Poisoned Kisses (12 page)

“Let’s get out of this miserable country,” Benji said.

“Start without me.” Marco checked and rechecked his gun. He had no idea what immortal powers Ogun had, and it made him more paranoid than usual. “I’ll catch up.”

Benji looked reluctant. “I know you have some trick—some disguise, some way of fooling people at the borders into thinking you’re someone you’re not—but…”

“I’ll be fine,” Marco reassured him. After all, it was safer for both of them if they weren’t seen together now. “I have my phone and you know the number.”

Benji didn’t need to be told again. He took a few cartridges of ammunition out of his backpack and tossed them to Marco, then slung the bag over his shoulder and exited the building amid a group of tourists, pickpocketing one of them along the way.

Once the kid was gone, Marco found a shadowy corner behind a potted plant in the hotel atrium and transformed himself. He chose a face that wouldn’t stand out. It was the face of a dark-skinned Congolese man who had struck
him in a drunken brawl in Matonge. He just hoped it was a face that Ogun didn’t know.

It was three days before he found Kyra. To be more precise, it was three days before she found him. He recognized her voice as it floated up from the hotel lobby. It was the same throaty voice that she’d let him hear, undisguised, when she cried out underneath him. It’d been a voice that he should’ve known wasn’t Ashlynn’s. A voice, perhaps, he
had
known wasn’t Ashlynn’s.

Leaning over the wrought-iron railing of the courtyard-style hotel, he caught a glimpse of her below. He reminded himself that she’d tried to kill him—twice—and she might be back to finish the job. But that way of thinking was starting to ring hollow even to him. Still disguised as a Congolese man, Marco waited for her to leave then followed her into the city streets, keeping his distance as the sun began to set. What surprised him was that, but for a pair of sunglasses, she was undisguised. Her sleek dark hair was gathered at the nape of her neck, exposing her peridot choker, and the too-pale skin of her back and shoulders.

Closing his eyes, he tried to push away his desire. In spite of everything she’d done, he still wanted her, and it made him angry. Then again, why
couldn’t
he have her? She’d seduced him twice under false pretenses—she ought to learn how it felt.

T
he old witch made Ares wary. Even though she’d adopted this wretched gypsy guise, Hecate still retained some of her powers. She didn’t seem the least bit surprised to see him—though that might have had something to do with her infernal barking bitches. Ares picked up her crystal ball, tossing it between his hands, liking the weight of it. It could easily crush a woman’s skull.

One of Hecate’s dogs growled at him. “In Sparta, men used to sacrifice dogs to me at night,” Ares pointed out, and with a flick of his wrist the creatures turned snarling eyes upon one another. If Hecate hadn’t shooed the dogs out of the room, they might have attacked one another. That would’ve been fine sport, but Ares would have to save his enjoyments for later.

“How can I help you, my lord Ares?” Hecate asked. “Would you like some tea?”

Ares snorted. He wasn’t about to take any of the old witch’s potions. “I’ve come for Kyra and her lover. I think you know where they are.”

“Why should I know?” The older goddess spread her arms wide, a helpless gesture. “Kyra isn’t my minion any longer. I released her from her vows.”

“And I haven’t forgiven you for it! Someone like Kyra needs a firm hand. She needs direction. Or do you
want
her to end up like you, no good to anybody anymore?”

“Why, Lord Ares,” Hecate crooned, shambling over to her stove to put a teapot on. “I assure you, business is brisk. Even in this day and age, someone always wants guidance over the thresholds of life. Why, even you, the great god of war, have deigned to darken my humble doorstep. I must still be good for something.”

It annoyed Ares that she chose this aged appearance. She was a
goddess.
She could’ve appeared to him as a beautiful maiden, forever young. But whenever he glanced at her, Hecate was always in her crone aspect, as if to hide her beauty from his plundering eyes. One day, when he had no rivals, Ares would make Hecate appear to him as he pleased. For now, he’d settle for some answers.

“Who is this latest man that Kyra has taken up with? Is he some wastrel musician? An undertaker? Another depressive poet?”

Hecate busied herself at the stove, rummaging through a tin of various elixirs. “This one is different. You might even approve. He’s an arms dealer.” An
arms dealer?
Ares felt his lips curve upward into the semblance of a smile. So, Kyra’s war-born nature was coming to the fore just as he’d always predicted. If it was the bloodlust that fueled her fascination for this mortal, perhaps he ought not interfere…. No, best not to chance it. “I’m going to kill him, whoever he is. Men are fickle creatures, and if she falls in love with him, you know what can happen.”

Hecate shuddered—actually shuddered—her hands going still on the handle of the teakettle. “I wouldn’t kill him if I were you.”

“Why not?” Ares came up behind her, and put his hand over hers on the handle of the teapot, which began to swiftly boil. The steam burned his fingers, too, but it was worth it to see the old crone in pain. He kept his voice low. “Don’t test me, Hecate. I can make every day of your very long life a torment. What aren’t you telling me about Kyra’s lover?”

