Raven

Raven, Chapter Ten

Once my vision filled with the sight of skyscrapers, millions of lighted windows, set against the backdrop of a dimming afternoon sky, I felt the tension in my shoulders and neck begin to relax. We were almost home. This whole shitty experience was almost to an end.

Well, it wasn't all shitty, I had to admit. Bryce Bingham had been a nice distraction. Handsome. Polite. Alive...unlike his brother. I felt like crap leaving him the way I did, but let's be honest, that was probably for the best because nothing ruins ambiance like telling a guy that you're the Reaper, and you just knocked off his brother. Trust me, this wasn't my first rodeo. People might be a bit more civilized this century, but replacing pitchforks with pistols really isn't much advancement.

George cleared his throat, drawing my attention away from the window. "We should arrive at the office in the next fifteen minutes. Would you like me to phone ahead and reserve a room for, ah, your conversation?"

"No."

"Should I let Ivan know that you'd like to speak with him?"

I wanted to snap at him, chew him out, let him know that if I wanted to speak with Ivan, I damn well could call him myself, but this George had saved my ass from the flame, and he didn't deserve my attitude. I watched him, my eyes lingering on his face. To my surprise, he didn't look away.

"How did Ivan find you?" When George blushed, that was all the answer I needed. "I see," I said and looked away. After a couple of uncomfortable moments during which I returned my gaze to the cityscape, George broke the silence.

"It isn't like that any more," he said, and there was no mistaking the longing in his voice. "Our—relationship—" he whispered, "is strictly professional and has been for years now."

"I see."

"And how exactly do you serve him?"

He bit his lip.

"George, I may not have been very involved in the past year, but make no mistake, Scythe Enterprises is my company, and Ivan, and therefore you are my employees. So, if you like your job, then you'd better start answering my questions."

"I listen."

"To whom and to what?"

"Mostly during negotiations—when he's in meetings with other attorneys."

"And the board?"

He nodded.

"And me?"

He stiffened.

"And—me?" I snarled.

"Not for a long time."

"How long?"

He inhaled deeply and shifted his gaze to the window beside me. In a low voice void of emotion, he said, "The last time I listened to your thoughts was more than a year ago—just before you stopped coming to the office."

"So the only reason you quit invading my thoughts was because I wasn't around?" I glared at him. I could feel the air crackle around us. When the pilot began wheezing, I tried to reign in my anger.

"That wasn't it," he said so softly I had to strain to hear him. "I have too much respet for you, Ms. LaMort for that."

"Well, apparently that wasn't initially the case, so what changed?"

He stared at his hands, and for a moment, I thought he wasn't going to answer, but just as I'd decided to throw him out the door, he said, "It was what I saw in you that changed my mind. I swear to you, I'll never read your thoughts again without your permission."

"Well, there's as much chance of you gaining my permission as there is of Frosty keeping his snowcone nuts in hell."

"As you say, Miss LaMort."

"Oh, cut that polite crap out."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Stop it!" I pulled my hair. "Jesus, you're just about as frustrating as Ivan." At this, he said nothing, and I thought over his words. "Wait a minute—what did you see that changed your mind?"

His fingers knitted together, but rather than keeping his eyes on them, as I was doing, he looked me directly in the eyes. "You were thinking about Mrs. Chesin's funeral."

My mouth turned to ash. Mrs. Chesin—Lou's wife. Lorelei's mother. And the one time in my thousands of years that I had defied the Almighty. Gulp.

"What—exactly—did you see?"

"I get images. Sometimes pictures. Sounds. Smells. And sometimes it's only emotions."

"And with me?"

When he looked at me, I didn't need mind-reading ability to understand what he was feeling. Pity was carved into the deep lines of his forehead. "With you, I got an avalanche of images, sounds, smells, and most of all, how you felt about everything. I passed out and didn't wake up for several hours, but one thing was certain—"

I waited, feeling furious and vulnerable.

"You were so very, very sorry. And that's when I decided that no matter how much Ivan asked me, I would never invade your space again."

"Because?"

"Because, Ms. LaMort, out of every miserable creature I've ever met," he paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was brittle with bitterness, "even as wretched as I felt when Ivan dumped me for his newest plaything—none of us, not even me, could come close to having been given the great cosmic clusterfuck that God gave you."

There's a point that every proud person reaches in her life when someone pities her, shows a little unexpected humanity, and although we should just be grateful for the kindness, instead, we get a whole lotta bitchy crawling up our ass, and we want to clock whoever the asshole was that reminded us just how fucked up our lives really are. Again, my thoughts filled with images of opening the helicopter door and chucking him out by his shiny Italian leather loafers. But, I didn't.

Just the same, I wasn't going to thank him for pointing out how shitty my life was, and somehow, I didn't think he expected it either. So, I just turned my head back to the window, admiring the sunset painting its wide swaths of lavender and rose through the skies. The remaining minutes of our trip passed in silence as the Zs slept, George reviewed his emails on his phone, and I revised my plan of attack for Ivan. As we climbed down from the chopper, I tapped George's arm, getting his attention.

"I have a second condition for you, George."

He stood, polite, attentive, and prepared to accept any abuse I wanted to heap on him.

"You work for me now, and your first job is to get Ivan and Lou in my office."

His eyes widened, but not half so much as when I added, "Use whatever tools necessary. You have thirty minutes."