Chapter 18

“I don’t want to wait until Friday.” The Guardian of Love sashayed into Death’s office, clasping his new twenty-four-carat bow under his arm, and wearing nothing but a quiver of arrows. Cameron’s body was pale, as if he hadn’t been exposed to sunlight in a couple centuries, he had a sizeable paunch, and his endowment needed a serious infusion of testosterone.

He’d also had his hair highlighted a brassy gold and invested in extensions, so his tresses floated down his back. The kid had clearly not used Death’s high-class in-house services for his makeover. He was perverted, cheesy, road trash all the way.

This wasn’t the man who people would want to be their last experience in this physical world, let alone invest vast sums of money in. “Where are your clothes, for God’s sake?” Death demanded.

Cameron leapt up onto a red velvet chair, set his foot on Death’s desk, and tossed his head so the bleached out straw masquerading as hair cascaded down his back. He fished an arrow out of the quiver, fixed it into the bow, and then took aim at the smoke detector in the corner of Death’s office. He didn’t fire; he just held the pose. “How do I look? Dead ringer for all the ancient paintings of me, aren’t I?”

“Those paintings are of a cute little cherub. Once you hit age six, the naked thing can get you arrested.” With Cam’s foot up on the desk, it put his dangly bits way too close to front and center. “For God’s sake, boy, cover yourself up.”

Death shoved his chair back and tossed one of the dishtowels from his espresso corner at the Guardian. It landed right on its target, but Cameron wasn’t perky enough, and after a moment, it dropped uselessly to the desk, right on top of the monogrammed pen set Angelica had given Death on his first day of business. He treasured those pens so much he’d never even used them. And now…

Sigh.

Cameron laughed, a loud bellow of mocking humor. “You need me, old man, so you must let me do as I wish.” He sank down in the velvet chair, his naked ass wedged into the cushions that Death had had specially imported from a secluded gnome monastery in upper Mongolia. Shit. He really loved those cushions.

Cameron tucked one foot under him, pulled his left knee up, and rested his chin on it. He was wearing the most idyllic expression of peace Death had ever seen. “It’s been so long since I’ve felt like this,” Cameron sighed dreamily. “I’d lost my meaning in life. But you’ve brought me back.”

Death saw the lack of turbulence in his blue eyes. And better yet, there was a spark of energy, of fire. “I’m glad to hear it, my boy. You had me worried.”

“I know.” Cameron began to twirl his bow like a baton. “I haven’t wanted to be naked in almost a hundred years. It feels great to feel the wind over my skin.”

“Yeah, well, you might want to consider a thong.”

“Why?” Cameron tossed his hair again. “People think of me in my naked glamour, armed only with a bow and arrow. Why deprive them of such beauty and the fulfillment of all their dreams?”

Death rubbed his jaw. “Well, you do have a point. Half the job is people’s expectations.” He gestured at the rolls of fat nearly covering Cam’s manly regions. “But if you’re going to go naked, you need to get into shape, man. If you’re going to represent love, then women have to want you, and men have to want to be you.”

“You really think that’s why they all like me? Because of my washboard abs?” Cameron raised an eyebrow, revealing a surprising sharpness to his wit. Naked glee wasn’t the only thing returning to life with the Guardian of Love.

“People are superficial,” Death said. “They respond to beauty, money, and power. Women especially. It’s what they want.”

“No, it’s not.” Cameron plucked another arrow out of his quiver. It had a gold tip with a double heart logo that looked suspiciously familiar.

“Is that one of my cuff links?”

“Yep. I had one of your welders turn it into a razor sharp point. It’s my new signature—”

“No.” Death plucked the arrow out of his minion’s hands. “That’s mine, and if you ever, ever, go through my private things again, I will cut out your entrails and feed them to the hell’s hounds skulking around my backyard. Got it?”

Cameron’s eyes widened. “Wow. You’ve got issues, don’t you?” He leaned forward and propped his elbow on the desk. “So, tell me, Prentiss, why does a man who makes a living ending lives have hearts all over his walls, a pink bedspread, and a twenty-foot mural of Cupid both on your bedroom ceiling and in your office? And was it just me, or does every single piece of your man-jewelry have that double heart logo engraved somewhere on it?”

Death’s hand went to the scythe under his desk and his fingers closed around it. “Be very, very careful, young man. You are not so important to me.”

Cameron grinned. “Did you not get enough of your mama’s love when you were a kid, Prentiss? Because I cover all types of love, you know. Romantic love, motherly love, and brotherly love, and everything in between.” He pulled out another quill, this one unabashedly sporting the ring Death had plucked off his dead father’s hand just after Gramps had inadvertently knocked him off. “Allow me?”

