I’ve gone by many more, but you can know me as Harlem.”

Harlem placed the blood-stained sword on the end table before he reached down and plucked the neatly folded napkin off the table near him. Andrius watched as Harlem dabbed at the cut across his palm. His mouth grew dry and his heart began to pound when the cut sealed itself before his eyes.

“Who are you?” he choked out.

Harlem smiled, picked up the sword, and wiped it with the blood-stained napkin before he pocketed the piece of cloth. Mesmerized by the elegant movement, he didn’t even realize that Harlem had swung the clean blade in his direction. He lifted his hand when he felt warm liquid pool along the neck of his sweater. Pulling his fingers away, he noticed they were coated with fresh blood—his blood.

He tried to draw in a breath of air… to protest, but there was only a gurgling sound. Raising his gaze, he looked at Harlem who was standing over him with a sad smile. Harlem placed the sword back on the end table.

Andrius wanted to fight the fog that was clouding his vision. He wanted… needed answers! He gripped the arm of the chair, leaving a perfect handprint made of blood, when Harlem picked up the fragile china cup off the table and pocketed it.

Andrius fell to the floor, knocking his sword and his half-full teacup off the table onto the antique Persian area rug. Through the legs of the table, he watched as Harlem Jones exited the room as silently as he had appeared before the darkness of death took him.

* * *

The palace of Jawahir

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