Ceremony in Death (In Death #5)(31)

“No.” She hissed out a breath, then leaned forward and kissed him. “Thanks, either way.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Next, I have to hit The Athame tonight, check a guy out.” She saw the flicker in his eyes, the tensing of his jaw. “I’d like you to go with me.” She had to bite her tongue to keep from snickering when he narrowed those eyes at her.

“Just like that? It’s police business, but you’re not going to make an issue out of it?”

“No, first because I think you might be helpful, and second because it saves time. We’d argue about it, and you’d just go, anyway. This way, I ask you to come and you go, understanding I’m in charge.”

“Clever of you.” He took her hand and drew her to her feet. “Agreed. But after dinner. I missed lunch.”

“One more thing. Why did you have a Celtic symbol of protection carved into my wedding ring?”

He felt the jolt of surprise, covered it smoothly. “Excuse me?”

“No, you weren’t quick enough that time.” It pleased her that she’d spotted that minute and masterfully covered awareness. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. One of our friendly neighborhood witches tagged it today.”

“I see.” Caught, he realized, and he stalled by lifting her hand to examine the ring. “It’s an appealing design.”

“Don’t bullshit me, Roarke. I’m a professional.” She stepped in until their eyes were level again. “You buy into it, don’t you? You actually buy all this hocus-pocus.”

“It’s not a matter of that.” He fumbled and knew it when she furrowed her brow.

“You’re embarrassed.” Her brow cleared in surprise and amusement. “You’re never embarrassed. By anything. This is weird. And kind of sweet.”

“I’m not embarrassed.” Mortified, he decided, but not embarrassed. “I’m simply… not entirely comfortable explaining myself. I love you,” he said and stilled her muffled chuckle. “You risk your life, a life that’s essential to me, just by being who you are. This…” He brushed his thumb over her wedding band. “Is a small and very personal shield.”

“That’s lovely, Roarke. Really. But you don’t really believe all that magic nonsense.”

His gaze lifted, and as twilight turned to night, his eyes glinted in the dark. Like a wolf’s, she thought.

And it was a wolf, she remembered, she was to trust.

“Your world is relatively small, Eve. You couldn’t call it sheltered, but it’s limited. You haven’t seen a giant’s dance, or felt the power of the ancient stones. You haven’t run your hand over the Ogham carving in the trunk of a tree petrified by time or heard the sounds that whisper through the mist that coats sacred ground.”

Baffled, she shook her head. “It’s, what, an Irish thing?”

“If you like, though it’s certainly not limited to a single race or culture. You are grounded.” He ran his hands up her arms to her shoulders. “Almost brutal in your focus and your honesty. And I’ve lived, let’s say, a flexible life. I need you, and I’ll use whatever comes to hand to keep you safe.” He lifted the ring to his lips. “Let’s just call it covering the bases.”

“Okay.” This was a new aspect of him it would take time to explore. “But you don’t have, like, a secret room where you dance around naked and chant?”

He tucked his tongue in his cheek. “I did, but I turned it into a den. More versatile.”

“Good thinking. Okay, let’s eat.”

“Thank God.” He took her hand and tugged her toward the house.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The Athame slicked a high-gloss sheen over depravity, like the baby-kissing smile on a corrupt politician. One scan convinced Eve she’d have preferred to spend an evening in a low-level dive, smelling stale liquor and staler sweat.

Dives didn’t bother with disguises.

Revolving balconies of smoky glass and chrome trim ringed the main level in two tiers so that those who preferred a loftier view could circle slowly and check out the action. The central bar speared out in five points, and each was crowded with patrons perched on high stools fashioned to resemble optimistically exaggerated body parts.

A couple of women decked out in micro skirts sat spread-legged on a pair of bulging, flesh-toned cocks and laughed uproariously. A skinheaded bar surfer checked them out by prying his hand down their snug blouses.

All the walls were mirrored, and they pulsed with cloudy red lights. Some of the tables flanking the dance floor were tubed for privacy, some were smoked so that silhouettes of couples in various states of fornication wavered against the glass to entertain the crowd, and all were coated with a shiny black lacquer that made them resemble small, dark pools.

On a raised platform, the band pumped out harsh and clever rock. Eve wondered what Mavis would think of their wildly painted faces, tattooed chests, and black leather codpieces studded with silver spikes. She decided her friend would probably have dubbed them mag.

“Do we sit?” Roarke murmured in her ear, “or case the joint?”

“We go up,” she decided. “For the overview. What’s that smell?”

He stepped onto the auto-stairs with her. “Cannabis, incense. Sweat.”