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Neeka held her breath. Impatience warred with uncertainty as seconds ticked into minutes.
Petting Skeletoria’s arm, he finally nodded. “We do.”
Relief washed through her, and she grinned. “Congrats! You’ve got yourself a world-class partner. Let the adventure begin!”
3
Rathbone studied the oracle he’d hired, unsure what to make of her. A curious creature. Forgetful but intelligent. Vague but also blunt. Brave enough to admit a connection to the Astra, but cunning enough to try to hide the information at first. Maddening. Sexy. Not quite sane, as advertised. Nothing seemed to intimidate her.
Whistling under her breath, she skipped around the room, touching this, poking that. The scent of sugared cherries and sweet almonds trailed her, soon infecting his every breath with its delightfulness. He hated it!
What he hated more was sprouting wood schoolboy style anytime she neared. A spontaneous reaction he hadn’t experienced in centuries. But then, the fae prince had mentioned Neeka’s appeal. Something she had in spades. Flawless dark skin complemented bright amber eyes, curly black hair, and the most adorable indentation in the center of her chin. A red bra and matching panties flaunted a lush, hourglass figure.
Why had she writtenhe-licks-heron her arm? To torment him? Because now, no matter how valiant his efforts, Rathbone couldn’t stop imagining licking her.
Was she the answer to his dilemma? Would she find the rest of his goddess, succeeding where he had failed? If so, he might consider adding Neeka the Unwanted to his stable. Mistress number one hundred and one. At least until he ceased reacting to her. Or not. He preferred his females less vexatious.
“This is how you familiarize yourself with my vibe?” he asked as she traced her blunt-tipped fingernails over a row of cushioned chairs lining the back wall.
She didn’t respond. Instead, she jumped on a chairback, rose to her tiptoes and waved her fingers over a spear of eternal torchlight. Somehow, she remained perfectly balanced.
Annoyance frayed already razed nerves, pouring petrol on the inferno of impatience burning in his gut. “Have you sensed anything yet?”
Again, there was no response. She didn’t even bother to glance in his direction. Unacceptable! He would tolerate many things from this female, but allow her to ignore him? No.
Rathbone flashed over, kicked the legs of the chair out from under her, and caught her as she fell. With a shriek, she sank her nails into his shoulders, clinging to him as she darted her gaze in every direction, on the hunt for a threat.
He expected a slap as soon as her alarm wore off. A dagger to the throat perhaps. Harpies were recognized by their violent tempers and gift for dishing instant payback. But this warrioress merely gazed up at him, as if he’d ripped off the head of her favorite doll.
“You did that on purpose,” she accused.
“Yes,” he responded without guilt. He’d paid a high price for his crown, and he demanded to be treated with the respect his position deserved. “When I ask you a question, you will give an immediate response.” He didn’t bother with an “or else.” She would do what he demanded, and that was that.
How could the King of Agonies allow anything less?
She smiled sweetly, baring tiny harpy fangs. “Just so you know, the first startle is free. The second will cost you dearly.”
Enjoying the feel of her far too much, he dumped her on her feet and stepped back. “You expect another ambush then? Have you no plans to protect yourself?” Was she without self-defense training?
“If you desire answers from me,” she said, pushing the words through clenched teeth, “make sure I see your lips.” She tapped her ears. “These don’t work.”
She was deaf? He closed his eyes for a moment, battling shame and yes, guilt. She must’ve experienced a catastrophic injury before the ability to heal lightning-fast immortalized her.
Forging ahead, he explained, “Things will go smoother if you keep your attention on me.” Considering how well he was paying her, she owed him that and more.
“Cater to your every selfish whim. Got it.” She faked a grin and batted her lashes. “But you should get real fascinating real fast, or my mind will wander, and it won’t be my fault.” Aaand yes, she skipped off to study a tapestry depicting his final battle against Styx. “Is this you? I bet it’s you. Be honest. You executed its creator for depicting you as a red marshmallow man, didn’t you? Oh! Did we just discover your superhero name? The Marshmallow Man. Cherry Marshmallow?”
This must be retribution for the chair. Because he in no way resembled a marshmallow.
Stiffer than a board, Rathbone flashed in front of her to guarantee she read his lips. “I’ll grant you a fourth payment—an unspecified boon—if you find at least one of Lore’s bonestoday. Proof to me you possess the skills you bragged about.”
“Well. Consider me properly motivated,” she replied with a genuine grin, far superior to the fake. She hooked her arm through his, acting as if she hung on his every word. “Take me to dinner and tell me more about you and your lady love. I learn better when I’m fed.”
How was he supposed to deal with a being like her? Cave in? He had to cave in, didn’t he? “Are you a typical harpy, only able to eat what you steal or earn, or you sicken?” She struck him as more of a flighty seer than a bloodthirsty murderess.
“I am. So be a dear and explain how I’ll be earning each of my six daily meals and assortment of snacks.”
“By breathing.” For now, she was the most important person in his life.
