Pure & Sinful (Pure Souls) Page 6

  Dee clicked his tongue but kept his eyes fixed on the magazine. “Just an email yesterday to tell me she gave up on getting the rest of Jerry out of her shirt. What’s up, Marc? You were never this concerned when Nicolai didn’t check in.”

  The priest flinched, but didn’t vocalize. Unlike Riona, their last Keystone witch had never appeared in his dreams wearing nothing but the hood of a nun’s habit and a sheen of sweat.

  “I’m sure she’s fine,” Dee continued. “Probably still a bit off kilter is all. Your first demon explosion tends to stick with you. Or, in Riona’s case, stick on you.”

  A grunt and a groan accompanied the shift of iron in Marc’s hands. Three days of doing the early-morning workout thing hadn’t helped much in the sleep department, but it still occupied his time better than lying on his bed with his eyes open, trying not to think about how great it would be to roll over and see the sleeping, red-headed female curled up next to him. “Do you think… forty-six… we should go over and check on her?”

  “No, Marc, I think Riona’s a big girl and she’ll be just fine. She’d let us know if she needed anything. Been awhile between Keystones. You’ve forgotten how the separation builds up your anxiety.”

  The corner of Marc’s mouth pulled tight. “Why do you deal with that so much better than I do? Even with Nicolai, that one time he took off to Minsk for a week, I was sweating bullets and you were cool as a cucumber.”

  Dee’s shoulders did the wave. “I expel a lot of my nerves with a great amount of sexual activity. It helps. All these workouts should be doing the same for you. I wonder…” He glanced back at his magazine, before adding rhetorically, “It’s like you’re addicted to her.”

  Marc hoped that the workout reddened his face enough to conceal the blush he’d otherwise have to explain. Quickly, he moved to finish the set. “Forty-seven…. Forty-eight…. Forty–ugh-nine… Fifty!”

  Slam.

  Marc looked to Dee, waiting to be congratulated and declared an exemplar of iron-packing prodigies, as the weight-laden barbell kissed the ground. With the rate he was hitting up the equipment, a Mr. World prize wasn’t too absurd a goal, though the priest was sure the Vatican would disapprove if he showed up to the competition in nothing but a collar and a pair of Speedos.

  What he got from the demigod, however, was a whole bunch of You’re expecting something from me? and an eye roll. “Half the soccer moms and forty-three percent of the old grannies who come in here can do twice the reps at that weight. Did you want a participation medal or something?”

  Toweling off his sweat-glistened brow, out of breath, and feeling the San Andreas fault running the length of his biceps, Marc plopped on the bench next to his friend.

  He glanced at the glossy spread. “Better Homes & Gardens?”

  “Yeah, so?”

  An eyebrow quirked in surprise as the priest just sat there, waiting for Dee to explain. Or to come out of the closet. Come to think of it, considering his flagrant womanizing….

  “Look, just because I’m built like Schwarzenegger, run a gym, and get more tail than a lobster fisherman doesn’t mean a guy like me doesn’t eventually want to settle down and plant a tulip garden someday.”

  “You’ll forgive my confusion, Dee, but you do a really good impression of someone who is perfectly happy with his relationships being … well, kinda brief.”

  “I’ve lived a long, varied, and fruitful life, Marc. You haven’t known me all that long.”

  Marc chuckled. “Four years isn’t long?”

  “Relatively speaking? No.” The magazine closed as Dee took a very sincere posture. “Just how old do you think I am?”

  From tip to toe, Dee was the embodiment of mature, yet youthful rock-hard muscle. Not a wrinkle or a grey hair breached his exterior. He could drink like an Irishman and pop up as fresh and sober as a Japanese executive the next morning.

  “Thirty-five?”

  The demigod was clearly amused. “Sixty-eight.”

  “No, really…” Marc’s voice dissolved into a dismissive cackle. When Dee didn’t join him or let him in on the joke, he realized he was being sincere. “Holy shit, Dee. How the hell is that possible?”

  “Good genes. Godly, even.”

