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Rapid raps at the door accompanied another blast of wind.
We dragged apart, each swearing in our own language.
“Probably Adym.” Shiraz clawed a hand through his hair, not helping my battle to lay one last smack on him. “My valet. With fresh clothes.”
“Yeah.” Under normal circumstances, I’d add a quip to that about how “valet” meant only one thing in LA, and it usually meant getting a whole car instead of new pants. But nothing about me felt normal right now. My body, my senses, and sure as hell not my mind.
So much for thinking I’d get a minute of sleep in the cloud bed tonight.
And thank God I always carried replacement batteries for SAMM.
And thank God, times two, I was able to sneak in a full breath before Shiraz yanked open the door.
Because it wasn’t Adym who’d knocked.
Unless Adym was a superior drag queen, and had transformed himself into a perfect fusion of Tinkerbell and Morticia, complete with the wide lemur stare.
“Crista.” Shiraz’s own confusion drenched the tone. “Where is—”
“Adym paged me, Your Highness.” The woman wasn’t slow. Her gaze worked fast, instantly absorbing our mutual fresh-fucked hair, kiss-swollen lips, and—oh yeah—the dark spot at the front of Shiraz’s jeans. If I thought she’d missed it, the woman’s fresh blush set me straight. “He is frantic, trying to help with locking down the apartments in the royal wing.”
If Shiraz noticed the same thing, he gave no indication. He faced her fully, not a hint of apology on his face, accepting the wad of clothes she thrust out. “Lock down?” he demanded. “From what?” His face hardened. “Is there a fresh threat from Kavill?”
“Fuck.” While I kept it mostly beneath my breath, my fear was real. Rune Kavill was a nasty swipe of smegma. He’d been all but gutted by Samsyn Cimarron’s own hand, a story nearly as legend as the US SEALs’ takedown of Bin Laden, doubling the shock of his survival. Suggestions abounded across the globe that he’d made a pact with the devil, a story not difficult to believe.
“No, Your Highness.” The new care in Crista’s voice wasn’t hard to interpret. I used the same tone when trying to explain to a bride that ninety percent chance of rain meant inside ceremony options needed to be considered. “We are locking down because of the storm.”
“The…storm?” It blurted out of me as facts began rushing at me—and making more sense. The wind, gusting in angrier bursts. The crash of the waves outside, seeming more and more violent. And now, the eerie cast of clouds over the sea, visible because of the lightning flashing between them. “Wait. Don’t you guys get stuff like this all the time?” Okay, it was about as lame as I could get, but a habitat as green as this needed lots of rain. A girl from ever-brown Southern California should know.
My answer came clearly enough through the new intensity in Shiraz’s gaze, stabbed out the window like a steel blade. “Rain?” he returned. “Yes. But not—this.”
“Not what?” More of the lame—but his trepidation started freaking me out.
“What is the status?” He directed the command at Crista as if I hadn’t spoken. At the same time, accepted a smart pad she offered, its screen filled with an image. A map of the Mediterranean, with Arcadia’s location marked by a red inverted teardrop. I actually felt my eyes widen at the thick white sworl off to its right. Yeah, I was a native Cali girl, but had planned enough weddings on the East Coast to know what that image meant.
“The upgrade is expected within the hour,” Crista answered him softly.
“Fuck,” he muttered.
“The upgrade to what?” I interjected.
Crista looked over, her gaze seeming rueful. She bit her lower lip before explaining, “The storm. The Mediterranean Weather Service shall likely declare it a medicane soon.”
“A medi what?”
“A medicane.” Shiraz pulled his focus from the sea back to me, his mouth now a firm line, his cheekbones stark with tension. “Our version of a hurricane. And it is tracking directly for us.”
