Page 18 of In Death's Hands
“It is what it is. You of all people should have grown accustomed to it by now.” I catch some shuffling noises before the woman’s voice rings again. “So? When is it?”
Nathan doesn’t answer.
“What have you—”
“The Novensiles attacked her twice yesterday, wanting her dead.”
A gasp fills the heavy silence following his statement, and I understand my mistake when the door opens suddenly, offering a prime view of Nathan’s stunned face. I imagine it’s a mirror of my own.
“Liv. How are you?”
“Who’re the Novensiles? Do you know who attacked me?”
His jaw locks as suddenly as the door opened. I’m about to double down on him, determined to get answers, when the feminine voice breaks the tension gathering beneath my skin.
“Hi there!”
My gaze slowly moves towards this new person, and I’m not sure what to think of the unicorn vision I’m having. The woman—girl?—is a bubble of pink contrasted by the grey background of London. Wearing a pink high-waisted skirt with a very fluffy, very pink crop cardigan, fuchsia platform heels and a tiny matching bag that I’m sure can only hold a phone, she could give Elle Woods a run for her money.
I feel my eyes widen but I’m pretty sure that’s the only thing working in me. Surprisingly, it’s Nathan’s chuckle that sets me free. I send a sheepish smile at the bubblegum woman along with a lame little wave. “Hi,” I croak.
She seems used to the reaction because she only smiles wider, and this time I focus on her features. Delicate face with piercing green eyes and long blond hair. She’s lovely. More than lovely. I’m pretty sure centuries ago men would have burned her as a witch, assuming she drank the souls of lost virgins in order to steal their youth and beauty. Yeah, that kind of lovely.
She saunters closer to me—and yes, saunters, because there’s no way in hell I’m calling what she’s doing walking—sending a whiff of a sweet, flowery perfume my way. “I’m Turan,” she says while extending her manicured hand.
What a strange name.
“Liv,” I answer just as Nathan says, “She was just leaving.”
For an uncomfortable second, I think he’s talking about me, but when I look at him he’s only shooting daggers at Turan. Nope, still not used to that name. Where does it come from? She’s rather tanned, like she just came back from a fancy holiday on an island somewhere far away, and, like Nathan, she doesn’t have any recognisable accent. They both sound educated but their words have a lilt like nothing I’ve heard before. I know women around the globe would smite me for saying so, but the English accent on a man is nothing special. At least not when you grow up hearing it. Nathan’s voice, however, tugged me in from the first moment I heard it. As if pulling on some forgotten thread in me. I can’t help but wonder where it could lead.
“Are you guys related?”
They both start, but not more than me, for I didn’t mean to ask that.
“In a manner of speaking, yes,” Nathan answers, sending a strange look to his… cousin? Sister?
They don’t seem willing to expand on the subject, and Turan only sends a tight smile my way. “Same strange, distant family is the best way to describe it.”
“Oookay,” I exhale, and look at them. “So how come you know who wanted to kill me?” What? It’s already awkward as shit, might as well capitalise on it.
“Actually,” says Turan, turning to face Nathan, “I’d like the answer to that myself.”
Running his hand through his hair, Nathan sighs and looks into the distance. While I observe his muscles flexing under hisshirt, I wonder if he’s trying to find a way not to answer my question. He turns to look at me and takes my hand to lead me to the couch, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from Turan that has me entirely puzzled. His hand is gentle on my skin, yet the reaction it provokes is anything but.
While I drop onto the comfortable cushions, Turan sits down next to me with the grace of a princess. Nathan chooses to go back to pacing, and if the light wasn’t shining through the tall windows and a newcomer wasn’t warming my side, I’d say no time has passed since last night, when the crackling fire was the only thing lighting the path he wore on the plush white carpet.
Also, who even has a white carpet? And why aren’t there tomato sauce and red wine stains all over it? No, it does not matter. Yes, it does bother me. Immensely. But maybe not as much as who tried to kill me. I think.
Looking at the woman next to me, Nathan says, “Some henchmen came after her yesterday, and though she defended herself remarkably well, it was a close call.”
I feel a lick of pride at his words. I did defend myself well. Although I’m honest enough to admit that without his intervention, that would have meant squat in the end.
Turan turns to give me a concerned look. “Are you okay?”
“Eh…” I shrug. “I’m used to close calls.”
Nathan clears his throat, and I swear I can feel my skin buzzing, but his cousin/sister/whatever stays hyper-focused on me. It’s a little unnerving. “That wasn’t an answer.”
