The Pale Waters (#1 Reclaimed Souls) Read online

  “A pleasure to be here? I wouldn’t be so sure of that, Rahda.”

  THREE

  I WATCH AS HE LEANS OVER and hands me a wine glass filled with dark, red liquid. He moves faster than I could have ever imagined someone doing.

  My teeth worry my bottom lip.

  If I’m with Roland Rexus—even thinking his name does unspeakable things to me—then maybe he won’t turn me away. Much depends on him accepting me. I try not to get my hopes up.

  It’s rumored that Roland has but four employees who work and live in the Palace Skyscraper. It’s doubtably untrue. How could anyone run a city with just four employees? Will I be the fifth?

  I expect him to ask questions about my research qualifications, my chemistry, biotechnical, and alloy resurfacing skills, or, at the very least the customary, dull questions about the weather, why the birds never came back, or why the water is black.

  He stares at me instead. Granted, I can’t see his eyes, but I feel his intense gaze strongly, like a magnetic pull.

  The matching glass in his hands sparkles ruby red as he drinks from it. I drink from mine, a tiny sip, almost in unison.

  “When can you start?” he asks, his voice clear. Decisive yet shielded. There’s more there, hidden. I long to learn of it, discover it. Discover him.

  “I—” don’t know what to say.

  “Expected an interview?”

  “Yes,” I say somewhat louder than I had anticipated. I don’t know why I’m feeling combative, maybe because I thought I knew what would happen. I never expected to be hired without so much as being asked one question.

  “You will be relieved to know that you conducted three interviews. The summons, my chief of staff, and just now, with me.”

  This was silly. It can’t be this easy. Waltz in. Meet the intensely reclusive boss. Get hired for the most exclusive job on the continent.

  “How do you know I’m the right applicant?” Why the hell are you questioning him, Rahda?

  “You’ll find that I have a way of knowing who should and who should not work for me. Up until you, no one passed my three distinct interviews. Not one.”

  I feel the urge to challenge him.

  “Did I pass all three interviews?” I ask somewhat defiantly. I shouldn’t have been so bold, and I shouldn’t have asked a question I didn’t know the answer to. I should have just thanked him, answered the question, and shut up.

  Roland laughs again. This time, I catch the edge of his jaw; the firelight bounces off him for the briefest second. I expect smooth skin, a handsome chin, a full mouth. Like how I remembered it from my youth. Instead, his square jaw is puckered, pink, and scarred. He moves back into the shadows before I discover more.

  Suddenly a lot of things make sense.

  Roland Rexus didn’t remember me… and why would he? I was but a child and he was already a man back then. He is only hiring someone with my particular talents.

  “No,” he says thoughtfully with a touch of playfulness. I could tell he was enjoying this. “You only passed two.”

  FOUR

  I HEAR HIS LAUGHTER ONCE MORE, and I wonder if he can read my thoughts. Surely he thinks I am the stupidest person alive.

  “You never answered my question, Rahda.”

  I shake my head, thinking. “Which question is that, sir?”

  “Sir!” he barks out. “None of that here. Call me Roland.” I believe my insides will melt if I say his name out loud. “When can you start?”

  “Oh!” I say quickly, forgetting that he asked that. I still have a hard time understanding that I am actually in front of the man who I have been dying to see again, and here he is, asking me when I can begin my work for him. Did I throw all of that training out the window? What about common sense? “Immediately.”

  His hands clap.

  “Excellent. Now, there’s a matter of weapons.”

  Dear Goddess. Absently, I rub my lips together.

  “Weapons?” I repeat. Maybe the man can read my mind. I own only what you see me wearing right now. An inferior, though thick, wool fabriskin robe and a scarf I bought yesterday with the last coin I possessed. What do you see when you see me?

  “Did I stutter?” The playful voice is replaced by a hardened tone, one a lifelong criminal would confess to. His legs uncross and then cross again. How would he know? How could he know?

  A small sigh escapes his lips, and I feel the urge to know what those lips look like, feel like on me.

  “I am not in the habit of carrying weapons. I don’t exactly have a place to carry them.” This is a lie, and he knows it. I could easily hide something as large as a crossbow under these fabriskin robes.