In days past, he would never have dared to threaten Hecate. But now, she was weak. She reacted to him with fear, as she must. “Kyra has already fallen in love with him,” she whispered. “And if you kill him, in her grief, she may turn to dust on the wind. She’s a nymph. They—”

“Change!” Ares exploded, flinging the teapot off the stove where the boiling water hissed and fizzled against the tile floor. He didn’t need Hecate to lecture him on the nature of nymphs. He knew well what this could mean. “How could you let this happen?”

To her credit, Hecate looked genuinely remorseful. “It isn’t only mortals who come to crossroads in their lives, and Kyra’s always been one to forge her own path.”

“We’ll see about that,” Ares hissed. “Tell me where I can find them.”

Hecate shook her head, starting to back away, but he snatched her by the throat. “Oh, good, you plan to resist me…I don’t mind. Either you’ll submit to me now, or you’ll submit to me once I’ve boiled the flesh from your old bones and watched it grow again. But either way, you’re going to look into your tea leaves or gaze upon your crystal ball or resort to whatever witchery you must to tell me what I want to know. Where can I find Kyra and this lover of hers?”

Kyra had never been this far into the heart of Africa. The city of Kinshasa was a teeming sprawl of shantytowns and urban decay spreading along the banks of the Congo River. Matonge was the city’s party neighborhood, a tangle of traffic, tattered storefronts and dingy outdoor tables that passed for
restaurants. Prostitutes plied their trade, drunken men in tattered sneakers stumbled down the street to the music of Papa Wemba’s soukous band and pickpockets worked the crowd.

It felt wrong to be among the mortals without disguising herself; it would’ve made her feel less exposed to walk down the street naked. But if she came upon Marco, she wanted him to recognize her. She wanted him to see that she wasn’t hiding from him anymore. Or from herself.

The scent of grilled meat kabobs reminded Kyra that she was hungry, and she stopped at a vendor to buy a skewer. French was the official language of the country, so she held up Marco’s picture and asked, “
Avez-vous vu cet homme?
Have you seen this man?” It was twilight, and the vendor squinted over the smoke of his grill to look at the picture, then said no. “What about this man?” Kyra asked, showing him another photo of one of the many faces Marco wore. The vendor didn’t know that one, either, and Kyra was close to despair. It’d never been easy to find Marco, but she’d done it twice before. She could do it again, she told herself. She felt certain he would be here in the Congo.

The drumbeats from the rooftop of the nearby hotel called to her, an insistent throb at her temples. Guided by little but instinct, she made her way to the roof where revelers danced close together in the popular outdoor club. Laughter and flirting abounded, and Kyra was astonished to find that even in this country, amid the poverty and brutality, there were still pockets of city nightlife.

This mortal resilience of spirit was like a siren’s call to her. She ordered a beer, and pressed the cool bottle against her cheek when it came. Did she belong here, in this mortal world, all exposed, looking so human but not
quite?
Had the time for her kind passed? She stood out, and not simply because she was a nymph or because she was a lone white woman in Africa. She was also underdressed, wearing her
street clothes—a tank top and shorts—whereas the dancers wore their best, some in western dress, some in traditional African garb. The press of bodies reminded her of the first time she met Marco in Naples. How she slid into his lap and something had ignited between them so naturally that it ached to remember.

But she did remember. She remembered everything about him—even the shape of his soul, the way it looked when her inner torch illuminated it. So her heart leaped a little to see that same shape now. He was coming toward her. Marco was wearing another man’s face, black-skinned and curly-haired, but she knew him, and she tried not to look as happy to see him as she was.

“Has no one told you that it isn’t safe for beautiful women to be alone in this country?” he asked in French.

Kyra took a deep breath. He’d missed her; she could see it. “Good thing I’m not alone anymore, then.”

Marco sat down next to her. “So what brings you to our country?” he asked, affecting a perfectly authentic Congolese accent.

Kyra stared. What was Marco up to? Didn’t he realize she knew him? Didn’t he realize that as a nymph of the underworld, she could see through all his masquerades? Even if she had no powers at all, she seemed certain she’d know him by his voice alone. “I—I’m looking for someone,” Kyra stammered, her fingers drifting over the photo.

Marco glanced at it, then shrugged as if he didn’t recognize himself. “Forget about him. Dance with me instead.”

Kyra took a swallow of beer, trying to decide how to respond. Was he pretending for her benefit or was he hiding his identity because he was being watched? When he extended his hand to her, she took it, and let him pull her into the crowd of dancers. They swayed together, her ear against his chest where she heard his heartbeat louder than the drums. She liked the way his now-ebony fingers twined with her pale
ones, familiar and strange, but it didn’t matter whose skin he wore. The moment he touched her again, she knew they fit together, like the final piece of a puzzle sliding into place.