Death began to slide the scythe out of its brackets. “That was my father’s.”

“Well, by all means, take it back.” Cameron extended it helpfully toward him, and Death reached to snatch it—

Cameron twisted it suddenly and jammed it into Death’s palm.

Death swore and jerked his hand back. “Don’t you dare—”

An overwhelming sense of peace and calm settled over Death. His chest felt warm and full, and he had a sudden urge to stretch out on his floor and start singing “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” His palm was glowing a rose pink, almost the same shade as his bathrobe. Twin, intertwined hearts pulsed in neon pink, as if they had been tattooed in his skin.

Death raised his palm and pressed his lips to his hand. “My sweet baby—”

Cam started giggling.

The feeling of oh-so-sweet-love vanished instantly, replaced by sheer humiliation and the rawest sense of loss he’d ever experienced. That amazing sensation had been a fraud! He jerked the scythe free and had it at Cam’s throat instantly. “You toyed with me—”

Cameron tapped the blade cheerfully, his eyes sparkling. “Not at all. I simply gave you a small taste of what I offer. Imagine if I gave you the full dosage? I just pricked you.”

Death frowned. “This is what you do?”

“This is what I do.” Cameron leaned forward. “You see, my good man, I don’t need to be handsome or rich or even funny. I simply need to be me, and I fulfill everyone’s dreams exactly as I am.” He bowed with a flourish. “Love at your service. Nothing else is needed.”

“You just touch people and they love you?” What kind of racket was that? Death sat back down. “But you’re out of shape, arrogant, and naked with a small penis.” For hell’s sake, Cameron didn’t have a castle, wasn’t the richest man in creation, didn’t wield the ultimate power, and he still got every being on the planet to love him just by poking them? Hell. Death had taken over the wrong damn business, hadn’t he?

Cameron grinned. “And to think I was so self- absorbed in my misery that I forgot about all this for so long.” He held out his hand. “I owe you thanks, big guy, for bringing me back. You’ve got my loyalty, and we’re going to make a killing.”

Death slid the scythe back under the desk. “I didn’t fully grasp the extent of your powers.” He’d just wanted to keep the sorry bastard from depriving the world of love. But in the process of the only altruistic duty he’d undertaken in his life, he’d stumbled onto a gold mine.

Cameron grinned and mimed shooting his arrow into the painting of the original Grim Reaper that was part of the landscape behind Death (another condition of the sale). “So, yeah, I don’t want to wait until Friday night. Let’s make this happen now.”

Death shook his head. “We need to be strategic. I don’t want to rush.”

Cameron leapt up and began to pace the room. “Well, I gotta get going on it. I’m on a high, and I don’t want to lose it. Gotta ride this wave.” He breathed on his bow, then defogged it with a lock of his hair. He spun it around, and Death could see his own reflection in the gold.

Shit. Since when had he started to look so pale and worn out? Compared to the energy cascading off Cameron, Death looked like one of the souls he’d just harvested.

“See, man, this is the deal.” Cameron vaulted over the chairs and frog-landed right in the middle of Death’s desk, knees up, feet flat, hands on the desk—which was just not an attractive pose for a naked man. “I haven’t felt this alive in so long. I thought I was broken. I thought I was useless. But when I got to Symphony Hall, and all hell broke loose around me, it triggered something. Seeing my brother with his hate—”

Death jerked upright. “Your brother? Jarvis?”

“Yeah, the dude’s like this major downer right now.” Cameron side-hopped and stretched out on his side across the mahogany desk. He propped his head up on his hand, cocked a knee, and grinned. “This is a seductive beach pose, is it not? Imagine a beautiful maiden stretched out beside me.” He began stroking the air in front of Death’s face. “I would touch her like this, grazing my hand over her breasts and—”

“Hey.” Death caught his hand. “What was your brother doing?”

“Trying to pry me out of your grasp, of course.”

He should have killed the Guardian of Hate after all. Who knew he’d be so persistent? “And were you tempted?”

“Only by the hellaciously attractive Reaper who distracted Jarvis long enough for me to shoot arrows at every cop and reporter, except the one with the biggest TV camera, of course.” Cupid winked. “Let’s just say that public fornication reached new heights outside the Elton John gala tonight. Check out channel seven. They’ll have some excellent footage.”

“The Reaper who was with Jarvis?” It must have been Reina. “What was she doing?” If that woman had gone against his wishes, she was fired on the spot, no matter how much love she had oozing from her pores.

