Sword and Pen (The Great Library #5)(28)

He didn’t wait to confirm it, just swept out with his robe billowing behind like a storm cloud. Jess settled on the lounge chair and picked up the volume of Machiavelli again; he opened it to a random page and began to read, or at least run his stare over the cramped, precise handwriting. He understood none of it. Finally, he gave up the struggle and put the book down, sat up, and rested his head in both hands. He felt sick, hot, fragile, and he couldn’t afford this now. He wasn’t as good with waiting, alone with his thoughts, as he had been before. He needed to do, not think.

He used the mask again before he left the garden.

He found Anit in conversation with two of her own; both, he was mildly surprised to find, were women. Red Ibrahim seemed to have favored men in his gang of criminals, but perhaps Anit was changing that tune. All three of the women ceased their conversation when he entered, and two of them turned distrustful stares on him.

“I want weapons,” he said.

Anit shook her head. “You think we have better than High Garda issue?”

“High Garda issue will get me killed if I’m seen on the street with them out of uniform,” he said. “By either side. And I doubt your storehouses are any less well stocked than the High Garda’s, Anit.”

She hesitated only a second, then cut a look toward the taller of the two women—Nordic features, blond hair, brown eyes, tanned skin. The woman had her hair cut in a severely short style, which revealed a long scar that looped around the side of her head. At some point, she’d tattooed a striking snake over the scar. You could only see the image when she turned her head and it came clear. Effective. “Katja, take Jess to the armory. Let him have what he wants.”

Katja clearly didn’t favor that order, but she didn’t object, either; she gestured sharply to Jess and walked away down a dark hall, through a doorway, down a flight of steps. Belowground now. The hall they walked smelled of dust and damp stone, and when he touched it the wall felt colder than he expected. An aquifer ran close to here, he thought. That was why Red Ibrahim had chosen this house; he would want a private, protected source of freshwater, too. No doubt this stronghold—modest as it seemed—had a wealth of hidden treasures to recommend it.

At the end of the hallway, behind a heavy locked door, lay one of them. Jess had been to the High Garda armory—well, one of many—so the sight didn’t shock him. Anit didn’t have the same volume of weapons stored here, but the quality was superb. Not High Garda guns, though he spotted some here and there that definitely didn’t belong in private hands; no, these were clearly manufactured by civilian artisans to exacting specifications. He chose a long rifle; it settled warm and perfectly balanced into his hands, and he slung it over his shoulder and chose the ammunition that went into it. Long, elegant bullets. Anit’s weapons weren’t equipped with less lethal rounds. Good. He wouldn’t need them, not for this journey.

“That’s a good weapon,” Katja said. “You’re sure you know how to use it?”

“I’m trained High Garda.”

She sniffed. “As I said.”

He chose a sidearm, more ammunition. A knife. Considered a folding crossbow. “I like your tattoo.”

“I don’t care.”

“You do know I’m a Brightwell, don’t you?”

Katja looked him scornfully up and down. “All I see is a uniform,” she said. “But if Red Anit says you’re to be indulged, then I indulge. To a point.”

Some darker part of him found her attractive. No, not just attractive. She stirred something primal in him, and he realized that since the arena, he’d hardly thought of Morgan at all. Before that fight, he’d worried over her, wondered if they had a future together, hoped they did. But right now, in this moment, he wanted something else. Something bitter and carnal and very far from love.

Katja met his assessing gaze and smiled. It was a cold thing. “Don’t mistake me. I like a good shag as much as the next person,” she said. “But I’m not interested. And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll stop looking at me like a sweet cake you want to devour.”

Jess took a deep breath, let it out, and held her stare for a long few seconds. Not because he was trying in any way to threaten her; he knew that she was not someone he could threaten. Or beat, if it came to a fight. It would be foolish to even try.

But dear God, he wanted her. And he was ashamed and worried by that. “Sorry,” he said. “I’m not sure what I’m doing anymore.”

Katja laughed. It sounded like silk tearing. “Who is, Brightwell? Only fools are sure. The rest of us just do the best we can.”

He picked up the rest of what he thought he might need, including plain, sturdy clothing and a particularly interesting armored jacket, and ignored her as best he could. It didn’t work. She smelled like cinnamon and iron, a peculiar combination that made him want to know how she tasted, too. He hadn’t felt this for anyone but Morgan for a while. What was it Wolfe had said? Don’t believe what the demons whisper in the corners of your mind. His seemed to be particularly loud today.

He nearly flinched when suddenly her voice was at his ear, her breath warm against his skin. Nearly.

“If you’re changing out of that terrible uniform,” Katja said, “I might reconsider what I said.”

He turned to look. She was smiling. It was pure, wicked invitation, and he felt heat rush through his body, and blood rush straight to his groin. Damn her.