Strange and Ever After (Something Strange and Deadly #3)(54)

Daniel. My Daniel.

One-two-three. He whisked me through the grass, past fallen columns, beneath wide sycamore limbs. One-two-three.

We left the ruins behind. Spinning. Stepping. Smiling. Until at last Daniel twirled me once, my skirt swirling out, and then . . . he stopped. And the only sound was our rhythmic breaths and the wind shimmying through the grass.

His eyes ran over my face. Then he barked a low laugh.

“What?” I asked, unable to look away from him.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” he said quietly. “You, lookin’ like this . . . and being with me.”

“And standing in the middle of an Egyptian wheat field.”

“Yeah.” He nodded slowly and wet his lips. “I never thought I would be this lucky. Not a fellow like me.”

“A fellow like you,” I said, lifting my hands to grab his collar. “Which is what?”

His lips curved into a half smile. “I believe you once called me a scalawag.”

“Then I suppose it’s good I like scalawags.” I rose onto my toes and brought my lips almost to his.

He stayed quiet. Frozen. If he spoke . . . if he breathed, our mouths would touch—and it would be over the cliff for us.

He knew it. I knew it. Magical moments like this did not happen every day. They meant something. They changed something, and once we crossed this line, there would be no going back.

And then his mouth moved. He spoke one word: “Yes.” Our lips grazed, our breaths mingled, and we fell utterly and completely into each other.

Slow. Determined. Unflinching.

Our bodies moved together, our lips feasted, and the grass around us vanished. My fingers explored the shape of him—the muscles in his back, the bones of his hips . . . the power of his thighs. And his hands roamed fiercely—hungrily—over every inch of me.

For the minutes or hours or years we spent tumbling into each other, I shared everything I had with Daniel—my Daniel.

And he shared back.

But as always happened, our dream came to an end. When Joseph shouted for Daniel to get the balloon inflated, Daniel had to disentangle himself from my limbs, my skirts, my fingers. And the instant he pulled away, I wanted him back. I wanted his mouth, his hands, his strength back . . . but I understood he was needed elsewhere.

And I understood we had our entire lives to drown in each other. We had started something—together—and there was no taking it back.

So I gave Daniel a lingering, full kiss, and I sent him on his way. Then I lay back in the grass and stared up at the moon. I was not ready for sleep—not yet. I wanted to savor this night. Replay every moment in my head.

For it had been perfection.

Wind caressed me. I turned my head to the side and caught sight of the obelisk. It gleamed like a knife, and behind it, the balloon was just starting to inflate.

I climbed to my feet, not even bothering to dust off my gown. There was no salvaging it at this point, and it had served its purpose.

Then, in a dreamlike haze, I wandered toward the obelisk. Something about it called to me. When I reached its base, I craned my head back and stared up to its tip.

This carved granite had stood here, inflicting awe, for thousands of years. It was ancient. As immortal as my demon.

At the thought of Oliver, the obelisk seemed to flicker—to drift mistily before me like a beam of clouded sunlight—and I had an urge to explore the monument more closely. To trace the hieroglyphs and try to decode its secrets. . . .

“A perfect night, huh?”

I jolted around. Oliver stood only paces away, his yellow eyes bleary and flask in hand. He tipped back a swallow and listed to one side.

I frowned. “You’re drunk.”

“Yes,” he admitted. “I believe I consumed enough zabib to kill a small donkey.”

I sniffed and turned back to the obelisk.

Oliver stalked in closer. “I need to speak with you.”

“Speak to me when you are sober.” I planted my hands on the cool granite and stared back to the top.

“Or . . .” Oliver paused beside my outstretched arms. His eyes seemed silver in this light. “I will speak to you now.” His lips curled back. “There is something we need to . . . discuss.”

“And what is that?” I asked in an indifferent tone.

“Tomorrow, at the pyramids, I cannot find the Old Man.”

I stiffened, then slowly dragged my hands down the smooth granite. “What,” I growled, “do you mean?”

“You must find him.” He slipped into the space between me and the obelisk. “Remember how Jacques Girard called you pharaon?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I was puzzled by it. Pharaon. Pharaoh.” He licked his lips as if tasting the word. The breeze twined through his hair, brushing strands onto his forehead. Into his eyes.

He did not seem drunk now. He seemed poised. Dominant. Demon. His legs slid into a slow, predatory gait around me.

“You are not even male,” he murmured, his gaze roving up and down the length of me as he paced. “So why would Girard label you with such a title?”

“I don’t know,” I said, keeping my eyes firmly ahead. I would not let Oliver take control of this moment.

“Well, I asked Girard that question.” Oliver stalked behind me and then leaned in toward my ear. “Imagine my surprise,” he whispered, “when he said you carry an artifact. An imperial artifact that marks you as pharaoh.”