The Wicked (Elder Races #5.5)(9)

Various pieces of information fell into place. Grace Andreas was the Oracle, a position that came with an inherited Power, which was passed down from an ancient line of humans that could be traced all the way back to the Oracle of Delphi. The young Oracle’s reputation was growing at a rapid pace. Recently she had become affiliated with Carling and Rune’s consulting agency.

In fact, Carling had suggested that he petition the Oracle about the problem of his curse, but he had been too disheartened by their conversation to follow through with her advice.

He didn’t see how a prophecy from the Oracle could help him. The Oracle could only tell him what he already knew, that he would become totally blind within the next twelve months if he didn’t find some way to stop what was happening to him. He had sent a dozen teams into various parts of the world to try to find ways to break the goddamned curse, which, according to Carling, was a massively expensive, futile effort. But he could no longer leave any avenue unexplored, so he needed to consult with the Oracle as soon as he finished this latest expedition.

He set his own issues aside for the time being to consider what else he knew that was relevant to the success of this expedition. Djinn rarely became intimately involved with anyone outside their own race, and Grace’s relationship with the Djinn Khalil of the House Marid had become famous.

And Sebastian had heard a thing or two about Khalil’s daughter.

He frowned. I do not understand what made Carling bargain away a favor for help from a Djinn who is reputed to be a pariah.

Olivia’s gaze fell. She appeared to concentrate on running a forefinger precisely along the edge of the table. His attention sharpened on the movement. Her fingernails were trimmed short, the nail bed of her forefinger a healthy pink.

He thought of her doing the exact same gesture, only this time running her finger down his bare skin. The skin along his back prickled lightly with goose bumps, and his breathing deepened.

He set his reaction aside and focused on what was relevant. You know something about the bargain.

She shook her head. It’s not my place to say anything. Anyway, it isn’t any of our business.

Everything to do with this expedition is my business, he told her. You might as well tell me. Otherwise, I’ll call Carling and ask her about it. She’ll tell me everything I want to know, so don’t waste my time.

Her gaze lifted again, and the exasperation was back, only this time it was directed at him. All right, maybe he smiled at that. Just a little.

Carling didn’t bargain away a favor for Phaedra’s help, she said. Khalil bargained away a favor to Carling to give Phaedra a job.

Well, he hadn’t seen that one coming. He let his head sag back against the seat rest as he muttered, “Fuck.”

Hey, Olivia said. She leaned forward, looking earnest. Give her a chance. I know she’s not very likeable, and she certainly isn’t housebroken. But Grace and Khalil have invested a lot in her rehabilitation, and Carling would never have agreed to the bargain if she thought Phaedra wouldn’t hold up her end of things. Plus, she backed down when you confronted her. She’s here on the plane, isn’t she? That’s because she made a promise to her father, and keeping her word matters to her. She’s not a pariah. She’ll do her job.

He regarded her steadily, unconvinced. He was more than halfway inclined to boot Phaedra off the team and insist that Carling bargain for another Djinn to guard the passageway while they worked.

Then, suddenly curious, he asked, Why does this matter so much to you? You certainly don’t sound as if you like her much, yourself.

She ran her fingers through her hair, clearly at a loss as to what to say. As he waited without prompting her, his gaze traveled down the angle of her neck, along the graceful arch of her collarbones, and farther down to the hint of cle**age at the scooped neckline of her shirt.

Something about her moved him. He could not figure out what it was. He’d always enjoyed women, and he had lost count of how many lovers he had taken by the time he was forty. Now he was over two hundred years old, and his species of Wyr did not live much past two hundred and fifty.

She was just another woman, like countless others. He knew without having ever seen them that her br**sts would be charming, with either pink ni**les or brown, and the indentation of her waist would fit perfectly underneath his hands. The skin at the back of her knees would taste delicate against his tongue, and her private flesh would be sumptuous, delightful.

None of that was surprising, and certainly none of it was original.

Perhaps what moved him was the composition of her curvaceous body against the straight architecture of the seat, or the contrast of how her pale skin looked dappled in shadow and the slanted sunlight from the nearby window. Or perhaps it was something different altogether, a secret of the spirit encased in her flesh. Or even her struggle to provide a thoughtful reply to his question. Perhaps it was simply her intelligence.

Then she dropped her hands from her hair and folded them on the table. Something coalesced in her, a decision or an understanding. She looked in the direction of his eyes, hidden behind his sunglasses. With her expression quiet and composed, she said, Because she loves a couple of vulnerable human children. And because if I were deemed a lost cause, as she has been, I would want someone to fight for me.

That was it, he thought. Whatever that was, encapsulated in the moment of decision and framed by her words.

That was what caught at him and held his interest, that intangible, ineffable thing.