skin.
“Let me see,” she said, touching the hand that pressed the towel to his face.
“No,” he said hoarsely.
“Don’t be a child, Sebastian,” she said in her low and smoky voice. “Neither of us is as pretty as we used to be. Life and time are monsters and they gnaw at us.”
She kissed the back of his hand and then tugged lightly at the towel.
“Please don’t …”
But Gault knew from too many years and too many encounters that Lady Eris could not be told no. She kissed his hand and tugged, and finally he yielded, as he had always yielded to her. She tossed the towel aside and touched his chin, turning his face toward her. Her sea green eyes took in everything, missed nothing. The smile on her parted lips never wavered as each of the bruises and surgical scars was revealed.
“This will heal,” she said softly.
“Not all of it.”
She touched the crow’s-feet at the corners of her eyes, then drifted her fingertips across her throat. “Neither will this. But only fools and mortals worry about these things.”
“You aged; I melted,” he said as she moved even closer. Her full breasts brushed the naked skin of his stomach. “Surely that’s proof of mortality.”
“No,” she said as she plucked the strings of her bikini. The pieces fell away except for the triangle that had covered her left breast, which was momentarily held in place by the pressure of one taut nipple against the rippled muscles of his abdomen. “No,” she said again, “we’re not mortals.”
She kissed his mouth, his cheek, the corner of his eye, her breath furnace hot against the crooked lines of his scars.
“We’re gods,” she whispered.
Gault suddenly pulled her to him, crushing her against his chest, her softness pressed to him, his hardness pressed to her, the steam swirling around them both. Her lips and hungry hands were everywhere, touching him, stroking him, guiding him toward wetness.
“Gods,” he breathed.
And then they both cried out together as two gods became one.
Interlude Fifteen
T-Town, Mount Baker, Washington State
Three and a Half Months Before the London Event
Circe tried not to fidget as Maj. Grace Courtland, Mr. Church’s top field agent and one of Circe’s closest friends, read through the Goddess Report.
Grace was slim and fit and was known throughout the counterterrorism community as the Iron Maiden. It wasn’t an insult. Grace was a top-of-the-game shooter for the DMS, which made her the best of the best of the best.
“Bloody hell,” Grace said as she closed the report.
“Am I crazy or is there something there?”
Grace smiled. “Both, I daresay.”
“Am I
“The FBI sent us a report on this a few weeks ago and they were all over the place with their suspicions, and none of their geniuses came within pissing distance of what you have here. This is brilliant.”
“Really?”
“No, I’m lying to you, you daft cow. Of course! Agencies are nodding at the Goddess postings and dismissing them as an aftereffect or a symptom.”
“I know! But the dates clearly show that the posts predate the last couple of spikes in hate crimes.”
“No doubt, but there are always
“They
“Ah.” Grace Courtland pursed her lips. “Then the problem is the same one you’ve been facing since you started mucking about with the Goddess thing, love. There’s nowhere to go with it. That’s the trouble with the Internet—there are too many ways to create and maintain anonymity. The FBI is all about following bread crumb trails. Here there’s no trail to follow, and those wankers are too busy playing with their beef bayonets to try and find a way. That and they’re swamped trying to stop the Chinese ghost net from stealing every last effing secret we have.” She paused. “Is there any chance the Chinese are involved in this? We’ve been dealing with wave after wave of their cyberterrorism these last few years.”
“Impossible to say.”
They sat and thought about it.
“So,” Circe said, “you see my problem. Even when I can get someone to agree that there’s something going on out there, no one can offer a single suggestion on what to do about it.”
“Mm,” Grace murmured. “If this was piss easy we’d have solved all the world’s problems already. As it is … best I can do for you, love, is bring this to Aunt Sallie. She has the cybercrimes portfolio right now.”
“But this isn’t a cybercrime per se. More like hate mongering, and technically that’s allowed under free speech.”
“Well, as we don’t have a division for cyber fucking-about we’ll have to go with what we have.” She lifted the report. “Can I keep this copy? I’d like to read it again on the plane.”
Circe chewed her lip. “Um … Hugo told me to keep this on the down low as far as the DMS is concerned. He said I could talk to you off the record. He’d kill me if he knew you had a copy of that.”
Grace smiled and tucked the report into her bag. “If you don’t tell him, I won’t.”
“Thanks!” Circe smiled weakly. “Do you have to get right back?”
Grace smiled. “Not this minute. First … I want to tell you about something that you have to swear to God you won’t tell anyone else.”
Circe crossed her heart and held her hand to God. “What is it?”
“I can’t tell you his name. Security reasons, you understand.” Grace Courtland leaned forward and put her elbows on the desk. “But … I think I’ve bloody well fallen in love.”
Chapter Twenty-six
Over Scottish Airspace
December 18, 2:09 P.M. GMT
We flew to the outskirts of Glasgow and transferred to an unmarked black Barrier helo. The cabin was soundproofed. Once we were airborne, an officer came out of the cockpit. Medium height, with ramrod posture, a neatly trimmed mustache, and a black beret on which was the medieval castle emblem of Barrier. He gave Church a “now we’re in it” look, and Church nodded. The officer smiled at me and held out a small, hard hand.
“Brigadier Ashton Prebble,” he said in a city Scots burr.
“Joe Ledger, sir.”
“Yes,” he drawled in a way that suggested he already knew who and what I was. “Pleasure to meet you, Captain Ledger. Glad to hear you’re back in the game. Timing couldn’t be more critical.”
