So what am I going to do about it?
Chapter Thirty-Four
I wake feeling like a traitor, spooned in Harpoc’s arms again. He “let me in” for the first time last night, unashamedly telling me his role as the leader of a whole secret-keeping empire.
As much as the thought disgusts me, I need to figure out a response that will win him over, not send him scurrying, because I’m talking to the guy who can actually change things. And I can’t mess this up.
I shift and feel that his whole body is rigid behind me.
“Hey,” I murmur, and look over my shoulder, catching his gold and silver eyes wide open, intent on me.
He squeezes my abdomen. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t. What’s wrong?”
“We’ll go see King Midas today.” He sighs and I feel his shoulders droop against my back.
I make like a rotisserie chicken and rotate, still in his arms. I shouldn’t comfort him, but he was my rock last night, so I bring a hand to his face, cradling his jaw, the scruff of which has grown thicker overnight. “What’s wrong?”
He only grunts.
The onion has returned, and it seems it’s up to me to peel it again. “Why did you delay going to him?”
His gaze connects with mine for a second before he says, “You’ll understand when you see him.”
A sour feeling besets my stomach because my brain’s off and running, imagining scenarios where the ancient Midas dude’s fallen and can’t get up and has been laying there for days or wild animals have mauled him—of course, I suppose said animals would be turned to gold, but hey, what a way to go—or worse.
“How about some coffee?” Maybe that’ll lighten his mood, I know it’ll improve mine, dramatically.
Harpoc tweaks my nose. “That sounds like a good idea. I scheduled it for later, but I’ll go get it.”
“The god of secret’s magic doesn’t deliver coffee?”
A corner of his mouth hitches up. “Afraid not.”
“You really ought to talk to management about that. Oh, but I guess you are management.”
He chuckles, and I ogle as he slides on navy sweats and slippers that the hotel delivered last night.
I’m still mad at him, but I’m not blind. For an old geezer, he’s still eye candy.
He’s a freaking god, Pell, down girl.
He runs a hand through his onyx locks, and they fall into perfect order. Okay, that’s just not fair.
A minute later the door shuts behind him, and I slide out of bed, slip on my sweats, go pee, then brush my teeth to tame my dragon morning breath. I don’t know what it is, but the thought of eating anything before I’ve brushed my teeth in the morning utterly disgusts me.
The door handle jiggles not long after, and I laugh. “Secret magic doesn’t open the door when your hands are full either, huh? I really think we need to take these defects up with someone above your pay grade.”
I fling open the door.
But it’s not Harpoc.
It’s Zeki and his goons, and they force their way into the room, pushing me back before I can react, then close the door behind them.
I shriek, hoping a neighbor hears, but these walls are soundproof judging by the lack of “neighbor noise”—I’ve heard no squeaking bedsprings or thumping headboards.
Gold eye, silver eye. Where’s Harpoc when I need him?
I knew Zeki was bad news.
I keep screaming until one of Zeki’s goons grabs me, and another ties a gag over my mouth and my hands behind my back.
“Hurry up,” Zeki says to one of his henchmen, eyes darting about the room like Harpoc’s going to materialize any second. I pray he does.
I’m pushed down on the sectional and Gag Guy—and no, he’s not funny—pulls a plastic bag from his jacket and slides out a rag.
Shit.
I try kicking, but the four goons stand too far away for my feet to connect with any of them, and I end up flopping onto the floor, nearly banging my head on the coffee table.
“Serves you right.” One of the guys laughs.
Gag Guy comes around the table, to my head, and I wriggle for all I’m worth. I just need to stall until Harpoc gets back.
But the guy’s faster than Harpoc because the dude captures my head despite my twisting and holds the rag over my nose, grinning. “The King of Roses’ greatest weakness is in our hands.”
Like hell.
Hold on for Harpoc. Gold eye, silver eye.
I keep shaking my head this way and that, making it as difficult as possible, but my fingers tingle and my head feels buzzed, like when I’ve had a few too many drinks.
Hold on, Pell. Hold on.
I keep fighting, but it feels like I’m walking in mud.
Gold eye, silver…
Blackness overwhelms me.
_______
My cramped shoulder’s screaming wakes me. My hands are numb, no doubt because I’m lying on them, still tied behind my back, and my head’s pounding as if someone’s playing a drum solo. What’s probably a rough stone is digging into my cheek.
The smell of cannabis is here but not as strong as it was, although the scent of earth fills my nostrils along with wool from the scratchy old blanket I feel weighing on me. I’m just glad I put my sweats on before answering the door or I’d probably be mostly naked under this thing. As it is my bare toes are frozen.
“Yeah, and we’ll make him—” It’s Higher-Pitch-Guy. I’d recognize his voice anywhere.
Constant, repetitive, snapping sounds fill the gaps between words, like they’re all doing something.
“Shut it, Mazhar.” This, lower voice guy, was there with us before, too. No doubt they all were, and
