Doomsday Can Wait (Phoenix Chronicles, #2)(58)

Sawyer glanced up from his handful of grass and pinecones—I mean granola. "I told you, she wants my power."

And the only way for her to get it was to seduce him to her side or kill him and remove it from ours. "Still not seeing why she hasn't hit you with a lightning bolt or something."

"She's not ready to give up on bringing me to her point of view."

I went into the bathroom and poured coffee into two Styrofoam cups. His words made me uneasy. I didn't see the woman of smoke as the eternal-optimist type, which only meant there was a better than average chance that Sawyer would turn traitor.

Hell, I should probably kill him. But I still didn't know how.

I returned to the main room and handed Sawyer his coffee.

"I'm not going to help her," he said softly.

Sawyer insisted that he didn't read minds, he read faces, and mine was easy, but sometimes I wondered.

"You think after what she did to me that I could?" he continued.

I held his gaze, saw nothing there but honesty, which I didn't trust because I didn't think he knew what honesty was. And while I really couldn't blame him for not knowing—evil spirit bitches were notorious liars— I needed more of an answer than just another question.

"Jimmy said you aren't a member of the federation, that you only train DKs and seers for money."

"So?"

"The 'If you aren't with us you're against us' adage works for you, too."

"Where am I now if not with you?"

"Question with a question," I muttered. He ignored me.

"You say you won't join the woman of smoke, but what about other leaders who've come and gone, did you join them? Would you join a promising up-and-comer in the future?"

He took a sip of his coffee. "Hard to say."

I resisted the urge to stomp my foot and throw something. He could be so damned annoying.

The man who'd touched my face, kissed my hair, who'd held me last night was gone, and that was probably for the best.

I'd wanted to show him that sex could mean something, and maybe I had. Maybe that was why he was behaving the way he was. Neither one of us could afford to get attached. Most likely we were both going to die.

War was hell; in the case of Armageddon, the cliche was going to be literal.

"Let's get out of here before your mo—" His eyes narrowed. "Before she comes knocking."

I took the bag that held what I assumed were my new clothes, considering the tank top with the flowers and the white denim shorts, then went into the bathroom where I'd left my duffel. Ten minutes later I returned, dressed, brushed, and packed.

Sawyer sat on the bed, also in shorts, though his were khaki, and a white wife-beater T-shirt. On his feet he wore brown huaraches sandals that matched the white ones on my own feet. If not for the tattoos he might look like a tourist.

I snorted. Sawyer could never, under any known circumstances, resemble a tourist. Instead, he resembled a member of the New Mexico branch of the Hell's An-gels who'd lost his knapsack and been forced to shop at Wal-Mart. Which was damn close to the truth if you took Hell's Angel in the literal sense.

We each brought another cup of coffee along for the ride, tossed our bags in the backseat, and I slid behind the wheel. Sawyer never asked where we were going— until I turned off the freeway and then down Carla's street.

"Wait—" He put his hand up, palm facing the windshield, as if he could make the road in front of us disappear.

I cast an uneasy glance at the pavement, but it was still there.

"Ruthie said I should talk to Carla again. Ask her how to kill your— Woman of smoke."

"She isn't mine," he muttered as I pulled up to the curb.

I had a strange thought. What if Sawyer had been wigged last night by whatever Carla had done instead of by his mother's attempted seduction? Anything that could overshadow that was something I didn't want to hear about but probably should.

"Sawyer," I began, but he got out of the car and strode up the walk.

I hurried after. He didn't knock, just tried the door and, when it wouldn't open, put his palm up again like before and—



Bam!

Open it went, flying back so hard it smacked against the wall with a crunch. He hadn't punched it; I don't think he'd even touched it.

"Hey!" I called, but he disappeared inside.

Sawyer was quick, but I was quicker, thanks to Jimmy. I arrived right on his heels, surprised when a dark-haired young woman appeared in the hall.

I glanced at Sawyer's face. Funny. He wasn't surprised.

The girl was tiny and slim, with olive skin and long black hair. She wasn't pretty; her nose was unfortunate, her eyes too small and too light against the sallow skin of her face, but she gave off a lively energy that reminded me of someone I couldn't quite place.

"Back so soon?" she asked.

I knew that voice.





CHAPTER 22


I spun toward Sawyer, who met my gaze with his usual infuriating calm.

"What did you do?" I demanded.

The benandanti—turned young overnight, or perhaps turned young last night—laughed her joyous laugh. "Payment must be made, Elisabetta, or the spell would not work."