“How many times must we go through this?” Phaedra asked, ignoring the predatory glare in his eyes. She rose to her feet. She was tall, but he was taller. She was hard-bodied and imposing; even before they felt the torture of her touch, most men had the sense to cower. But not this man. “There is no getting rid of me, Lieutenant. Once a fury is unleashed upon a criminal, she’s unbreakably bound to him until he atones or is driven to insanity.”
“I’m not a criminal,” Luke snapped. “And I will find a way to be rid of you.”
I hope you do find a way, Phaedra thought. Because she was every bit as stuck with him as he was with her.
Hunger hollowed out Luke’s stomach. He was thirsty too, having gulped down only a few swallows of water before the fury tried to drive the drinking glass into his face. Now he was also shaking with need: a desire for food and a more primal need to bury himself deeply inside a woman, to work his aching hands over mounds of soft skin and to tease quivering flesh beneath his lips. To find, in someone else’s body, some sweet relief from the strange torments of being reborn…
But there would be no relief for him until he could get rid of the fury; the needs of his new body would have to wait. At least, that’s what he told himself, again and again, as he packed his bag, making ready to go. He abandoned the burned villa, leaving enough cash for the landlord to make repairs, then headed for the coast, where he knew there was a witch that the locals swore would help anyone get rid of a hex.
And if the fury wasn’t a hex, what was she?
The old-fashioned door of the shop in Budva announced his presence with a bell. At the counter, a bored-looking beauty with bleached hair looked up at him from under thick mascara and smiled.
“I—I’m…I’m looking for a witch,” he said, taking in the leather-bound volumes scattered amidst ancient trinkets. Cobwebs draped the corners of the wood-paneled shop and crystals dangled from a strange spiral staircase. Once, he’d have dismissed it all as New Age bullshit, but that was before he’d died a thousand fiery deaths.
“You want Zene,” the girl said unhelpfully. “But she’s gone. Lives in France now. Tells fortunes. Makes big money.”
Great, Luke thought. “What about you?”
The girl laughed, painted lips curled in red glee. “Do I look like witch?”
Luke fumbled for a reply, because he was pretty sure he wouldn’t know what witches were supposed to look like. He hadn’t believed that the fury was a fury either until she brushed his hand and shot a thousand bullets of pain into him.
“New management,” the girl said. “Now we sell antiques and books of arcana.”
Well, at least there was that. It’d been an old book from a shop like this one in which he’d uncovered the clues that told him he was a phoenix and that the taste he always craved but couldn’t identify was actually frankincense. Since then, he’d stockpiled enough of the stuff to start his own hippy commune. It helped to relax him, helped tame his restless inner animal. But the frankincense hadn’t done shit to help him escape the fury.
He told the pretty Slavic girl what he was looking for.
“I have book like that upstairs. I get for you,” she said, big rouged cheeks dimpling in a flirtatious smile.
Oh, she shouldn’t flirt with him. Not in his state. It tugged at his fraying self-control. When he’d been a young military officer with a career ahead of him, there hadn’t been much room in his life for relationships, but Luke had always had an easy time bedding women. Never took more than he was offered; never promised more than he could give. Now he was a fugitive and couldn’t even trust a girl with his real name.
Hell, for that matter, he wasn’t even sure he could trust himself. Death and rebirth had awakened his every appetite to such a fever pitch that he was all pent-up need. He found himself ogling the shopgirl as she climbed the stairs. It was quite a view. All perky curves and seductive sway. He wanted to peel that skirt down over her hips and see if her bare ass was the heart shape that its outlines suggested.
“A book isn’t going to help you,” the fury said, jarring him from his fantasy.
Fuck, he hated when she just appeared out of thin air. Luke turned to glare at his own personal demon, who was perched on the edge of a table. She’d healed up since their last encounter and must have gone shopping in the netherworld because now she was wearing skintight black jeans and tall leather boots that gave a sexy emphasis to her long legs.
It worried him that he noticed those legs; he must really be in a bad way if he was starting to find her attractive. The fury was some kind of dark, pitiless goddess with sloe eyes and a killer body, but he never knew when she’d fly at him with deadly intent. In fact, as she fingered an antique letter opener—one with a rusty edge—he realized that she was probably contemplating her next attack.
“Why don’t you give it a rest,” Luke said, bracing himself against the dusty counter. “Take the day off. You can always kill me again in the morning.”
The fury flipped her dark hair over her shoulder and the corner of her mouth kicked up in a rueful smile. Was it possible she was tiring of this too? She sighed, then said, “I’m starting to think that killing you isn’t the best way to get you to repent.”
“I’ve got nothing to repent for,” he said, wary of drawing attention to himself as the kind of lunatic who talked to invisible people. He’d learned the hard way that no one else could see the fury unless she wanted them to.
The shop girl returned, announcing, “Big book!”
She wasn’t exaggerating. With its brass hinges, the wood-covered volume must have weighed twenty-five pounds. “Let me get that,” Luke said, relieving her of the burden.
The shop girl smiled. “You are…gentleman.”
He had been a gentleman, anyway. He’d considered it a point of honor. Of course, it was probably all bullshit, just like everything else he’d ever been taught. As a cadet, he’d taken an oath not to lie, cheat or steal, or tolerate those who did. He’d meant every word of it. Now, it made him sick to think how young and naive he’d been.
“You know,” the shopgirl said, slow to ring up his purchase. “Budva is place of parties. Is for bad boys and bad girls. Is nice to meet gentleman. Also, I like Americans.”
When it came to places in the world without extradition treaties with the U.S., Montenegro was the most civilized, but the customer service usually left a lot to be desired. For the shopgirl to be this friendly, she had to be hitting on him. She glanced up beneath coquettish eyelashes, confirming it. “Handsome man like you should have girlfriend. You want girlfriend tonight?”
It was an unmistakable invitation and Luke’s response was as natural to him as breathing. He was attracted to her. He was hungry. She was willing. His self-control utterly unraveled. His vision flashed white with the anticipatory pleasure of driving himself deep inside this woman and, before he knew it, he’d put down the book and backed her against the counter, arms on either side. It was decidedly ungentlemanly, but he just didn’t care. Not with the promise of that spectacular ass beckoning to be kneaded and cupped by his eager hands. “Why wait for tonight, sexy girl?”
When the shopgirl grinned at his hubris, he knew he was about to get laid. Just ignore the fury, Luke told himself, nuzzling the shopgirl’s neck, which seemed to have been dusted in pink sparkles. Sparkly girls weren’t normally his type, but he needed to find some brief pleasure, wherever it might be had.
Apparently it was going to be had right here. Slinking out from under his arms, the shopgirl turned the sign in the window to Closed, then locked the door and pulled the shade. Two seconds later, she was flinging her clothes on the floor, stripping down to lacy red bra and panties.
“Now here’s a nice girl you can take home to your mother,”