· PARISA ·
Think, Parisa thought. Emotions were for losers.
“Is that a gun?” she asked leisurely, twisting around as much as she could without setting off a bullet for noncompliance. “Seems off-brand for you, Eden.”
“It’s enough of one,” Eden Wessex replied in her ear. “Top-of-the-line Wessex model, actually.”
Like a blaster then, pew pew. What an uncivilized death. Suddenly it seemed unacceptable, the possibility of being shot by a woman wearing a pair of shoes that Parisa didn’t even like. It surged up in her like an epiphany, an idea. A spark of thought.
Think.
No, wait. Don’t think. Parisa flexed her fingers, magic reigniting in her veins. Okay, so it wasn’t her time, then. Not yet. If the archives were still owed a body, it hadn’t decided yet on hers. No point dwelling on how or why.
Don’t think, Parisa.
Act.
Turn the gun around. Eden’s wrist snapped so hard from the intensity of Parisa’s command that Parisa wondered if she’d broken it. Perhaps that was overdoing it a little, or maybe not. Parisa whipped around to take hold of Eden’s throat, backing her against the wall of the gastropub and digging in with perfectly manicured fingers.
Give it to me.
The effort of raising her arm looked painful. Parisa felt a little sorry for Eden Wessex, though ultimately not sorry enough. “Thank you,” Parisa said, reaching for the gun—it was pistol-shaped, if not an actual pistol—and tucking it into her purse. “Does that thing have a safety? Never mind, I’m sure I’ll sort it out.” She tightened her grip on Eden, who was looking dangerously contrarian now. Never good to underestimate someone whose magic Parisa didn’t know. She searched Eden’s thoughts, wondering where they’d travel; where the other woman kept the reserves of her strength. Nothing. “Who else is hunting us?”
“Fuck you,” spat Eden.
Fine. Eden winced as Parisa asked, ever so politely, Who else is hunting us?
Well, Eden was strong-willed, but had no telepathic defenses to speak of. Parisa caught the tail ends of names and faces, some of which she recognized, most she didn’t. Nothazai was only the de facto captain of a much larger team, its members recruited by the same man Parisa already knew to be Atlas Blakely’s six-foot problem. “That’s quite a task force.”
“You’re dead.” Eden wasn’t snarling anymore. Most likely she’d realized it was a waste of her energy, and now she was making an effort to calm herself down, to slow her breathing. A much better tactic. Despite herself, Parisa approved. “All of you, you’re dead. Kill me and someone will still come for you. Someone will find you. They’ll come after you,” she said flatly, “and they won’t stop.”
That sounded like the truth, unfortunately. Not that Parisa felt the situation had escalated to hopeless, but it certainly wasn’t ideal. Also, Eden was taller, and Parisa’s arm was starting to strain from holding her like this.
Fine. Parisa released her, taking a step back, and Eden’s eyes went wary, flicking from Parisa’s face to her purse, calculating how hard it would be to grab the gun. Idiot. Not exactly the kind of thought you let a telepath be privy to.
Unless, Parisa realized, you have no choice.
“You’re not a medeian,” Parisa realized aloud, and nearly started laughing when Eden flinched, her cheeks instantly flushed with Nova-tinted humiliation. “You don’t have any magic at all.” Embarrassing, not to mention dangerous. “How’d you cover that up? With Daddy’s money, I suppose?”
It didn’t matter what Eden’s answer was because Eden Wessex’s significance in Parisa Kamali’s life had already been eclipsed by something else, something more troubling. Parisa had somewhere else to be, so she turned and began to walk.
Eden Wessex called after her, the trot of expensive footwear echoing in Parisa’s wake. “Where do you think you’re going? You can’t run from this—”
No, she couldn’t. That was precisely the problem, that Parisa had always known that. It would never end, the running.
Nasser had said that to her once. If you run, Parisa, you’ll only be running for the rest of your life.
She turned and locked eyes with Eden. “I’d tell you to go fuck yourself, but I’m worried you’d have too good a time.”
Eden’s eyes narrowed. If she had backups on the way, they’d been too slow. God, the hubris. Had she thought Parisa was just another hot girl in expensive shoes? Parisa could take one look at her and rearrange her brain, scramble her thoughts before serving Eden Wessex her own sanity over easy.
Stay, she told Eden, who was then affixed to the spot on the pavement. It would take some considerable effort to undo, but that wasn’t Parisa’s problem.
She walked away, returning to the question of where to procure a phone. She had, most pressingly, a question, and then after that she had an errand.
The archives were still owed a body.
If no one else was willing to take care of it, she would.
