Bjorn and Xerxes were beside him, pinning him to the mattress.
He’d had another nightmare, harkening back to his time inside the demon dungeon. To captivity. Humiliation. Frustration. Pity. Sorrow. Rage. Helplessness. His eyes adjusted, and he glanced down, saw the bloody marks on his chest. As usual, he’d attempted to rip out his own heart.
Anything to end the torment he was so good at hiding, even from himself. Until his guard lowered...
Well, enough. He would take a lover today, he decided. He hadn’t done so since returning from the Phoenix camp, and he was feeling the effects of abstinence. He would exhaust himself so thoroughly, he wouldn’t have the strength to move when the next nightmare came.
And it would. They always did.
Bjorn and Xerxes sensed his change of mood and released him; he sagged, boneless, atop the bed.
“Thank you,” he managed.
“Defeating nightmares happens to be one of my many specialties.” Xerxes switched on the side lamp, a soft golden glow chasing away the shadows.
“What about the times you are the nightmare?” Bjorn quipped.
“I’m never the nightmare. I’m always the fantasy.”
Bjorn snorted.
A second later, the pair piled onto the bed, unwilling to leave. Thane knew why. They were willing to forgo much-needed rest in the hope of distracting him.
A man could not ask for better friends.
“Anyone else feel like girls at a slumber party?” Xerxes asked drily.
Thane’s heart calmed. Grinning, he sat up and leaned against the headboard. “If you start talking about cute boys and prom dresses, I might shoot you both in the face.”
“Wait. We’re having a prom?” Bjorn asked. He gave a fist pump. “Finally, a chance to be king.”
“If anyone’s going to be prom king,” Thane said, voice stern, “it’s me. Look at this face. It’s a moneymaker.”
Propping his hands behind his head, Bjorn said, “Hate to break it to you, angel boy, but even circus sideshows have moneymaking mugs.”
Thane kicked him off the side of the bed. Thud. Xerxes laughed as Bjorn came up sputtering.
Bjorn crossed his arms over his chest, and narrowed his eyes on Thane. “About that prom...shall we guess who you’ll crown as your queen?”
Thane stiffened. “Well played, my friend. Well played.”
Bjorn grinned. “That’s the only way I play.”
* * *
LIFE AS A BARMAID both rocked and sucked.
The plus: tips. Not that Elin had earned any of her own yet. Having shadowed the girls for the past four nights, she had seen the potential of her paydays, and was practically foaming at the mouth.
The minus: the uniform. A bra was trying to pass itself off as a shirt, and a piece of tulle was trying to pass itself off as a skirt. Elin was pretty sure she would cover more skin at a nude beach.
But, okay. Fine. Whatever. When in Rome...or, in her case, the clouds.
The clouds. Ugh. Even though Elin now resented the word splat, and fall was practically a curse word, she’d convinced herself to explore the backyard. There, she’d found a garden in need of major TLC and had spent hours pulling weeds, a chore she used to do with her mother in Harrogate, before her family had moved to Arizona.
It had been nice, but... How long should she stay here? A few months? A year?
No. A few weeks at most. The longer she stayed, the more likely Thane was to learn of her origins.
I would rather die than face his wrath.
But, there was a plus to waiting. If she were on her own, the Phoenix king would surely hunt her, then torture her for information, willing to do anything to learn what Thane had done with his people.
She sighed, hating the thought of living in limbo, her goals once again on hold. But at least she was safe for the moment. She wasn’t beaten for speaking the truth...or at all...and she wasn’t locked in a cage for some imagined crime, or buried in the sand, fire ants allowed to bite the only exposed part of her body, which always happened to be her face. She wasn’t treated like an animal because of her human blood.
She was fed regularly, had access to a television, a game station, and a computer—with surprisingly good internet connection, considering her distant locale—and she was getting to spend time with four of the most endearing women in the skies, each reminding her of her beloved mother in some way.
Elin smiled as she replayed a conversation the girls had last night.
Bellorie: So, get this. A gorgeous were-shifter stumbled into the bar. He was already drunk, and paused to stare at me like he’d never seen anything more beautiful. Because, of course, he hadn’t.
Savy: Until I walked in.
Octavia: I must have had the day off.
Chanel: I’m pretty effing sure I was hanging out with Octavia.
Bellorie: Wow. Could you guys be any more narcissistic?
Chanel: I’m not narcissistic. I’m perfect.
Bellorie: Anyway. He kissed me, only to pull back and mutter an apology. He said he thought I was his wife, ’cause I look just like her. I kneed him in the balls, and called him a lying, cheating son of a troll. He then said I sounded just like his wife.
Octavia: I bet you told him to bring the female with him the next time he visited the club, because she had to be the wittiest, smartest person ever.
Bellorie, blinking innocently: So you were there?
Immortal divas were fun.
But the girls were more than beautiful—and more than aware of that beauty. They were kind, uninhibited danger junkies, and quite competitive. They were serious about their dodge-boulder league, which was exactly what it sounded like. Dodgeball with boulders.
If only they were members of a jazz club instead.
They practiced every day. Hard-core practicing, at that. Running for endurance. Throwing their bodies against slabs of concrete to increase pain threshold. Navigating complicated obstacle courses while dodging the weapons the other girls pitched at them. Things like knives, metal stars and hammers.
They were determined to become national champs.
Elin barely survived the practices—even though, for the time being, she was only allowed to watch.
A clatter of dishes snapped her out of her musings.
Mind in the game. Right. Tonight, a live band would be playing. The group of five Sent Ones—Shame Spiral—were in the process of setting up. Elin found her gaze constantly returning to the lead singer.
Sexy did not even begin to describe. He had a slow, sensual smile loaded with all kinds of naughty suggestions.
Mind in the work game, Vale.
She would soon be toiling at the tables, on her own for the first time. And she could do it. She knew she could. She’d learned a lot. The most important lesson? Find a niche and stick to it. Each of the girls had one.
Bellorie flirted outrageously.
Savy was a stern taskmaster.
Octavia acted shy.
Chanel pretended to be an airhead.
Elin thought she might go for plucky best friend.
The girls never seemed to mind when their butts were pinched, or when they were tugged onto laps, or when masculine hands