  “So you … You’re what, immortal?” Sure, he knew his demigod friend had some great genetics going on, but since Dee didn’t like to talk about his Greek relations and everything their existence culminated in, the topic had never come up.

  Dee folded the magazine and put it under his arm. “Hell, no. Ain’t no such thing. Even the members of my divine family tree will die eventually. Some of them I kind of wish would sooner rather than later. But me? I just age slower. About twice as slow, actually. Side effect of the half-god thing. Why the hell do you think Sophia Loren looked so damned good well into her senior years?”

  Marc was more than a little jealous. “Awesome.”

  “Like hell!” The folded magazine dropped to the floor as Dee rose to his feet. “You try getting a date for prom when you look like a reject from the Barney school gang. Look, Marc, there’s no problem letting you in here like this before we open, but it’s still a business and I got some stuff to take care of. You mind if I…?”

  Marc gave him a go-ahead wave. “I don’t need babysitting, Mr. Zitka.” A wry wink resulted in Dee’s giving him an encore of As the Eyes Roll. Just to prove how capable he was and all responsible and stuff like a big boy, Marc stood as Dee exited, leaned over, and wrapped his hands tightly around the cool metal of the barbell. “I’m just going to do one more set… and then… hit…” grunt “…the…” groan “…showers. Ow! Motherfffff…fig tree!”

  Ripping, burning, all-out pain overtook Marc as his muscles spontaneously formed a labor union and declared a strike. His right arm felt like it just been tossed to a pit bull to be used as a chew toy.

  In a blur, Dee jumped back through the door. “What? What happened? Demon? Goblin? Scientologist?”

  The good father massaged his ego and his arm, clutching at both and whining with a level of expertise often displayed only by teenage girls and Democrats. “Arm. Hurt.”

  Some silent prayers may have been whispered as well. Though, frankly, Marc knew from a lack of winning lottery tickets and an inability to wake up without a hangover and a hard-on the fat lot of no good that did.

  “Let me see it, you big baby.”

  Dee eyed the injury up close. For a moment he sighed, then closed his eyes as his lips began to move in a silent invocation.

  “Tried that already.”

  “Shh!”

  Venom filled his glare before Dee’s eyes closed again and his soundless recitation resumed. Marc obeyed, holding his tongue while Dee held his arm. Each moment, the pain grew more demanding, intense, until, before he knew what was happening, the flow reversed. Dee’s chanting became an audible chanson, the words ancient and obviously magical. Finally, after several minutes, all traces of pain subsided, leaving the priest relieved and more than a little mystified.

  Marc’s arm fell back to his side, good as new. “Thank God.”

  “Well, only a demigod, but you’re welcome anyways.” Dee grinned conspiratorially.

  “How did you…? How did you do…?”

  The demigod fingers planted themselves into Marc’s chest. “Shht! No one knows I can do that, okay? We demigods, we’re only supposed to have one gift. All part of the agreement with the Council of Seven not to lose our status, curb superhuman feats of power, etc. Mine’s my strength, but Dad had Panaceia sneak me the ability to heal on the side.”

  As a promise, Marc mimicked locking his lips and throwing away the key. “Well, I’ll take that as a message from the divine that I probably should just hit the showers.”

  “Yeah, Marc, it’s an immaculate suggestion.”

  D
ee groaned as he entered his office a few minutes later. What a mess, he thought. It wasn’t that Dee was an exceptionally disorganized person, but he did have a tendency to mark his territory in yellow: manila folders and sticky notes. Maybe being a Pure Soul had made him overly suspicious, but examining each and every new member file was an obsession, just to be sure no demons or other beasties masquerading as humans snuck their way onto his elliptical machines. Not that you could tell by a picture or an address, but street-class demons weren’t the brightest light bulbs. They normalized towards true stupidity, picking give-away human names. Like Damien. How freaking imbecilic were they that a third of them branded themselves with the archetypal moniker for evil?

