Page 82 of Curses & Keys
A white Porsche Taycan Turbo idles at the curb outside, and I almost whistle. The guard beside it dips his chin when weget in, then disappears. “Harlequin certainly provides the best.” Instead of taking off like I want, I carefully ease into traffic.
Gatlin pokes his head between the front seats. “Drop me off at the next corner.” He turns to Phaedra. “I added a knife to your bag that can do a hell of a lot of damage. Remember, kill first.”
We stop, and he maneuvers his massive body out of the car and taps the hood. The cameras will pick him up for a second, but he’ll be gone by the time they realize it.
Merging back into traffic, I head toward the outskirts and Heathrow. Phaedra unzips the bag on her chest and pulls out a serrated knife. She lifts a piece of paper and slices right through it with one stroke.
“Damn. I might have to ask Gatlin for one of those.”
She grins. “He definitely knows the way to my heart.” Her face flushes. “I mean. Not that. He hasn’t. Never mind.” She grips the handle. “It’s perfectly balanced too.”
The airport comes into view. “Which terminal?”
“Five,” she replies.
I pull up to the curb. “If you see anything suspicious, leave. We’ll try again later.” She waves a hand and moves to get out, but I grab her arm. “Keep your head down and hat on. Don’t look up. The lockers are next to the luggage carousels. Down one floor.”
Her bright blue eyes dart to me. “Stop worrying. You’ll get grey hair.”Or a heart attack, she mutters as she steps out of the car and slams the door.
The wait is interminable. Minutes tick by. The airport police come by twice to ask me to move, but I flash a badge at them. I impatiently tap my fingers against the steering wheel. Why the hell did I let her talk me into this? What if something has gone wrong? I open the car door and get out.
She comes staggering up, and I quickly get back into the driver’s seat.
“Hurry,” she sputters, lifting a bloody hand from her side while she stashes the wrapped item under the seat. “I need sutures. Head back to London. A friend of mine, Greta, can do them. I’ll guide you once we get there.” She closes her eyes.
I reach over and try to infuse a little healing into the wound, but nothing happens. “It’s not healing. Damn it. Don’t go to sleep on me.”
She shakes her head but doesn’t open her eyes.
“If you don’t wake up, I’m going to pull this car into the nearest hospital and turn us both in.”Open your beautiful eyes. That’s it. Come on.
Blue eyes, full of pain, slide toward me.
She chuckles, but it’s weak. “You’re not much of a nursemaid. Good thing Hawthorne had me and not you.” Her head lolls on the headrest. “Take this exit. 1122 Hartly.” She slurs the last few words.
I order the voice assistant to navigate to the address using the quickest route. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” I bang my hand on the steering wheel. She doesn’t move. I ignore stop signs and push the car to its limits to get to the address. Screeching to a halt, I run around and pick her up, then rush to the door of the small, attached house.
A stooped, grey-haired lady answers the door. She takes one glance at Phaedra and ushers us into her kitchen. “Lay her down on the table. I’ll get my kit.”
The table is pristine. I carefully set her down on it and whip off my jacket to place under her head. Brushing the smooth dark strands back from her face, I stare down at her pinched expression. Even unconscious, she is hurting.
“I’m Greta,” the lady announces when she comes back into the kitchen. Setting a silver tray on the counter, she quickly cuts away Phaedra’s shirt until she can see the wound. “Oooh, that’sa nasty one. Not made with a regular blade. A jambiya made that cut.”
My brows come together. “What?”
“A curved dagger, typically made of silver or gold,” she says without looking at me. Her entire focus is on the cut. “She usually heals faster than this.” She bends down and sniffs. “What do you smell?”
I bend closer to the wound and wrinkle my nose. “Licorice?”
“Very good,” she replies, moving to a nearby cabinet. “I’m guessing they coated the blade with anise oil. It causes temporary paralysis. Or at least, temporary for her. It can be quite lethal to others. Like us.” She grabs a brown bottle from the second shelf and returns to Phaedra.
“This is going to sting,” she tells me. “Hold her down.”
I place my hands on Phaedra’s shoulders, and the woman tips the bottle over the open wound, pouring a dime size amount into the flayed skin. Phaedra’s body arches, but thankfully, she doesn’t wake.
“Done,” the woman states matter-of-factly. “It will take a few hours, but she’ll be right as rain. That will be two thousand pounds.” She thrusts her hand out, palm up.
Damn it. We only have the burners with us. “I don’t suppose you take credit, do you?” She doesn’t blink. “Rolex?” I point to my watch, and a spark of interest appears.