  “Take off your scarf.”

  I shake my head. “This is ridiculous.”

  Another sigh comes from his dark corner, and his hand moves. Something clicks on. A silver communicator tablet. “Cat, please escort—”

  “Wait!” I practically yell, yanking the black scarf off my head. I stand up as I do so and in the process, I end up several feet closer to Roland as the whisper-thin black fabric falls to the ground and my dark hair, finally loosened from its prison, falls around my shoulder blades.

  Roland, head bent down, hiding, quickly grabs the scarf and recedes back into his corner. I see more of his jaw, the scars, the unnatural skin. My own skin shudders.

  “Do not ever contradict me, Rahda.” His voice could cut glass. It could, and probably will, cut through me if I am not careful. I nod my consent. This job is too important to suddenly lose it on the first day and in the first hour. “Where is your weapon, Rahda?”

  “I don’t have one—”

  Instantly, he’s on his feet and, while he is mostly shadows, he is nearly on me, inches from touching me, and I’m not sure if it is the fire or Roland that has my skin burning.

  “Are you going to make me do this?” he asks, his voice biting its way into my head. Tilting. Turning. Confusing. I don’t know how I feel, but I don’t feel sane right now.

  “Do what?” I whisper, swallowing. My throat is paper thin because of his nearness. He is so close. Suddenly, my shoulder is on fire. I turn to inspect. His hand is there, through the metallic fabriskin robes, heavy, burning, marking me. I try to find his eyes, his mouth, anything but that damn scar on his right jaw, but I see nothingness. Shadows. An outline of a face—once handsome—a downturn of lips, heavy threaded eyebrows, dark eyes, dark hair. A beastly prince.

  I am repulsed by the changes just as much as I am aroused by them.

  His voice is husky when he says, “Take off your clothes.”

  FIVE

  “WHAT DID YOU SAY?” I WHISPER. He is close enough that I can smell the fragrant wine on his breath. He stands in front of the fire, a black silhouette. Now his other hand is on my other shoulder. Scorching. Hot.

  I’m delirious.

  Trapped, and willfully so, it would seem. I can easily run in the opposite direction—to the door behind me on the far side of the room, or even the door that Cat disappeared into—but I won’t. Can’t. He doesn’t trust me, and he shouldn’t. But I didn’t expect this turn of events. I didn’t expect to feel this way so quickly, which is stupid since I’ve been in love with this prince for ages. But doubts creep in. There is a war going on inside me. Bickering. Plotting. Fighting. Surrendering.

  The fire roars behind him, the flames flare and lick around his dark figure. I should be scared—and maybe I am—but knowing that he’s touching me, staring at me, is enough to make everything inside of me quake.

  I wonder if he feels me shivering beneath his fingertips. Surely the entire building can feel it. Left in this spot with his hands on me, I have no doubt that I could create another crack in the floor.

  Then his hands move over to my neck in a hypnotically slow manner; fingertips travel further up, and he sinks his fingers into my hair. Threading, kneading. And I melt as his head comes in lower, his lips nearly touch my ear. If he kisses me, I’m lost.

  Not true… I
was lost the moment I walked into this room.

  Roland tilts my head.

  Then he ruins the moment.

  His fingers grab my hair, holding me hostage, and he says in a low tone directly into my ear, “I am not a fool, Rahda. I know why you’re here, and I know who sent you. Did you think you were unique? Special? We’ll dance a little—I’ll pretend that you don’t have a hidden agenda—and then I’ll send you away empty-handed, and I can positively tell you that I won’t care about whatever fate awaits you. I said take off your clothes.” He hisses the last part.

  His words shock me to the core. He knows! This changes everything. I’m not prepared for this. None of it. But I have no choice. If I have to remove my clothes to convince him I’m not who he already knows I am, then I better hurry.

  His hands are no longer on me. Whether he pushed me back or I stepped back on my own, I’ll never know, but it is all me as my fingers fumble with the toggle clasps at my chest, and the metallic, wool blend fabriskin cascades down my milky white breasts, taut rosy nipples, flat stomach, over wide hips, and gathers around my feet in a shimmery pool of softness. Lifting an eyebrow at his shadow, I step out of the fabric and stand proudly. I am mostly shadows, too, or so I hope, but surely the firelight casts my silhouette in a more favorable manner.