  The last handful of newbies cleared his suspicions, though. A Phoebe, a Rachel, a Joey… What the hell, had the cast from Friends just moved into town? There was a Lucien, but even the Big Bad Boss wouldn’t be so stupid to use anything so close to his real name. Not to mention, even a fallen angel didn’t have use for a gym. Angels altered their human forms to the purpose of their earthly missions, and if Lucifer wanted to fit in on Muscle Beach, it wasn’t a problem for him to look like a Kazakh weightlifter in his heyday on a whim.

  “Personally, if I were you…”

  Dee’s head shot up to find Riona Dade, disheveled and looking completely drained, leaning against his door frame.

  “… I’d fire your secretary, or pay her a hell of a lot more.”

  As she sauntered in and sat in the chair across the way, he took a good gander at her from head to foot. Her red hair gave greasy an updated look, and lay like saucy, sticky spaghetti clumps. Her fair skin, usually well-hydrated and powder smooth, sported blotches and paste as though hung in a modern art museum. Riona could at least boast clean clothes, but wrinkles creased the fabric as though she slept in that same exact Nike tee last night and hadn’t bothered to change.

  “How’re the luggage sales going?”

  Riona cocked her head to the side.

  “Sorry, but given those bags under your eyes, thought you opened up your own store.”

  She expelled a hefty sigh. “I wish.” Her eyes lost focus as she looked away. “Haven’t been sleeping well. Bad dreams and stuff. And, oh yeah, then Ramiel showed up.”

  Dee dropped his pencil, leaning back in his chair and treating her to a healthy chuckle. “Uh-oh, looks like they’ve decided you’re ready to assume your jurisdiction. You must have really knocked their socks off, going after your ex and all. So, what’s the job this time?”

  Her face screwed up. “Something we’re going to need Marc’s help with. A lot.”

  The witch fell silent, as though all her energy were being used just to breathe in and out.

  “Hey, Riona?” Slowly her eyes focused in on him. “Honey, really, you don’t look so good.”

  She threw her hands up and scoffed, “Dreams, Dee. The dreams are getting to me.”

  He nodded, like it wasn’t exactly news to him. “I know the fat load of good this doesn’t do to tell you, but being the Keystone, your dreams are going to be a lot more vivid now. Especially bad ones. You’re tapped into everyone’s psychic mojo, and your subconscious is going to try to sort all that out at night. Downside of magic. But you are still human. You’ve got to get a handle on this. Without sleep, you’re going to be useless.”

  Her sarcasm clearly wasn’t affected by her insomnia. “Yeah, Dee, thanks. Sleep, right. I’ll get right on that. Why didn’t I think of that while I lay awake all last night?”

  Rising from his chair, Dee circled the desk. He sneaked an arm behind Riona’s back and guided her through the door.

  “Come on, sweetie. The gym doesn’t open for another half-hour. Why don’t you go hang out in the hot tub and relax a bit? Let your muscles get a little TLC. Then I’ll take you to my apartment upstairs so you can get some sleep.”

  Even as he led her towards the women’s locker room, she felt the pain in her head begin to subside. Wow, the power of suggestion, she concluded. Maybe Ramiel was right. Maybe what she needed wasn’t more ibuprofen or coffee, but just the proximity of her teammates. Odd, though, that Dee’s presence alone was enough to begin easing her anxiety. She thought she’d need Marc nearby too.

  “I don’t have a swimsuit,” she tried to argue, though a little voice in the back of her head was telling her to shut the hell up and find the hot tub already.

  “Don’t need one. No one else will be in there until at least seven. Just don’t stay in too long. Leave your clothes in one of the lockers in the women’s room. Plenty of towels to wrap up in afterward. Come grab me when you’re done and I’ll take you upstairs.” He laughed into the back of her hair. “I promise, it’s cleaner than my office.”

  “Thanks, Dee, you’re so sweet.”

  “No problem, sunshine. Just trying to make sure our fearless leader gets what she needs.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Whatever mojo Dee had worked, the healing magic regulated itself to Marc’s arm and disregarded his back and shoulders. There, the dull ache caused by overexerting himself still nagged with the tenacity of a Jewish mother telling her son to find a good temple-going girl and marry already. And of course, being overly confident in the abilities of his late twenty-something body to resist injury, he didn’t remember to bring anything for pain.

