Irregulars - lanyon Josh - Страница 54
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Deven dropped onto his bed and kicked off his boots, turning his back to the agent. He didn’t bother changing clothes—he removed the knives in his pockets that made sleeping difficult and closed his eyes.
Chapter Six
Deven rarely dreamed about sex.
After all, his experience was limited. Lord Jaguar had granted him access to one of his human sacrifices prior to her demise, and that had been a humiliating and awkward encounter that had gone nowhere.
On San Juan Island a visiting tourist named Christopher, who was about Deven’s age, once spent an afternoon fishing with him and later the two had drinks and he had done marvelous things to Deven’s body. But that was it for Deven. It wasn’t as though either experience had proceeded according to his own design.
Which was why it was so strange to wake up with his thoughts heated and a raging hard-on. All night he’d been haunted by the feel of a human caress, the soft, wet pressure of a kiss, so rare and pleasing. He wanted to be touched, to be devoured. He yearned for human contact so strongly he nearly gasped as he awoke, blinking up at the strange hotel ceiling.
Light poured into the room from the edges of the curtains. Deven glanced at the clock and saw it was a little past eight in the morning. He was surprised he had been allowed to sleep in so late.
He moved slowly in the bed, willing his erection to go away on its own. He didn’t have the privacy to take care of it; although judging by the unmoving form on the bed next to his, he expected Agent August was sound asleep.
Deven swung his legs over the side of the bed and stretched. His hip didn’t hurt at all; a quick glimpse revealed only a yellow bruise at the site of impact.
Quietly, he padded to the bathroom. He showered his pixie-offending smell off. Since he hadn’t brought a comb, he used his fingers to brush down the damp strands of his spiky black hair. It was getting long, beginning to tickle the nape of his neck, but after years of having his head shaved by Lord Jaguar’s slaves, it felt nice to leave his scalp alone for a while. His green eyes looked oddly luminescent in the low light of the bathroom, especially against his light brown skin.
He examined the collection of toiletries August had brought with him and sprayed some of his deodorant on in the hopes of remaining offense-free for the rest of the morning.
He changed into a clean clothes, but none of this roused Agent August, whose back was turned to Deven’s bed and who lay curled under the covers like a child. Deven loaded his trouser pockets with gear he thought he’d need for the day—his obsidian mirror, a selection of knives, summoning papers, a book of matches. He made sure his pen was still wrapped in his hair and tucked behind his right ear and pocketed his sunglasses.
He tucked the thin piece of jaguar skin into his pocket last, as if embarrassed. It was almost as if he heard his therapist’s reprimands in his head.
There was still no movement from the agent. It was nearing nine o’clock. Bored, Deven decided the man had slept enough and moved to shake him awake.
Deven stopped beside the bed, however, taking in the sight of August asleep. He looked much sweeter without his sardonic sneer. His lips were flushed pink, his eyelashes long and dark against his pale skin. His high cheekbones gave his face a chiseled, statuesque appearance. An explosion of black curls covered his pillow and only a hint of stubble darkened his chin.
He smelled sleepy and warm, and for a moment, Deven longed to stick his hands under the agent’s blankets, feel the body heat pocketed there. Aztaws were so cold and bony. As long as he had lived in their world, he had found their touch repulsive. Even when Lord Jaguar had gripped Deven’s arm in affection, the contact had been like metal prongs striving to reach bone.
“Agent August,” Deven whispered, touching the man’s shoulder. He gave it a little shake. “It’s nine.”
Nothing but the man’s slow, even breathing.
“Agent August?” Deven said louder. He shook harder.
August’s eyes snapped open. Deven pulled his hand back, ready in case August struck out in surprise.
August blinked at him sleepily. “Hi.”
Deven felt something heat inside him. “Hey.”
“What time is it?” August’s voice was rough with sleep. He rubbed his hand over his face.
“Nine o’clock.”
“Forgot to arrange a wake-up call.” He sat up, glanced around, and then clenched his eyes shut, looking pained.
“You okay?” Deven asked.
August nodded. “Yeah. Just remembered that Carlos is still dead.”
Deven tried to think of something sympathetic to say but drew a blank.
The agent padded to the bathroom, dressed only in a pair of tight boxers. Agent August had a very nice body, Deven realized. He also noted with interest that August, a man who packed a month’s worth of clothes, hadn’t brought anything but underpants to sleep in.
August disappeared into the bathroom and reemerged wearing a fresh suit, with a white dress shirt and dark black trousers that were so perfectly tailored it looked as if he’d been sewn into them.
“Coffee, then the field office,” August ordered. The shower and shave had clearly revived him, for now he was flinty-eyed and full of energy. “And take that damned knife out of your pocket before you kill anyone else.”
Deven pulled out his largest blade and left it on the table. He didn’t mention the other three he had concealed.
August plugged his phone into his laptop and downloaded the test results he’d run the night before. Like so many other things, the readout seemed to make him angry.
Deven glanced at the scatter plot himself. “What does it mean?”
“No fucking clue.” August shook his head. “I’ve never seen a reading like this, but someone at the office may have an idea.” He yanked his phone out of the port and dashed out the door. Deven rushed to keep up.
In the hotel cafe August ordered them both coffees. August’s was pale brown with milk that smelled burned. Deven had his black. Coffee had been the great joy of his life upon returning to the natural world. He loved the bitterness and the aroma. This coffee, however, made him long for the small coffee shop he’d grown accustomed to in Friday Harbor.
The thought was an odd one, and he smiled to himself. It was the first time he had considered the Pacific Northwest as a place he might miss.
But he had no time to linger on such thoughts because August was growling at someone on his phone and rushing out the hotel doors. The same black sedan from the day before waited for them in the circular drive of the hotel, with the same driver.
“Embassy,” August ordered the driver, sliding inside.
“Hello,” Deven offered the driver. The man didn’t respond. Deven figured he was used to being barked at.
“72 doesn’t speak,” August told Deven.
“What?”
August nodded at the driver. “Refugee from starys. No vocal cords. Air too dense for sound waves or something.”
Deven studied the driver more closely. He appeared perfectly human. He would never have guessed the man wore a human body as a disguise. The driver met his eyes in the rearview mirror and smiled.
There was a deep chasm in his mouth, like looking down into the pit of hell. Distant echoes of screams seemed to fill the vast red space between his teeth. For a moment, Deven thought he saw the flicker of a small body writhing, impaled on one of the driver’s shiny white teeth.
Deven’s skin went clammy. He quickly looked away.
August chuckled. “Poor 72. That happens all the time. It’s why he’s stuck working for us. No masking spell is strong enough to hide how damned weird the starys are.”
The driver flipped August his middle finger, then pulled into traffic.
The drive to the US embassy was short. Blue uniform-clad and armed security guards surrounded the embassy. The sedan pulled under the green front awning of the building and August jumped out, with Deven close behind. They didn’t enter the embassy through the front. Instead, they walked around the building to a blocked-off alley, also guarded by wary security.
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