  Nothing but heat stands between his eyes and my naked, unmarked skin. His stance changes, and I wonder if he means to retreat to his chair and inspect me as one might appraise a priceless specimen. Instead, he moves around me as silently as an assassin. Inspecting the curvy applicant in front of him. Unless feminine curves were a legitimate weapon to Roland Rexus, he won’t find whatever he thought he would on me. They never do.

  As his shadow returns to my front—I haven’t moved one inch during his assessment—he bends down, low, near my feet. His hands gather the fabric and, as he slowly rises, I take in his thick, dark, wavy hair and a non-scarred forehead. The fabriskin robe moves up with him.

  He pauses at my sex, his face inches away, and a small groan escapes my lips. I’m not sure, but I think I hear Roland growl a low grunt. I can feel his breathing on me. It takes my entire willpower not to step into him, to let my delicate smooth skin make contact with his lips, and let whatever happens happen. But I maintain my statue-like stance and his pause isn’t as long as I would have liked it to have been, and he gently secures the fabriskin robe up my body, allowing my arms inside, and fastens it low between my breasts. His fingers linger.

  I wouldn’t mind a splash of cold water right about now. I wouldn’t mind inspecting him in the same manner, either.

  Roland steps away from me, clears his throat, and then retreats into his chair. He doesn’t seem as confident. His movements are unsteady as he brings the wine glass to his lips. I wonder if he imagines that I am that wine, ingesting me, tasting me.

  I swallow hard and stand there. Trying to look calm, but I’m anything but.

  “It seems I am mistaken, Rahda,” he says from his corner. “Cat is on the other side of the door and will show you to your room. Goodnight,” he says in a quiet, dismissive tone.

  What I want to say in a challenging manner is, No, you are not mistaken, but instead I say, “Goodnight, Roland.” I turn and leave his mysterious, alluring figure in the dark room behind me. Somehow, I know that he won’t stop me, and I’m both relieved and disappointed.

  SIX

  IN ONE SENSE, I FEEL A small victory. I challenged the equilibrium of my new boss, but it wasn’t completely one-sided. I must admit that I barely made it out of there with my wits about me. If he only knew. If he only knew how close I was to crumbing in his hands. How close I was to throwing myself at him, mission be damned.

  I close the door and find his chief of staff waiting against the opposite wall. I expect her to ask a million questions—outright and veiled—but instead, she congratulates me, leads me down yet another long yellow hallway, through a lush tropical atrium filled with brick pathways amongst dazzling flowers, tall canopy leaves, exotic trees that house tiny white monkeys, and a small purified and drinkable waterfall, all of which sit beneath a thick clear glass in the ceiling that would either display a gray day or a dark, moon-filled night. The entire structure takes my breath away.

  Tonight, the stormy sky above cast eerie shadows as I follow Cat into the center of the tropical gardens.

  “The Gardens are open to the public during the day, so avoid it if you can, but it is the quickest route to your suites from the executive floor,” she tells me.

  “Can I come here at night?”

  She pauses for a brief second. “Yes, of course, but you might have company.” The way she answers me tells me she isn’t open to further questioning about that. I assume she means Roland. But I don’t feel confident in that assessment.

  I decide to take a closer look at Cat Evinas, Roland’s chief of staff and my current guide through the staggeringly huge Palace Skyscraper. Cat also wears a metallic fabriskin robe, but the material is blueish-black, silkier, sheerer, and encrusted with black jade stones at the hem. My own wardrobe is downright pitiful in comparison.

  Cat stops at a low-lighted lamp.

  Beneath her robe, something glitters: a thin silver dagger sits in a sheath attached by a silky braided rope around her slim hips. She wears nothing else beneath the robe and, where not tattooed, her hairless skin is a soft, peachy color. Long fingers point at items as she describes something—which, at the moment, is a pink-tipped horned toad once thought to be extinct.