“It appeared she was trying to save Jarvis from his hate-monster, rescue her sister from some over-sexed orgasm factory, while trying to reap some dude who smelled like rotting bananas.” Cameron sighed dreamily. “I would have loved to hit up the sister and her lover with a couple arrows. They would have melted pavement. I’m going to have to find them and give them a jump start. I could get off just watching those two.”

Death rubbed his jaw. So, Reina had been rescuing her sister and trying to harvest Augustus at the same time? That was kind of impressive, actually. That wasn’t the easiest of multi-tasking.

Who knew. Maybe after the sister had kicked the bucket, Reina would actually become competent enough to promote… He started laughing at the thought. There was no chance Reina Fleming was going to become a full Reaper.

He couldn’t allow it. She was simply too soft. In fact, he was going to have to let her go once Cameron was on board (a good boss could only delegate full Reaper power to so many people, right? Can’t dilute the talent). Too bad, but one of the costs of business. The money always came first, and now that he knew how lucrative Cam was going to be, there was no room for ordinaries like Reina. The gal would have to move on.

But Jarvis was not so easily trifled with. “Did you kill your brother by any chance? Or did Napoleon? Speaking of which, where is the old man?”

“He was trying to choke Angelica’s location out of the banana hammock guy.” Cameron swung around and sat cross-legged on the desk.

Death was going to have to get a new desk.

“And no, I didn’t kill my brother.” Cameron rolled his eyes. “I couldn’t be bothered. He was going insane and wanting me to sully myself by touching his hate. Hello?” He fluffed his locks. “Does this look like the mane of a man who would soil himself? No, he can go do what he likes. I am above him.”

That meant Jarvis was still at-large and coming after Cameron. Death was well acquainted with the Guardian of Hate from the warrior’s years of incarceration. He was formidable, determined, and quite talented. If he wanted his brother back, he would get him, unless Death cemented his bond with the Guardian of Love first. There was no way in hell Death was going to lose out on this gold mine. “You’re right.”

Cameron cocked his neck to the side, and a sharp crack echoed through the office. “Of course I am, but what are you referring to?”

“There’s no reason to hold you back from world peace. From your new role as an assassin. We’ll find someone for you to reap before Friday. I wouldn’t want you to backslide from your happy place.” It was time to cement Love’s role before Jarvis showed up and screwed it up. Death was sure he still could arrange a substantial financial windfall even if he moved up the date.

“Really? Today?” Cameron whooped, leapt off the desk, and began to skip around the office.

“Yes, I’ll make a few calls and have something in place in the next few hours.”

“I’m so excited!” He grabbed his bow and began shooting arrows all over the office. “Yay! I’m alive! Do you hear me, world? I’m coming to save you!” He threw back his head and let out a catcall of total glee.

Death yanked the bow out of his hand.

“Hey!” Cameron lunged for it, and Death backhanded it into a gap in the wall. The golden bow slipped through the opening and was gone.

“My light! My life!” Cameron pressed his face against the crack. “Mirabelle, my dear love! Come back to Daddy!”

“Mirabelle isn’t coming back until you get yourself new arrows that do not involve my logo or my belongings.” Death yanked an arrow out of his framed, autographed copy of “Ode to the Afterlife,” written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow upon his relocation to the land of posies and champagne. On the tip of the arrow was the monogrammed penis ring Death had commissioned when he was eighteen. There was still space on it to add the initials of the woman he would wear it for. He shoved the ring into his pocket. “It’s non-negotiable. Find a new tip for your poles, or it’s off.”

Cameron opened his mouth to protest, and then he must have seen something in Death’s eyes. “Okay, yeah, fine. I can live with that, buddy. You have a need, and I’m there with you.”

Some sort of happy feeling bloomed inside Death at the idea of being buddies with the being that encompassed love in all its forms, and then he scowled. “There are no friends in business.”

“Oh, well, gee, Mr. Grumpy. Lighten up—”

“Go to my design department and have them come up with a new logo for you. We need something worthy of the combined efforts of your powers and mine. It has to be brilliant, unique, and utterly memorable.” He raised his brows and leaned back in his chair. “You can handle that, I presume?”

“You bet! Can it be gold? I love gold.”

“Of course.”

“And can I get matching wrist cuffs?” Cameron held up his arms. “I’ve always wanted wrist cuffs. There’s something so gladiator about that, you know? Those were real men.”

“Yes, yes.” Death waved him off as he started typing on his computer. “I’ll find someone for you to reap and some investors. Be back here by four o’clock with new arrows and clothes.”

“Aye, aye on the arrows. Not a chance on the clothes.” Cameron strode toward the door, wiggling his hips with just a trifle too much flourish given the cellulite bouncing around back there. “I can’t deprive the world of their fantasies, you know.” He snatched two arrows out of the door and tossed them at Death. “Just so you know, those arrows are still laced with love for the next few hours.”

