Chapter Eight

The hotel room was a full suite, much like the one they’d been in at the other end of the continent. Far above the ground, the balcony doors opened to give a fantastic view of the ocean. She couldn’t take her eyes off the waves, watching them sweep up and down over the sand.

They’d taken a private car from the airport to the hotel. The staff had welcomed Trace as if they’d just seen him a few days ago, giving them both card keys and notifying him that his usual room was ready. The desk clerk didn’t look at her askew, surprisingly—as if Trace always showed up with women at his side.

The reaction, or lack of it, grated on her for some reason.

She shrugged off the long leather coat, not necessary in this climate. The day was cool, the breeze coming in off the open balcony doors smelling of salt. In another time and place, she would have run down to the beach, kicked off her shoes, and danced in the waves.

But not now.

The heaviness on her heart grew as she spun from the sight and went to the closet to hang up the coat.

Trace sat down on the sofa and withdrew a map from his pocket. It unfolded to cover most of the glass tabletop in front of him and was clearly marked as Los Angeles.

He motioned her over. “Any chance you can give us a better location?” He nodded toward the bracelet. “Maybe now that we’re here, it’ll help narrow the search area.”

She sat beside him, drawing her fingers over the printed paper. “I can try.”

Closing her eyes, Laila reached for the quiet place inside—a meditation technique she’d perfected over the centuries. It’d worked well in New York City, opening herself up to the magical item’s natural abilities to seek out the cane.

But there was only black.

No…

Darkness.

A creeping shadow reaching out over her thoughts, choking the air from her lungs. A dark, foreboding sense of evil, of corruption and destruction.

The bracelet was cold against her skin, almost enough to burn with the icy grip. One last flare of frost and the sensation was gone, leaving only the metal behind.

The clouds in her mind twisted and swirled, reminding her of a winter storm.

There would be no help.

Laila opened her eyes, giving herself a shake to banish the last of the shadows from her mind.

She gasped as she found herself staring into Trace’s eyes, only a few inches separating them. His hands were on her shoulders, steadying her.

“You okay?” he whispered. “You were frowning…”

She glanced down at where her hand lay on the map. “Nothing this time. No indication of where we’re supposed to go.” She swallowed hard. “I don’t think we’ll get any more from the bracelet.”

He released her, the simple action triggering a sense of loss as cold air rushed in over where his warmth had been. For a split second, she considered asking him to touch her again, sear her skin with his mark.

The moment passed as Trace moved back out of her personal space. “Damn. Guess we’ll have to try to find it the old-fashioned way.” He eyed her. “You look a little frazzled around the edges.”

Laila rubbed her forehead. The temptation to tell him about the sense of doom invading her thoughts was strong—but how much should she tell him about Valhalla, about the other realms?

Better to keep it to herself for the time being.

“Just a headache. Using this takes a lot out of me.”

“Right, then.” He rose and moved toward the nearby desk, where his laptop sat. A few minutes later, it was open and running. A small black box sat next to the laptop, the lights blinking. Some sort of memory device, maybe.

“What are you doing?” She went to the kitchenette and opened the fridge door to find a generous stock of drinks, along with fresh fruits and vegetables. A cold bottle of water appealed to her more than anything else at this point. She took out two and approached the desk.

“Hooking into the local underground.” He jabbed at one final key before standing up. “There’s always business going on, people ‘liberating’ bits of this and that from other people on foreign trips and trying to sell items without getting caught.”

“That many?” She offered him one unopened bottle.

He took it, snapped off the lid, and drained half in a single long swallow.

She opened her own and sipped the cool water.

He let out a sigh before getting to his feet. “Sometimes the thieves aren’t real criminals—tourists pick up something overseas, bought in a back alley from a shady character because they want a piece of history. Problem is that their souvenir’s likely been stolen from a local museum—or worse, broken off a standing monument simply to make some money.”

Laila leaned on the counter and watched him stroll back and forth, the bottle tight in his grip.

This was his passion—she heard it in every syllable.

“A cute bauble from a foreign place and a lovely memento—until they clean house and decide to get rid of it. It’s too fancy to put out at a garage sale, so they do some research before they try to sell it, looking to make some money on eBay. Then they’re shocked at what they have, and they freak out.” He shook his head. “Sometimes they drop the item off at a police station with a note, sometimes at a museum. There’s no provenance, no way to find out where the relic came from. Even after research and identification, the item could be horribly, hopelessly scarred or mutilated.” An angry snort escaped. “Like those bastards blowing the lamassu up near Mosul. Those stone statues stood there from 700 B.C. until ISIS destroyed them a few years ago. If you don’t respect history, it sure as hell won’t respect you and tell you what it knows.”

“And what do you think the cane will tell you?”

He continued his pacing. “For one, what it was doing in the tomb in the first place. It’s a damned walking stick, from the look of it—not a quarterstaff, not a defensive weapon by any measure. Maybe it was a ceremonial gift, a fighting stick, something… We could carbon-date the wood, take X-rays.” He looked straight at her, eyes fiery with want and need. “We’d have the past in our hands, telling us her story.”

Laila blinked, a hot rush surging through her veins at the hungry stare. For a fleeting second, she wanted to confess her sins, tell him his dream would never be…

…and then the feeling passed, leaving her empty and sad.

A beep stopped Trace in his tracks, mid-rant. He plucked the phone out of his back jeans pocket.

“Excellent. Our reservation at the club is confirmed for tonight.” He grinned. “It’s a good start.”