  “Roland loves saving animals,” Cat declares with warmth in her voice and for the first time, I wonder if she is more than his chief of staff. She is exotic, different, lovely. Feline-like. When she looks at me, it feels like she’s looking right through me, like I’m transparent. Perhaps Cat is someone he saved. I don’t want to be jealous, but I am.

  “What exactly does a chief of staff do?”

  “Whatever Roland needs. I take care of the employees, the Palace, and him.”

  I’m definitely jealous.

  We reach the end of The Gardens, and Cat types a sequence of numbers into a pad butted up against a corner wall, and a hidden door hisses open.

  Immediately, the air feels different. Less heavy. “We pump extra oxygen into The Gardens,” she explains once the door behind us seals itself shut. I hear something and I look around Cat to see what it is. Down another long hallway, a set of small, rotating elevators hum a welcoming tune. We walk to it. The lifts appear to be on a loop; one set takes you to the floors below while the other to the floors above. I try to recall how many floors the palace claims. Twelve? Twenty? From the ground view up, the top of the Palace Skyscraper reaches the clouds that cover the city.

  Cat steps into one of the lifts as I stare at her rising form.

  “The Palace appears to be rather advanced,” I say as I enter the next lift, making it swing slightly. It didn’t stop as I had expected, and Cat had to explain to me that since it moves so slow, it’s more efficient to step into one instead of stopping it, stepping in, and starting it up again. All I can think about is that it doesn’t seem worth it just to save a couple of seconds.

  “Just wait until you see the northwest wing. Timing is everything,” Cat says, smoothly stepping off the lift two floors up. “So far, no accidents.”

  I stumble from the elevator, step on my fabriskin robe, and tear it up to my hip. Not even the hum of the lifts masks the awful sound as the metal fabric springs apart, and the tiny black slivers splatter everywhere. Luckily, Cat catches me before I completely fall to the floor, but my bag slides off my left arm, into the empty space between the floor and the lift, and crashes several floors below.

  “My bag!”

  Cat shushes me, straightens me out, and taps a few buttons onto a slim communicator tablet.

  “No need to worry, Rahda. I’ll have a bot bring everything up to your room.” She sees the concern on my face and she turns her tablet and shows me a real-time layout of the floor plan several levels below
us. A small blinking dot moves about swiftly, apparently picking up my purse and whatever ejected from it. “See. All taken care of. The bot will be in your room before us. Now,” she clicks her tongue at me, “your robe isn’t serviceable.”

  I realize that the front flap of my fabriskin robe is open from the waist down, exposing me completely to Cat. She doesn’t seem the least bit fazed. Cat grabs a loose corner and quickly fixes it to a higher point on my robe, using some sort of quick drying adhesive, creating a lop-sided hem.

  “It will have to work until we reach your suites,” she says smartly, winking. “Very nice figure, by the way. Almost there.” She leads me down a thin corridor lined with tall windows and turns left once the walls are a warmer mahogany wood color, the floor thickly carpeted, and the lights low. The area is less industrial and more residential.

  Decorative sconces, mirrors, and hallway dressers line both sides of the welcoming passageway. I can just barely make out my shadowy reflection, catching glimpses of my disheveled hair. I just now remember that Roland kept my scarf.

  I notice the two-foot service robot beside a door, presumably my room. It is holding my purse up high on a metal arm-rod, eagerly waiting for me to take it. I feel around the bag’s outside to ensure my tablet is inside. It is.

  “Thank you,” I tell it just as it scurries away, its little wheels working hard against the carpet.

  I look up at the door. On a gold placard, in large letters, the words Research Assistant Seven are etched in. It looks brand new.

  “What happened to the other six?” I ask, meaning the other six research assistants before me.

  Cat hesitates, but then says, “They did not work out as anticipated. But,” she says and smiles brightly, “you are here now and you’ll have a busy day tomorrow. You’ll find a booklet of instructions in your room. Good night.”

  I reach out to stop her. Her robe is so smooth and beautiful, I dare not touch it. “I seem to have a wardrobe issue,” I say, my face burning red. I can’t wear a torn fabriskin robe tomorrow, not when I have to worry about everything else I have to do.