Sweet Temptation

I crack open an eye and glare at the hilt for good measure. Then I hold my girl closer, glad we took this chance to be together. I won’t think about tomorrow yet.

When I finally let myself relax again, sleep almost immediately pulls me under.

There is pure terror in A

I want to wipe the fear from A

I want to tell her how much it means to me that Belial has asked me to go, that he trusts me with this, but I’m not sure I can put it into words without sounding like a complete idiot.

Perhaps I should be afraid, but I’m not. I face the possibility of death every day. Life has been a perilous walk under Father’s keen eye, his whisperers always watching. But this journey—this mission—it’s dangerous in a way that’s worthy of death. It’s the first time I’ve ever been called to help others, rather than hurt them. A chance to die in a way that would bring honor is worth it. Her father’s belief in me has filled me with so much pride it’s embarrassing.

When Kope shows, the sight of him makes me so hot with anger I want to pummel him to a bloody pulp. And if I did, he’d probably just stand there and not fight back, infuriating do-gooder that he is. He brings out feelings of inadequacy in me that I don’t want to acknowledge. He was chosen to be at A

I hate him for all the years he’s denied the urge to dive into the bed of every woman who makes eyes at him. I hate him for not beating the shite out of every man who stirs his wrath. Why can’t he fuck up, just once?

As Kopano stands before me in the living room, all suave and put together, A

A makeup artist shows, hired by Belial, to turn Kope and me into passable Syrians. She’s even brought traditional Middle Eastern clothing. I shake off my anger and let the lady have a go at me.

Turns out I’m still sexy with a big-arse beard and brown eyes instead of blue.

Flying is relaxing—whisperers stay low to earth and don’t bother with the friendly skies. I know I should be nervous about what’s to come in Syria. Or a

A

As it turns out, Kope is a good man to have at your side in the Middle East. His Arabic is flawless. I know only a few phrases, so I keep my mouth shut and let Kope do the talking. We travel through Damascus to pick up our weapons from Belial’s human contact, and then stop near a busy mosque to search the area.

My eyes scan the scene, searching for the other Neph we’re to meet here. A bloke in a maroon head wrapping stands out with his boxy body type and the roundness of his face, though his skin’s been given a bronze dusting and he’s wearing a brown beard like me. The son of Duke Mammon, from Australia. I know him as the doorman for the summits.

“There,” I say to Kopano under my breath. “Near the corner.” The man looks over when I speak. I stretch my hearing and open it around him. “Is that you, Fly

The man gives a single nod. “’At’s me, mate.” He rubs a hand over his mouth to hide the fact he’s talking, and in an Aussie accent. “I’ll follow you out and keep my distance. I’ve scouted the area already, and there’s a hill nearby where I can watch from afar. Maybe thirty minutes outside the city. I’ll give a yell if anything looks suspicious. There’s three guards outside the compound, and it sounds like at least two inside. I don’t think they’re treating their prisoner nicely, if you know what I mean.”

Ah, shite.

Kopano goes rigid. “We must go,” he says. “Now.”

The two of us head for the car while Fly

We navigate away from the busy area and head toward a smaller town on the outskirts of the city. It feels like it takes longer than thirty minutes on the dry, bumpy road. The city lights and sounds and scents of spices are long gone. The landscape is more barren, though beautiful in its own way. Far ahead of us, Fly

I keep a strand of my hearing in a flimsy line behind me, concentrated around Fly

We’d decided before arriving that I would listen for warnings from Fly

I don’t scare easily, especially where humans are concerned, but these men with their weapons and dark gray auras appear stark raving mad. Not the sort of combination that puts a bloke at ease. I treat them like the Dukes, not making eye contact but keeping my shoulders squared as we step out, so as not to show weakness. I’m ever aware of the daggers at my ankle and waist and will not hesitate to use them.

Kopano stands tall, briefcase in hand, and walks forward without an ounce of trepidation. He could be a prince of Africa with the air of importance he’s giving off. I’m surprised when he barks out a phrase in Arabic as he approaches them on quick feet, sounding bored and angry. Gone is his gentle spirit. I think I recognize the word girl.

The guards exchange glances and frowns. We stop in front of them. Before any of the gits can respond, Kope is barking again as if they’re wasting his time. The three of them jump a bit, clearly frazzled by this seemingly powerful man pretending to hail from Egypt. Kope lifts the briefcase, snaps it open to reveal piles of foreign bills, then slams it shut and says something else in that badass deep tone.

And I can’t help myself. I’m impressed. Maybe he took acting classes at Harvard. Whatever it is, he’s bloody brilliant.

Finally one of the guards speaks. Kope responds, sounding a