“What are you doing here? How did you find me? And what problem?”
Denal grinned. “One question at a time. I’m here because Prince Conlan sent me. I found you because I could feel your presence on the Atlantean mental pathway, even though you weren’t answering me, and the problem is something we probably shouldn’t discuss in public.”
Denal glanced around curiously. “What are you doing here anyway?”
“Browsing,” Christophe said dryly. “This fairy book is great. Fast-paced, lots of suspense. Later I might go for ice cream.”
He grabbed Denal’s arm and steered him out of the path of the doorway as the crowd began to filter out, signed books clutched in tiny fingers. “Look, it’s a long story and I’ll have to tell you later. Now you have to leave. Meet me tonight. I’ll contact you. In the meantime, go play tourist and find out anything you can about the Scarlet Ninja.”
Denal looked like he might protest, but Christophe outranked him, so he finally nodded and left the store. Christophe turned and found Fiona staring at him, her lovely eyes narrowed. Probably suspicious, now that she’d caught him conspiring. Of course, she thought he was a criminal, which was almost funny, coming from the Scarlet Ninja, but there were criminals and then there were criminals. He had a feeling she didn’t place him in the high-minded category.
But she’d slept with him, so maybe . . . maybe nothing. Maybe she slept with all the criminals she met. A sheet of red-hot rage blurred his vision for a few seconds, and when it passed he stood stock-still, in shock.
Was that jealousy?
Jealousy?
Not possible. Not once in his centuries of existence had he felt such a stupid, worthless emotion. Jealousy was for fools and suckers, and he was neither. She could have sex with anybody she wanted—and he’d kill any man who touched her.
The force of the threat—no, the sure certainty—in his mind rocked him back on his heels. She was dangerous. She was setting him off-balance in the worst way and causing him some sort of insane mental illness. Jealousy. Thoughts of brutal, bloody murder for any man who dared to touch her.
He needed to get away from her. Now. Get the Siren and get out of London and never have anything to do with any ninjas for the rest of his life.
“Christophe?” She called his name from the table where she still stood, chatting with a few customers. “Do you have a moment?”
It was now or never. He was closer to the door than to her. He needed to get the hells away from her in case this madness or magic she’d infected him with could somehow become permanent if he stayed near her any longer.
Now or never.
No.
Every fiber of his being rebelled against the idea. He was Christophe of Atlantis, more magically powerful than any in the Seven Isles except for—possibly—the high priest. He could handle one problematic female whose only real magic was bending light—well, unless he counted the enchanting effect of her enormous blue eyes. He took a last, long, rueful glance at the door and then started toward her, wondering if, somewhere, the gods were laughing.
The bell tinkling as the door opened was his only warning before a woman rushed past him into the store, crashing into him so hard he spun halfway around and had automatically started to reach for his daggers, when he realized the elderly, if rather stout, woman posed no obvious threat. He caught her as she teetered and almost fell.
“He’s done it,” she blurted out, gasping for breath, her face red. “The Scarlet Ninja’s gone and robbed the Tower of London.”
Christophe released her. Fiona stumbled to a halt in the middle of the shop, staring at the woman as if she had three heads.
“What? Are you sure?” Fiona said.
Christophe caught her gaze almost before the words were out of her mouth, and he shook his head almost imperceptibly. She didn’t want to be remembered by anyone in this crowd for asking about the Scarlet Ninja.
On the other hand, what normal person wouldn’t? He followed up. “Where did you hear that?”
The woman put her hand over her heart and struck a pose, thrilled to be the center of attention for such dramatic news. “It’s in the papers. Not only that, but he stole old William the Conqueror’s sword, what was called Vanquish, don’t you know, and he killed three guards to do it.”
Every person in the room burst out into excited and shocked babbling as Christophe, with as much courtesy as he could muster, cleared a path to Fiona. She simply stood, an island of quiet in the noise, the blood draining from her face. “It’s not true,” she whispered when he reached her. “You know it’s not true.”
“I know. I also know we need to find out what is true.” He took her hand, almost without realizing it, as a sudden and unexpected need to protect her from this and any danger rose hot and deadly inside him. “Somebody has raised the stakes. We need to find out who and where, and then we’ll get it back.”
Her lips quirked a little in an almost-smile that just as quickly faded. “Oh, that’s all, is it? Glad I have you around to point out how easy this all is. But that’s not the only problem here.”
The woman who’d brought the news wasn’t done. “BBC called him Scarlet Ninja the Bloody and said Scotland Yard is making this a top priority.”
The words “Scarlet Ninja the Bloody” swept through the room, increasing the excited chatter tenfold in intensity, and Fiona turned even more pale. Christophe scanned the room for a quick way out, and Declan, entering from the back door and looking around the room in surprise, gave him an answer.
“I think this subject is not quite appropriate for the children,” Christophe said to the shop owner as she approached.
“Quite right. Quite right.” She clapped her hands. “Now, everyone, let’s leave the dreadful crime gossip outside the store, shall we? Lady Fiona must be on her way. Shall we give her a warm thank-you?”
“Thank you, Lady Fiona,” the children dutifully intoned, and even some of the parents chimed in.
“You’re welcome. I’ve loved being here,” Fiona replied, gracious and poised even in the face of what Christophe knew to be severe distress. His admiration of her went up a few notches. She’d make a damn fine warrior, cool under pressure.
Declan took charge and hurried them all out of the store, murmuring things about another engagement, so sorry, must be off, in his charming way, and within minutes they found themselves in the car, once more in the horrible nightmare the Londoners called traffic. Fiona leaned forward to talk to the driver, who’d started glaring at Christophe again the minute they stepped foot in the car.
“Sean, take us to the Tower of London.”
“Now? You want to play tourist with him?” Sean’s eyes narrowed as he stared a threat in the rearview mirror, and Christophe’s very limited supply of patience wore out.
He leaned forward and spoke softly, so no one else in the car would hear. “Look, boy, I don’t know and I don’t care where this attitude is coming from, but Fiona is not in the best of moods, so why don’t you shut up and do what you’re told? You and I can have it out later.”
Sean made a low growling noise in his throat, but after catching sight of Christophe’s eyes, which were almost certainly glowing, he swallowed whatever retort he’d planned to make and pointed the car toward the Tower.
“There’s been very bad news, Sean,” Fiona said. She told him what the woman had said, and Sean immediately flipped on the radio.
The newscaster was in the middle of the story: “—sometime before dawn. The Tower Guard say they have proof the Scarlet Ninja was involved, since he left his trademark calling card at the scene. Officials are refusing to speculate why the Scarlet Ninja would take Vanquish and nothing else. We’ll keep you up-to-date as more details are released and we’ll be live on the scene in thirty minutes when Lord Fairsby gives a press conference on-site. In other news—”