Dark Flame (Immortals 4)

“What’re you doing?” I squint, lids narrowed to slits as I harshly take him in. Knowing it’s hardly a coincidence to find him here too. After all, they’re good friends, members of the same immortal rogue tribe. “Oh, and nice prop, by the way.” I gesture toward his supposedly banged-up arm, which probably provides a pretty good cover for those who don’t know any better. Too bad I do.

He looks at me, shaking his head and rubbing his chin, voice steady, calm, almost convincing, when he says, “Ever, are you okay? You’re not looking so good—”

I shake my head and roll my eyes. “Nice try, Jude, I’ll give you that.” Fielding his what the heck are you talking about look with, “Seriously. Faking concern for me, faking an injury, you’re prepared to go all the way with this, aren’t you?”

He frowns, head tilted in a way that allows a few chunks of golden brown dreadlocks to fall over his shoulder and land just a few inches shy of his waist. His deceptively cute and friendly face all scrunched and serious when he says, “Trust me, I’m not faking. Wish I was. Remember when you picked me up like a Frisbee and tossed me across your yard?” He motions toward his arm. “This is the result. A crap load of contusions, a fractured radius, and some seriously messed-up phalanges—or at least that’s what the doctor said.”

I sigh and shake my head. I’ve no time for this charade. I need to get to Roman, show him that he can’t control me—means nothing to me—show him who’s boss around here. Sure that he’s somehow partly responsible for what’s happening to me, and needing to convince him to give me the antidote and put an end to this game.

“While I’m sure it all looks and sounds very believable to most people, unfortunately for you, I’m not most people. I know better. And the fact is, you know I know better. So let’s just cut to the chase, okay? Rogues don’t get hurt. Not for long anyway. They have instantaneous healing abilities, but then you already knew that, didn’t you?”

He looks at me, brows merged in confusion, as he takes a step back. And the truth is, he really does look perplexed, I’ll give him that.

“What’re you talking about?” He gazes all around, before focusing back on me. “Rogues? Are you serious?”

I sigh, fingers drumming hard against my hip when I say, “Um, hel-lo? Evil members of Roman’s tribe? Ring any bells?” I shake my head and roll my eyes. “Don’t pretend you’re not one of them—I saw your tattoo.”

He continues to stare, that same confused, gaping expression still stamped on his face. And all I can think is: Good thing he’s not an actor, he’s got really crummy range.

“Um, hel-lo! The Ouroboros? On your back?” I roll my eyes. “I saw it. You know I saw it. You probably wanted me to see it—or why else would you convince me to get into the Jacuzzi with—” I shake my head. “Whatever, let’s just say it pretty much told me everything I

needed to know. Everything you apparently wanted me to know. So feel free to drop the game anytime now, I’m all clued in.”

He stands before me, good hand rubbing his chin as his eyes search the area as though looking for backup. Like that’s gonna help him. “Ever, I’ve had that tattoo for ages—in fact, I—”

“Oh, I’ll bet.” I nod, refusing to let him finish. “So tell me, how long ago did Roman turn you? Which century would it have been? Eighteenth, nineteenth? C’mon, you can tell me. Even though it was a long time ago, I’m sure you never forget a moment like that.”

He rubs his lips together, encouraging those matching dimples to spring into view, but it doesn’t distract me; that sort of thing no longer works. Not that it ever really did.

“Listen,” he says, struggling to keep his voice low, steady, though his aura tells all, taking a sudden turn toward murky and fragmented, revealing the full extent of his nervousness. “Honestly, I have no idea what you’re talking about. Seriously, Ever, in case you can’t hear it, this is coming off as pretty insane. And the truth is, despite all of that, despite all of this”—he tugs on his sling—“I’d really like to help you—but—well—you seem pretty much beyond all of that with the rogues and the turning and”—he shakes his head—“but let me just ask you this—if this Roman dude’s as bad as you say, then why are you lurking outside his store looking all charged and heated like a dog waiting for its owner?”

I glance between him and the door, cheeks flushing, pulse racing, well aware I’ve been caught in the act, but not about to admit it.

“I’m not lurking—I’m—” I press my lips together, wondering why on earth I’m defending myself when he’s clearly the one who’s up to no good. “Besides, it’s not like I can’t ask you the same question since, I hate to break it to ya, but you’re standing here too.” My eyes rake over him, taking in the bronzed skin, the slightly crooked front teeth—most likely kept that way on purpose, to throw people off—people like me. And those eyes—those amazing blue/green eyes—the same eyes I’ve gazed into for the last four hundred years. But no more. Not since I learned he’s one of them. Now we’re officially through.

He shrugs and rubs his sling protectively. “Nothing sinister, just headed home, that’s all. If you’ll remember, we close early on Saturdays.”

I narrow my gaze, not fooled for a second. It’s all very plausible. Almost believable. But not quite.

“I live up the street.” He motions toward some unknown place in the distance, a place that probably doesn’t even exist. But I don’t follow his hand. My gaze stays on his. I can’t afford to drop my guard. Not even for a second. He may have fooled me before, but now I know better. Now I know what he is.

He takes a step closer, slowly, cautiously, careful to maintain a safe distance still just outside of my reach. “Maybe we can go grab a coffee or something? Go someplace quiet, where we can sit down and talk? You look like you could use a break. What do you say?”

I continue to study him. He’s persistent, I’ll give him that. “Sure.” I smile, nodding in assent. “I’d just love to go someplace quiet, grab a seat, drink some java, and enjoy a nice, long chat—but first, I need you to prove something.”

His body goes tense and his aura—his fake aura—wavers, but I’m not buying it.

“I need you to prove you’re not one of them.”

He squints, face a cloud of concern. “Ever, I don’t know what you’re—”

His words cut short by the sight of the athame now clutched in my hand. Its jewel-encrusted handle an exact replica of the one I used just a few hours before, figuring I’ll need all the luck and protection the stones can provide, especially if this goes the way that I think.

“There’s only one way to prove it,” I say, voice low, gaze locked on his, taking one small step forward that’s soon followed by another. “And I’ll know if you cheat—so don’t even try. Oh, and I should probably warn ya—I can’t be responsible for what happens once I prove that you’re lying. But don’t worry, as you well know, this’ll only hurt for a second—”

He sees me moving, lunging straight for him, and even though he tries his best to dance out of my way, I’m too quick, and I’m on him before he even realizes it.

Seizing his good arm and slicing my athame right through his skin, knowing it’s just a matter of seconds before the blood stops gushing and the wound fuses together again.