Death caught them easily in one hand. “So?”

“So, if Miss Pastry Chef comes by, be careful what you sit on.” Cameron winked. “Or don’t be so careful. Your call.”

“Don’t insult me. I’m the most sought after male in existence.” Death threw the arrows into the corner. “I can get a woman to fall in love with me on my own. I would never stoop to an arrow.”

Cameron poked his head back in the almost closed door. “Then why, my good friend, are you still alone?”

***

There was nothing like seeing one of your fellow torture victims to make everything feel hunky dory. Or at least it made the fast track toward explosion seem a little less lonely.

Keeping Rocco anchored on his shoulder, Jarvis held the door to his penthouse suite open for Reina.

Nigel was sunning himself on the patio, wearing nothing but a bandana around his throat. Scars raked across his abdomen, and there was a new painting of a red and gold phoenix emblazoned across his chest. The sun was making the gold sparkle as if the bird was actually taking a siesta on the chest of a psychotic warrior with sensitivity issues. “Hey, painter boy, we’re home. Is dinner ready?”

Nigel rolled to his feet with the grace of a tiger. “You bring the vamp with you?” His eyebrows shot up when he saw Reina, and he immediately filched his hard core leather pants off a nearby lounge. “Sorry, Reina. Didn’t realize he was bringing girls home with him already.”

“Girls?” She shot Jarvis a curious look. “No, just me, this time.”

“I don’t bring any girls home,” Jarvis muttered. “You’re my first, for hell’s sake.” Not that it mattered. Seriously. It wasn’t like they were dating. But he wanted to make it clear anyway, you know. Just ’cause.

Reina said nothing, but he saw her mouth curve in a small smile. She was possessive of him? Huh. He didn’t really mind. Felt kinda good, actually.

But for good measure, he glared at Nigel anyway as he strode into his place. No need for the artist to interfere in Jarvis’s personal life. Then he saw Nigel’s concerned expression and his annoyance faded. “I’m fine,” he muttered.

“Are you?” Nigel took Rocco from Jarvis and slung him over his shoulder. “We need you. Don’t be an ass and get yourself killed. The boys would cry.”

Jarvis ground his jaw. “They’d party.”

“Yeah, sure they would.” Nigel gave him a long look. “You fight this mother fucker off,” he said quietly. “We’re not letting you go down now that you’re free. Just so you know.” Before Jarvis could answer, he began walking down the hall. “I’ll take a look at the kid. Stay here with Reina and find motivation to stay the fuck alive.” Nigel disappeared down the hall to the guest bedroom where they’d set up a sick bay.

Jarvis stared after them, unsettled by Nigel’s words. What did Nigel mean, they weren’t letting him go down? No way should his team be risking themselves to save him. Yeah, true, it was their code, but there were limits. Hell. He was going to have to dodge them and go solo, wasn’t he?

“They care about you,” Reina observed, sounding pleased.

Jarvis scowled and walked over to the fridge to get hydrated. “They’re loyal teammates.”

“No, it’s more than that.” She was studying him. “They know how dangerous you are, and they still care about you. You do realize that you couldn’t have so many people wanting you to live if you were nothing but hate, don’t you?”

He handed her a water bottle. “Let it go, Reina.”

Her mouth tightened as she took the drink, and he felt bad for rejecting her overture. But it was the right call. Her words made him want things to be different, and he couldn’t afford that.

Reina turned away, giving him her back. “Your place is interesting.”

She had her hands on her hips and was surveying his penthouse suite. Her shoulders were back and there was a determined jut to her chin. She wasn’t going down, and she wasn’t going to abandon him. Shit, he wasn’t going to go solo, was he? He had Reina with him, a woman he couldn’t contaminate. He didn’t have to be careful with her. He could simply be himself. She might not be a warrior, but she was his weapon, that was for damn sure. He needed her, and he couldn’t afford to piss her off enough to make her bail on him. So, he managed a decent smile of acknowledgement to her comment about his place, and he capitulated to meaningless, polite conversation as a silent apology for rejecting her overture. “I don’t like my place. It doesn’t feel right.”

Or it hadn’t. Not until Reina had been standing in the foyer. Suddenly, the skylights and floor to ceiling windows seemed to brighten. The wood floors seemed to be a richer color. The black leather couches looked softer.

“There’s something wrong with it. I’m glad you feel it.” She studied the room more carefully, her forehead wrinkled in a cute little frown as her feet sank into his plush carpet and she turned in place. “This place has no passion,” she said. “It’s empty. Cold.” She cocked her head. “You need passion. A fire in the soul.”

