Page 2 of Ravenous Prophecy
“Three hours? Half a day? I can barely tell. Take a load off. You’ll be here a while, I can promise you that.”
His hands balled into fists, still standing rigid and defiant. “I was just authenticating a manuscript. It wasn’t even thatdifficult.And then it all went to hell.”
My hand reached reflexively for my pocket. But my brass knuckles weren’t there, of course. This talk about authenticating, though. Was he an expert? One of those eggheads who knew about relics and rites and ancient languages?
He certainly looked the part. His hair in a tangled, tousled mess, maybe from being roughed up, or maybe from forgetting to run a comb through it. The top buttons of his shirt undone, the sleeves and shoulders a little askew.
Disheveled. That was the word. This guy had seen better days, would probably clean up nice. But looking like this, making a fuss, a little mussed—why did I like that so much? Pretty cute, if I had to be honest.
Circles under the eyes, but in a good way, somehow. This was someone who spent his nights poring over books, reading about forgotten secrets written in mysterious tongues.
Nothing mysterious about his tongue in particular, though, the soft pink of it sweeping across his lips as he collected himself. The long, scholarly fingers, slender in contrast to the sturdiness of his hands.
Fuck. I’d been alone on the road too long. First guy they threw into a box with me, and I was already close to overwhelmed with intrusive thoughts. Intriguing thoughts.
He finally stepped over to the empty chair, all lean and long-limbed as he sat a careful distance away from me. He swept his hair out of his face, glancing around the room, through the frosted enchanted window, with barely concealed disdain.
And then he had to go and ruin it.
“I don’t belong here, you know. I’m not like that.”
I sat up straighter, my ears pricking. “I’m sorry. Not like what, exactly? Are you suggesting I deserve to be here? I’ll have you know, I’m only in here on a technicality.”
His eyes traveled down, then back up my body, assessing me, slicing me apart. This little jerk. I could tell part of him was checking me out. The other part was wondering why I was locked in there with him.
But could I blame him? One look at me and anyone would be convinced I was the rougher sort of customer. One or two scabs on my knuckles. A look of perpetual disdain in my eyes, because the best defense, I found, was wearing my resting bastard face.
And not to brag, but I had a body built for resilience. And other very physical activities, to boot. Kind of necessary when my work occasionally got me entangled with the more dangerous side of the supernatural.
Maybe a pesky vampire needed some gentle convincing to stop terrorizing a local village. Or sometimes you just needed a guy who could wade through the fire and punch a wizard in the face.
The man blinked at me. “And what technicality might that be, exactly?”
“It was a—a customs issue.” I glowered at my hands, my thumbs twiddling. “I forgot to declare something.”
He sniffed, a sharp inhalation that was as judgmental as a laugh. “The MEA is well known for being touchy about how magical artifacts move in and out of their territory. In fact, it’s one of their mandates. You weren’t”—his eyes widened—“asmuggler? Were you bringing instolen goods?”
I turned my glower on him. I hadn’t even said anything about the knuckles, and now I definitely wasn’t going to. Screw this guy. He didn’t need to know about the very awesome, very magical thing that they confiscated from me.
“No! I’m not a smuggler. I’m aretrieval expert. That’s my entire line of work. Fetching and finding these things. What makes you think you know any better, anyway?”
He sat up straight, tugging on his collar, suddenly interested in making himself look all professional and scholarly. “I work with artifacts and manuscripts every day. Trust me, I know all about ‘retrieval experts’ like you.”
“Curious.” I crossed my arms, tilted my head. “AndIknew about the ensorcelled door, andyouwere about to get electrocuted.”
“Maybe I was panicking.” His fingers tangled with each other, knuckles going white as he wrung his hands. “Maybe I didn’t notice because I was distracted, alright?”
I looked at the window again, admiring the engraving work. I could never pull that off myself, much less understand the glyphs and inscriptions. But I did respect thosewho could. I took in a slow breath, wondering if I couldn’t de-escalate matters with Mr. Jitters over here.
“A couple of years back, I was in Kyoto. For work, mostly, something about a sword. But I met this Shinto priest who told me about paper talismans. Riveting stuff. They’re used for protecting against evil, or even sealing evil, or sometimes?—”
“Yes, yes.” Mr. Jitters waved his hand, rotating it at the wrist, telling me to get a move on. “They’re called ofuda. Heard of them. This room? That isn’t the same thing at all. Don’t you think I know that already?”
I couldn’t help it. Something twitched in my face as I glared at him. I wondered how much more trouble I could get into if I decked him right in his smug face. Just one good jab. It’d be so satisfying, too. Shame to ruin such a pretty mug.
“But I have to admit,” he continued, “I’m impressed. For someone who forcibly ‘acquires’ artifacts for a living, you know more than you look like you should.”
What did that mean? The hairs bristled all over my body, my anger electric. His lips shut tight after he said that, like he’d only just realized it was the wrong thing to say. Too late by then. Who did this awkward jerk think he was, anyway?