“Club?” She blinked, her mind spinning. “What…”

“Jerry is my local contact—this is where we usually meet. I’ll introduce you, say you’re looking for some antiques… After that… maybe a few days before we get an invitation, if we’re lucky.”

“A few days?” She couldn’t keep the anger out of her voice. “We have to wait a few days?”

He gestured at the balcony and the ocean outside. “Jerry doesn’t do underground auctions every week. Usually three, four times a year depending on what he’s got to move.” His gaze went to the bracelet. “Unless you can coax a street address out of that, this is the only way we’re going to track down the cane.”

All she could do was walk out into the brisk breeze and try not to scream.

…

He knew an angry woman when he saw her. There didn’t have to be cursing and yelling, or throwing of breakable items and screaming.

That, he could handle.

This was the type of anger that struck fear into his heart, into most men’s hearts.

The cool, silent condemnation.

But there was nothing to be done. This was his world, not hers—not one she was familiar with, on a variety of levels.

He typed in a few text messages on the phone, made appointments, gave her the space she needed.

Until he couldn’t.

Trace edged his way onto the balcony, noting the way her hands gripped the wrought-iron railing. She stared out into the afternoon sun, her pale skin shining with a thin sheen of sweat. Her white blouse fluttered in the light wind.

He cleared his throat. “I’ve, ah… I’ve made arrangements for us to go shopping.”

She spun on one heel, so quickly he almost brought his hands up in defense. “What? Why?” She glanced down at her blouse and jeans. “So, what I’m wearing isn’t ‘appropriate’ to meet Jerry?”

“It’s not just you.” He gave her what he hoped was a sympathetic smile. “I’m in the same boat.” He paused, remembering their previous word play. “No, not a boat. Right. As you can see, I travel light.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward the room. “I usually buy what I need once I find out where I’ll be going. Tonight, it’s the nightclub. Then, hopefully, the auction.”

“Ah. You need a change of clothing…”

“As do you.” He enjoyed this verbal jousting, more than he should have, considering she was an unknown factor. “You can’t walk into these places wearing jeans.”

She put her hands on her hips, the simple move sending a rush of desire through him as he imagined his hands replacing hers, sliding down those lovely curves…

“Well, then. Do you have any recommendations as to what would be appropriate for these affairs?”

Trace allowed himself a smirk. “I just might…”

…

When they arrived at the boutique, she studied the window displays, eying the dresses and accessories with a scholar’s intensity.

“Does this meet your standards?” he joked, unable to take his eyes off her.

She glanced at him, one end of her mouth turning up as she smiled. “It’ll do.” Laila crooked a finger at him. “Come on.”

“As you wish,” he quipped, following her in.

As soon as they entered, she took over the store, pointing at the first saleswoman she saw and asking questions. The other customers ceded the boutique to her without comment, finishing up their purchases and leaving.

The sales clerk was shocked when she tried to bargain for a lower price, prompting a call for the manager. Trace grinned as she worked the store owner like a professional buyer, pointing out she was buying shoes and a purse as well. Mention of a second, more expensive dress sealed the deal.

It was easy to imagine her in another time and place, walking through the marketplace, wheeling and dealing to buy food and clothing.

Finally, Laila settled on a light red dress and matching shoes, the heels a respectable height—a whole discussion in itself about how impossible they’d be to walk in—and a second dress, this time in black, for casual wear. Both hugged her form in all the right places, thrilling Trace’s blood every time he saw her.

“I’m surprised you didn’t get them to throw the purses in for free.” He laughed as the salespeople packed up the bags.

She gave him a half scowl, half smile. “Don’t think I didn’t try. And what are you going to wear?” The twinkle in her eye made him laugh as he gathered the packages.

He tapped the back pocket of his jeans, the bulging wallet safe and sound. “My store is just down the street. Promise, I won’t embarrass you.”

“I doubt that could ever happen,” she replied in a soft, low voice.

It was hard to ignore the seductive tone, his libido already rising to the call.

They still had work to do—and the last thing he needed was to be emotionally or physically involved with an otherworldly being.

Trace cleared his throat. “Let’s get going. Don’t want to keep them waiting.”

A decent pair of boots, clean jeans, and his leather jacket had carried him around the world. Shopping for clothing might be necessary, but he didn’t enjoy it.

This time, however…

Laila made it different. She knocked his routine to the ground and kicked it halfway down the street.

She walked into the store and took it over, much as she had with the last one. A crook of her finger had the salesmen rushing to help her, accepting her domination without comment. He sat on the couch and waited as Laila walked through the store with a measured pace, studying the colors and fabrics. She pointed at the ties, the salesmen nodding their approval as she matched shirts and neckwear with little effort—something he’d never been able to manage without help.

“I told you my parents were merchants,” she said as Trace headed into the changing room, his arms filled with shirts and ties. “They knew the value of good cloth and colors.” A hand flip had one of the men returning a salmon-colored shirt to the display table, the offer declined. “And what worked.”

He wanted to dispute her, but he couldn’t—because every color selection, every tie choice was perfect.

It was… embarrassing.

But it made her smile, and he realized with a shock as he changed back into his street clothes—he wanted to make her smile.

Be careful, he warned himself.

She’s only here for the cane—not for you, not for anything else.

The thought burned in his gut, pulling him back down to earth. She was here for the same reason he was—a job. Nothing more, nothing less.

And yet…