He snorted as he grabbed a beer from the mini-fridge one of the boys had set up in his living room. Water wasn’t cutting it. “Screw that. I got enough shit in my soul already.”

“Not that kind of passion,” Reina said thoughtfully. “Positive, energizing passion. Love.”

Jarvis paused at her words. Thought about it. Was that what he needed? It actually sounded appealing… oh, who was he kidding? “That’s not my avenue.”

“It is.” She ignored him and walked over to the painting he’d hung over the couch. It was a stark black and white modern art painting of who knew what. Just lines and shit. “This is how you see yourself.”

Jarvis took a swig of the beer, surprised by how much he liked seeing her leaning on his couch. A woman in his home. Felt right. Made his place feel better. “It’s a painting.”

“No, it’s you.” She trailed her finger over a thick, jagged black line, and Jarvis could almost feel his skin prickle as he imagined that same finger running down his arm. “Did you pick this out?”

He shifted, suddenly uncomfortable. “I just picked it randomly.”

“No.” She trailed her finger down another black line. “See all that black? And the white? That’s you. The black is your hate. The white is your soul. Fighting each other. Struggling for supremacy. Who wins? This painting is about conflict.”

Jarvis frowned at the decor. The jumble of black and white lines were jagged and sharp. Bold. Angry. White lines dominating black ones. Black ones cutting off white ones. Suddenly, he saw it as she did. A battle. Good versus evil. Toughness and conflict. Nothing at ease. Nothing peaceful. “It’s just a painting.” But even as he said it, he wanted to take it down. Burn it.

“Art is never just art. It always means something to those who respond to it.” She grabbed the edges and lifted it down. “This is bad energy. You don’t need it. It has to go.” She tucked it under her arm. “I’ve learned that it helps to put positive energy into my life. Sometimes it’s all that kept me going.”

Jarvis could have stopped her from interfering in his life. But all he felt was relief when she carried it out onto the patio and set it out of sight. The wall looked empty now. Barren. But better. He realized suddenly that the painting was why he’d never sat on his couch. It had loomed over him, and now it was gone. It was better.

Reina walked back inside, carrying a large piece of paper. “Nigel was drawing this outside. This is what you need.” She held it up, and he saw it was a drawing of a large green field, populated with pink and yellow flowers. All different shades of pinks and yellows.

He frowned, not liking how it reminded him of the forced decor in the Den. “I’m not a flower guy.”

She ignored him and propped the painting on the back of the couch. “This feels better,” she said. “I couldn’t handle that other one. This reminds me of the backyard of our house growing up. I used to play out there with my sisters. We used to try to catch butterflies.” She held up her hand to him. “Come feel this art,” she said. “Come feel the difference.”

“We have to go—”

“For one minute,” she said. “This is important. Come here.”

Grumbling, but drawn by a need to accept any excuse to touch her, Jarvis walked up beside her and let her take his hand. She gestured to the painting. “Can you see us? Playing there? Laughing?”

“No—” Jarvis had a sudden vision of Reina cavorting through the fields with butterflies. Lighthearted and free, before life had dealt her a tough hand. “Shit. I can.”

“What else do you see? For yourself?”

He frowned and studied the art. “It’s just—” Then he stopped. He suddenly remembered the field that he and Cameron used to go to, when Cameron would show him how the butterflies liked to dance. “I would stand completely still, and my brother would shoot me with one of his arrows. After he did it, the butterflies would land on me.”

Her eyes widened. “Really?”

“Yeah. It only lasted for a few minutes, but I still remember how their little feet felt. So light, almost like a breeze.” He pointed to a yellow flower. “That’s what color they were. Yellow.” He hadn’t thought of that in centuries. “The butterflies landing on me made me feel like I wasn’t a monster,” he said.

Reina squeezed his hand. “You aren’t.”

He didn’t feel like arguing. Not this time. He just kept looking at the painting and remembering that day. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

She raised her brows. “For getting rid of that other painting?”

“For making me remember the butterflies.”

She smiled and touched his face. “Good memories are worth keeping.”

He set his hand over hers and tried to imprint her tender smile into his mind. “Yes, they are.” He leaned forward and kissed her lightly. “You have given those back to me. My old ones, and you’ve given me new ones.”

She smiled. “And you’ve given me good memories as well. It’s been a long time.”

“Too long.” He hugged her then, just wanting to hold her while he thought about butterflies. Butterflies. Hah. The boys would laugh. But it didn’t matter. Reina was taking him places that just felt good. He took her hands and squeezed lightly, searching for the words to say, to explain how she made him feel. He didn’t know where to start, but he needed to try.