The last time they had been together like this, she’d been the one pretending. Now she was letting him see her true self, and feeling incredibly vulnerable. As if sensing it, he slid his arms around her as they danced. “The man I’m looking for,” Kyra whispered, afraid to break the spell. “Will you help me find him?”

Marco tilted her chin up so that she couldn’t look away. “What’s in it for me?”

“What do you want?” Kyra murmured, breathless as their thighs pressed together.

“I think you know what I want,” he said, stooping to kiss her. These lips were fuller than his real lips, but Kyra found the fiery kiss was the same.

Except for the strings of overhead party lights, it was dark, but people still danced around them and Marco was not discreet. He openly groped her. It was rude. Lewd. Inappropriate. Yet she didn’t stop him; after all, she cared little about mortal notions of propriety. She could only think that it wasn’t fair that she should want him this much, that she should be so easily swept away by mortal longings. But there was no point in pretending otherwise.

Even in the night air, perspiration pooled beneath her shirt, trickling over her tightening belly. She bumped her hips forward against him with every bang of the drum, losing herself in the rhythm. She groaned as he pulled her by the waist, forcing her to rub against his thigh. It was suddenly as if they were having sex, even though he wasn’t inside her, and there were clothes between them. He sensed it, too. “Are you going to come for me?” he whispered in her ear, like it was a dare, like he was driving her to it.

She shook her head and tried to pull away.

He held her fast. “Yes, you are. Right here, on the dance floor.”

“Don’t,” she said, but she couldn’t keep her hips still. The music was in her, and she couldn’t stop moving. Neither could he. Soon the thin fabric of her shorts was pressed tight between her legs. She was close to orgasm—so close. His mouth was at her neck and the muscles of his shoulders rippled beneath her hands. The drums seemed louder, pounding through her like galloping horses. His shirt was clinging to his chest with the heat of the night but he only grinded harder. He was as merciless, as relentless, as the drumbeat.

She was going to come right here in the middle of a crowd, and she couldn’t stop it. She didn’t
want
to stop it. When the explosion came, Kyra bit her lower lip and squeezed her eyes shut, sparks bursting beneath her eyelids. Her climax was sharp, almost as painful as it was pleasurable. She was glad that he was kissing her, so that she didn’t scream.

Wilting in the aftermath, she let him steady her and she slowly became aware of the other dancers. Her knees were weak and her breath erratic. The look he gave her was lurid. “If I help you find this man, will you go to bed with me?”

She didn’t trust herself to speak, so she simply took him by the hand. They went to the lobby where he paid for a hotel room. There could be no mistaking Marco’s intentions toward her—his hand was possessively at the small of her back. The desk manager smirked knowingly, and some part of Kyra wanted to wilt in embarrassment, but she was too far gone now for that.

Her nymph’s need, her fierce desperation to touch him, to be with him, was more than even Kyra’s pride could struggle against. She was, in the end, no different than Calypso, Echo or Clytie. No different than any other nymph, after all. And it was too late to stop.

The hotel room was nothing like the plush accommodations of Marco’s penthouse in Naples, but there was a clean bed, a
chair and a water basin. It was all they would need. His big hand was at the small of her back, arching her body toward him as he kissed her. His groans were urgent and filled with need.

I know it’s you, Marco.
The words were on her lips but now that they were alone, he could’ve taken on his own shape again. He could’ve told her why he was pretending to be someone else, but he didn’t. Maybe he wanted his revenge upon her for having fooled him before. Maybe he no longer felt safe with her in his own skin.

If she told him that she knew, would she break the spell? Would she lose him again? Surely she’d lose him sometime, but not now. Not now. For whatever reason, he wanted it to be this way, he wanted to take her this way, and she’d let him.

He sat her down on the mattress. But he didn’t cover her body with his the way she had expected. Instead, he pulled back, leaving her by herself on the bed while he sat across from her in the chair. “Now it’s my turn,” he said, his hand rubbing lightly between his legs. “I want to see you take off your clothes.”

Panting with the unexpected break in skin-to-skin contact, Kyra glared at him. He was trying to shame her. And maybe she deserved it. She wasn’t exactly dressed for a strip tease, but she unzipped her shorts and yanked them down her thighs, kicking them in his direction. He caught them in one hand, then laughed a rich laugh that reverberated down her spine. “Slowly,” he commanded.

Kyra narrowed her eyes, pulling her dark tresses behind her shoulders.
Fine
. He’d seen her face—her true face, her pale nymph’s face. It was time for him to see all of her, the real her. Kyra was taking off more than clothes for him; she was peeling away the protective layers she’d worn for centuries. She tried not to show how her hands trembled at the hem of her tank top. She tried to strip it off her body with bravado,
with the sensuous confidence she used to bring to all her sexual exploits. But for some reason, she hesitated.