She jutted her chin. “Three.”
He laughed. “Three? Yet more evidence you were raised among monks.” He again muttered, “Three,” as if that were the punch line of a joke. “How long has it been?”
“A while.” What would he think if she told him she’d only had sex a handful of times? “How many have you been with?”
“Can’t count that high.”
“That’s the same answer you gave me when I asked how many you’ve killed.”
All his previous good humor disappeared. Casting her a strange look, he said, “You’d be amazed how closely tied those two numbers are.”
No. No, she wouldn’t. Jo knew some of the specifics. She considered confessing to the dreams, but reminded herself that four days ago he’d reached for his knife—because he’d suspected she might be a cosas.
Probably not best for their burgeoning relationship if he again decided to kill her.
They approached a clearing in the mist, spread over a section of the meadow. The fog floated above, resembling a giant awning. In the center, a fountain flowed with wine. Nymphs congregated there, like super-models at a vino convention.
“Rune!” one squealed.
The rest cried his name and clapped excitedly. When they jumped up and down, their cloud dresses slipped, boobs flying.
They acted like a rock star had entered the premises.
Nymphs surrounded him, jockeying for position, crowding Jo out of the way. With worshipful expressions, they petted his arms and chest. Each promised him secrets. They definitely had his number.
And I thought I could get Rune to fall for me? Stupid Jo. Why on earth—or anywhere else—would a male give up this kind of lifestyle?
“Doves, I’m here to find a demon,” he told them, and they quieted. “One who can trace me to every continent in Gaia.”
“I know of one,” said a nymph with an arrangement of thick blond braids piled atop her head. “What would that information be worth?”
Was the chick angling for Rune to screw her? Would he?
“It’d be worth a small favor,” he said smoothly. “I can find a demon on my own, but I’m asking you ladies in order to save time. Which also means I can’t linger here as I normally would.”
Jo could just imagine him lingering. How would a one-man orgy work? Would it be a nymph free-for-all? Maybe they lined up the way they had in the courtyard. Her fangs sharpened with aggression.
As much as she liked Rune, she would never share a man. So unless he could keep it zipped, she’d have to move on. Which might be a problem if they were linked by destiny and all.
She reminded herself that nothing mattered more than freeing her brother. Soon Thaddeus would be in Jo’s life again. If he was like her, she’d teach him everything she knew about ghosting and telekinesis. They’d learn the rest together. Hope made her giddy. Her future was so freaking bright.
Why should she care if all these women were pawing Rune? Yes, Jo had a crush on him, but crushes could end.
The braid-y nymph said, “I’ll tell you, but only if you vow to the Lore you’ll attend our next Bacchanal.”
“Easy enough,” he said grandly. “I vow to the Lore I’ll be in attendance—unless an emergency crops up.” Tacking on that qualifier.
“You’ll wear traditional attire?” another asked excitedly.
“How could I attend a Bacchanal in anything but?” he said, slanting them all that grin.
One nymph swooned.
Filled with importance, the braid-y nymph said, “I know a storm demon named Deshazior. He used to be a pirate, but now he’s a transporter. He’s been all over Gaia.”
A pirate? Interesting!
“Where will he be, dove?”
“He and his crew like to hang out at a place called Lafitte’s. It’s in New Orleans.”
Rune looked puzzled, so Jo said, “I know where it is.”
Nymphs turned to her and frowned, as if they’d just become aware of her presence.
Braid-y nymph asked, “Who’s she, Rune?” No jealousy in her tone, just mild interest.
“Oh, me?” Jo buffed her black claws. “I’m just the chick who made him nut in his pants. Twice.”
THIRTY-SIX
Move . . . move . . . move. Outta my way,” Josephine ordered pedestrians as she and Rune strode through the Quarter. The sign for Lafitte’s was just ahead.
Mortals scattered. Sensing on some level she was a predator?
“Move . . . move . . . move your ass.” No polite excuse me from the vampire. As males made way for her, they stared, agog at her otherworldly looks and figure.
“I could lead,” Rune offered, increasingly irritated by their reactions.
“Got this. Clearly.”
He wouldn’t have thought he’d be this attracted to a brash female—especially not one who’d delighted in telling a covey he’d twice come with his pants on. Alone with her again, he’d grated, “Have your fun?” She’d shrugged. Yes, Rune. . . .
When the crowd thinned, she asked him, “Did you sleep with all those—what did you call them?—Nepheles?”
“Nephelae. I’m almost certain I slept with them all. I like to spread the love around. If I don’t, they feel slighted.” Important to avoid.
Hell hath no fury like a sexually neglected nymph.
Apparently he’d burned through every Dryad at Dalli’s covey except one, the comely Meliai, and she was fuming about the oversight. Before he’d left Dalli’s earlier, the nymph had stopped by, hoping to join in. When he’d blown her off, she’d told him she possessed a key that could get him around the wraiths—and she’d trade it only for sex.