  In his locker, his cell phone beeped. A text message asked if he could fill in at noon mass for the ailing Father Paizetscki. Running the necessary T-route through his cerebral mush, he concluded he’d be left with a couple hours to head back to his apartment and at least try for a little catnap. He didn’t know how, but he suddenly felt like the sandman had finally remembered his digits. Looked like Dee’s plan was finally working. True, five a.m. workouts were a killer, but at least, then he wasn’t at risk of seeing the perky, blonde MILFs in form-fitting Nike gear on the rowing machines, like the time he’d come in after matins. A coy smile covered his face when he thought of his personalized prayer. “Lord, lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from the spinning class…”

  The clock over the locker room door read six forty-nine. The club opened to the public at seven, giving Marc and his menaced muscles ten minutes in the hot tub before suiting up and heading home.

  His eyes strained in the dim light of the spa room as the scent of bleach and the mist of moist air hit him, making his empty stomach lurch temporarily, then subside into peaceful bliss. The jets must kick on automatically before the club opens, he concluded, given the foggy, steam-filled quality of the room. Whatever the case, the combination of the white noise that was the churning of the water and the smell of sanitized H-two-oh combined to lull Marc immediately into a nearly hypnotic state. Leaving his robe hanging on the hook by the men’s locker room door, he tiptoed carefully up the two steps to the lid of the tub and eased himself into the water.

  “Blessed be the hot tub vendors, for their products rock.”

  In miraculous fashion, his muscles uncurled and unknotted, growing pliable under the aquatic massage. Better than shiatsu and yoga combined, his limbs rejuvenated in moments, all hints of pain slaking away. The workout — and the last few nights of restless sleep — had left him sore, but now, at this moment in the tub, he couldn’t recall feeling this at ease, this relaxed, this… at peace, for months.

  But as he stretched out his legs and felt his toes make contact with another’s, his sense of nirvana popped like a helium balloon on a florescent lamp.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!”

  Two grey eyes barely above the fluctuating water line, burned — the ocular cocktail a mixture of rage, embarrassment, and intrigue from across the way. “What the hell are you doing in here?”

  “Me?” Marc belted back, half-rising out of the water before he recalled that he was, in fact, au naturel. Keeping his lower half beneath the churning jets instead, he pointed accusi
ngly at the witch. “What the hell are you doing here? The club hasn’t opened yet!”

  “Dee let me in, before you decided to go the full Monty!” Riona shrieked, hitting the surface of the water like a toddler having a tantrum. “Oh, God, can you just … leave already?”

  “I’d love to, but I’m just a wee bit nude at the moment.”

  Her eyes sharpened as the smallest fraction of her shoulders broke the surface. “Me, too.”

  Each waited out the other like some old western high noon showdown. Finally, after several brooding moments, Riona rolled her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest, cupping her breasts in an unsuccessful attempt to remain discreet. Marc’s masculine hard wiring kicked in and drew his eyes right down to hands he noticed were way too small for their appointed task.

  “Look, Marc, this is silly. We’re both adults, right? Let’s just… one of us close our eyes while the other gets out and leaves.”

  Sounded like a good enough idea. He gave a curt nod, sat back, closed his eyes, and waited.

  “Well?”

  One eye cracked open. Riona squinted so hard, he thought she might be trying to force her eyeballs out the back of her head. “Well what?”

  “Well… go already. I’ll keep my eyes shut.”

  The flare of indignation rekindled as both their eyes flew open.

  “I’m a priest, Keystone. I can’t just go about traipsing naked in front of the laity.”

  Riona clicked her tongue. “One: never call me the lay-anything again, and two: um, no. You may be a priest, but you’re still a guy, and — unless you’re about to tell me you’re gay — I don’t trust that whole, ‘the Lord is my shepherd, I shall not sneak a peek’ thing.”

  Marc scoffed. “As if. How about this? Let’s just both get out at the same time and run as fast as possible towards the locker rooms. If we’re looking straight ahead, we can’t be looking at each other. Not… that I would ever look.”