She would have cursed him, but she had only herself to blame for the weakness. So many things would’ve been different in her life if she could’ve found a way to be happy alone, if she could’ve been enough for herself. Her ex, Saul, might not have been kind when he’d accused her of clinging too hard, of needing too much, but he’d been right. Even her ill-advised trip into the rain forest had been a quest for her father’s posthumous approval. And yesterday? Michael had told her he’d come looking for her, that he and his friends needed her, and she’d fallen right in with his plan of hiding until reinforcements arrived. Then, somehow, they’d wound up making love. And for a few moments, she hadn’t been alone. The sex had been flat-out, earthshaking, tooth-rattling amazing. More, it had made her feel powerful, as though she’d finally taken something for herself after too many months of having things taken from her. Yet it had to have been a huge mistake. Even though the dreams made him seem more familiar than he ought to, she didn’t know him, really. She thought she’d glimpsed something dark and angry in him the day before, something that reminded her too much of Ambrose on a bad day. And although it had been for just a second, and he’d gotten it under control just as quickly as it had flashed, it had been in there. She was sure of it.
Not to mention that she was still a freaking prisoner. She was someplace different from before; that much was evident in the makeshift cell outfitted with a narrow camping cot, a portable toilet, and a small bookshelf that held a couple of paperbacks and a six-pack of bottled water. Still, though, it was a cell.
When he didn’t say anything, just stood there staring at her, she tossed aside the light blanket and stood, squaring off opposite him, barefoot, in a fighter’s ready position matching his own. Then she lifted her chin in challenge and fixed him with a look. “Well?”
Finally, he let out a long, slow breath and said, “Glad to see you’re awake. You had us worried.”
“Us?” She didn’t let on that she’d been playing possum for the past hour, that she’d seen at least two others checking up on her, a tall, rawboned blonde and a smaller, darker man with gray-streaked hair pulled back in a ponytail much like the one Ambrose had worn. “And where are we?”
“There are a couple dozen of us in residence here, give or take. And you’re at Skywatch. Our training compound.” He paused. “How much do you remember about what happened last night?”
“I . . . I don’t know,” she said, buying time while her thoughts churned. I remember that you’re just as bad as Ambrose and Iago, she thought with a flash of anger that cut through the sensual pull that seemed to anchor her body to his. I know you believe in the same shit they do, and you think I’m somehow part of it. More, you had me convinced there for a few minutes.
Granted, her jumbled memories contained splashes of the inexplicable. How had he found her? How had they avoided being seen by the gray-robes? What the hell was the deal with that curtain of glittering light? How had he knocked her out again without even touching her?
But now that she’d slept off whatever had been in the incense, she’d returned to rationality. They had to be using drugs of some sort, she thought. And some special effects to make the magic seem real.
Panic spiraled, bringing a prickle of sweat to her skin, though the room was cool. What the hell kind of rabbit hole had she fallen into? Who were these people? They were Ambrose’s kind of people, she knew. And she had to get the hell out of there. It didn’t matter that they thought they were the good guys. They were still insane, still dangerous. I’ve got to get out of here, she thought. But how? Step one seemed obvious. She needed to get free from her cell and figure out where she was. Iago’s labyrinth had proved to be too much for her, but her current accommodations looked to be a converted storeroom. What if the rest of her prison was similarly makeshift?
Scattered thoughts coming together into a plan of sorts, she said, “You want to know where Ambrose hid the library.”
Michael stilled. “You know we do.”
She lifted her chin, trying not to let the nerves show. “How about we make a deal? I’ll tell you everything I know about it, on one condition.”
“Which is what—a ticket back to Boston and a vow that we’ll forget you exist?” he asked dryly.
She tamped down the kick of excitement brought by the impossible offer. “If you promised me that, I’d know you were lying.” She shook her head. “No, no plane ticket. Let’s go with straight-up barter instead. You get me out of here and into a kitchen, hook me up with some fresh ingredients, and I’ll answer your questions.”
His gorgeous eyes went blank for a moment. She’d surprised him. Good.
“That’s your demand?” he asked after a moment. “You want to cook?”
She shrugged. “You’ve looked into my background, so you know that’s what I do—I cook. I cook when I’m happy or sad, when I’m celebrating with friends or all alone with my thoughts. Cooking is my outlet, one of my greatest pleasures.” When the word stirred the physical memory of another, greater pleasure, she hurriedly continued, “I haven’t been in a kitchen or touched real food in nearly a year. So, yeah. That’s the trade. You give me an hour in a kitchen, I’ll you what I know about the library.”
A true warrior might not have gone for the pots and pans as her first demand, but she’d never pretended to be a warrior, despite Ambrose’s claims otherwise—and his last brutal attempt to prove those claims. She was who she was, nothing more. And in this stupid, screwed-up situation where everybody had the power except her, she needed, for a few moments, anyway, to pretend she was back in her own world. More, she needed to get the hell out of the cell, and a kitchen was a fine place to start.
Michael held her gaze for a moment. Then he nodded slowly. “Let me talk to the others. I’ll see what I can do.”
“I’ll be here,” she said blandly.
He looked at her a moment more, then turned with fluid grace and headed for the door, where he paused and said something under his breath. She assumed it was some sort of secret password, one that cued a guard on the other side of the door to unlock it, far preferring the idea of a password over the suspicion that he’d been casting a “spell” to let him through, sort of a Nightkeepers’ “open sesame.”
Once he was gone, she prowled her cell, trying to remember everything she could about the Nightkeepers. Her childhood had been filled with stories of the powerful magi, their rules and responsibilities. Their talents. Their magic. She knew their legends, knew what drove them. At least, assuming that Michael and his fellow de lusionals were buying into the same set of stories Ambrose had taught her. The question was, how could she use that information? How could she—
The lock rattled, interrupting her midthought. The panel swung inward and her pulse accelerated as she braced herself for bad news and the need to come up with a plan B.
Michael stood in the opening, filling the doorway with his body, filling the room with his presence.
Instead of coming in, though, he stepped aside. And waved her out into the hallway beyond.
Pulse bumping, she moved toward him, then stalled. “Seriously?” It wasn’t until that moment that she realized she hadn’t expected her new captors to give in to her demand. It made her suspicious that they had. “What’s the catch?”
“No catch.” He lifted a shoulder. “Sometimes you’ve got to offer trust in order to get it in return.