Book of Souls (Gods of Egypt 1) Read online

  “How about: I’m sorry for being such a jerk? Or: I know this is my last chance and I promise not to get into more trouble?” she barks.

  Rich laughter tugs at my heart.

  “You want me to lie, then? Is that it?”

  “What I want, Blaze, is for you to act like a man and drop the bullshit.” Kathy sighs. “I promised your parents to look out for you, but you’re not making this any easier on either of us.”

  I shouldn’t be eavesdropping. Heck, I feel like a dumbass for listening in on them. But the husky voice has me under its spell. “Jesus, Kath, you make it sound like I killed someone.”

  A long silent moment passes. “You almost did, remember?”

  Whoa. Did she just insinuate the guy with the sexiest voice alive is an almost-killer? That can’t be right. He belongs in a British rock band, not prison.

  “Well, it’s hard to forget, considering my punishment was exile.” He laughs bitterly. “Though, I still think they should have shipped me to Australia. I mean, the English did love to deport their convicts to Prison Island, didn’t they?”

  “Shut up and move,” Kathy hisses through gritted teeth.

  Footsteps echo off the walls. Dang, they’re coming my way. Pretending to be a decent human being who didn’t just stick her nose in business that doesn’t concern her, I hold my book up and hope they pass me by. They don’t. In fact, they stop right across from me.

  Convincing myself a peek won’t hurt, I look over the cover of my book. The second I lay eyes on Smoky-Voice, aka Blaze, I’m hit by a sense of familiarity. Have we met before? No way. I’d never forget a guy like him. He doesn’t just sound like a rock star, he looks like one, too. His ripped jeans hang low on his hips. A tight Iron Maiden shirt hugs his well-built chest. His arms, hands, even his neck are covered with tats. And then, there’s his face—high cheekbones, flawless olive skin, cherry lips, and the most stunning blue eyes I’ve ever seen. I don’t say this lightly, keeping in mind I’m normally attracted to clean-cut, tat-free guys, but Blaze is perfection. The only thing slightly disturbing are the cuffs around his wrists. He must be in pretty big trouble.

  He catches me staring. Heat sears through my veins, flushing my cheeks. I should take my stupid eyes off him. For some unexplainable reason, I can’t. He doesn’t look away, either. Instead, he flashes me a cocky grin, and I get the feeling he enjoys the attention.

  Kathy snaps her fingers in his face. “Blaze?”

  His gaze is still locked on me. “Uh-huh?”

  “You still with me?”

  “Sure.”

  Kathy’s frustration thickens the air. Judging by the mad expression on her face, I’d say she’s close to exploding. “I’ll try to get you out of this mess. But”—she cocks a brow—“a night in prison wouldn’t hurt you.” She’s wrong. A night in prison hurts anyone.

  Kathy points to the free spot next to me. “Sit your troublesome butt down,” she orders before rushing down the hallway.

  Great, now what? I consider standing, but that would be incredibly rude. Besides, I already made a fool of myself staring at him like he’s my personal teen idol. I have no intention to make things worse.

  Blaze moves like he owns the world. His posture screams “confident,” his smile is sexy, and his lapis eyes promise kindness. Most girls would jump with excitement at the prospect of sitting next to a guy like him. News flash: I’m not most girls. Raging hormones and desire have nothing to do with my sweaty palms or accelerating heartbeat. Fear is the real culprit. Blaze shouldn’t be anywhere near me. People generally drop dead in my lap when they get too close. I’m not kidding. It’s happened before. I was nine years old. Dad and I had driven all the way up to Dulles International Airport to pick up my estranged grandmother, who’d flown in from Cairo to visit us. I remember being excited like heck. I’d never seen a plane before. I sat next to an elderly man while Dad checked if Gram’s flight had already landed. The nice man struck up a conversation with me, told me all about his crazy adventures when he was younger. It was pretty awesome. Until—

  His face paled.

  His eyes widened.

  He reached for his chest.

  And, wait for it—

  Dropped dead in my lap.

  It was then I’d learned people suffering from heart attacks wet their pants before they died.

  “She’ll live through the night.” Blaze’s husky voice pushes the cruel memory to the back of my mind.

  I look up. “What?”

  He tilts his chin at my book. “You are reading One Thousand and One Nights, aren’t you?” Perplexed, I nod. “Well, the king will pardon Scheherazade and spare her life.”

  “Did you just spoil the book for me?” I loathe spoilers. It’s why every time I miss an episode of one of my favorite TV shows, I stay far, far away from Facebook. And my cousin Izzy, for the matter.

  He lifts his cuffed hands, shrugging as if it isn’t a big deal. “The way I see it, I saved you from about six hundred pages of wondering if she’s going to get the happily-ever-after all girls dream of, princess.”

  Princess…The word hisses through my ears like a deadly snake, invoking all sorts of unpleasant feelings. Only one person in this world ever called me that, and she’s no longer able to. “One: Don’t call me that. Two: I happen to like anticipation. It’s sort of why I’m reading.” Gee, why am I so mad at him? It’s just a book. Just a stupid nickname. And I never get mad. Like ever.

  Blaze doesn’t budge. He keeps his magical eyes trained on me, flashing me a wicked smile. “Is that the American feistiness my mates warned me about?”

  I feel like I’m sitting in the middle of an episode of The Originals, listening to Klaus—the sexy British vampire with the hottest accent ever. Half the female viewers only tune in to hear Joseph Morgan give his lines. “Depends,” I shoot back. “Is that the annoying British humor with no punchline?”

  “English,” he corrects me.

  “Huh?”

  He shifts a little closer. “It’s English humor, princess.”

  Is he messing with me on purpose? Someone ought to tell him it’s not a great idea to upset a girl who needs a shower and her bed. “British, English, Welsh, Scottish, Irish—all the same if you ask me.” I’m aware there’s a big difference, but I kind of like the offended look on his face.

  His jawline is tense. “Trust me, princess, you do not want to say that when you’re on the Island.” A ghost of a smile tugs at his lips, bringing out the cute dimple on his left cheek. “On second thought”—he looks me over—“a beauty like you might get away with it.”

  Is he flirting with me, in a police station, with cuffs around his wrists? “Does that line usually work for you?”

  “You tell me.”

  I cast him an annoyed look, accidently drowning in his eyes. There’s some gold laced into the stunning blue. I’ve never seen anything like it. Green and gold is rather common. Blue and gold? That’s a first. A weird vibe electrifies the air between us. Another wave of familiarity washes over me. Maybe we did meet before.

  “Hey.” He snaps his fingers. “You still with me, or are you too mesmerized by my good looks?”

  My cheeks heat. They must be redder than red. “I…” I’m too mesmerized by your stunningly beautiful eyes. I can hardly say that, can I? The cocky Brit’s ego is big enough; he doesn’t need another boost.

  “You?”

  Why can’t this miserable day just end? “Your cuffs are much more fascinating,” I finally say, regretting it almost instantly.

  “Oh, these old things?” He holds them up and winks at me. “You should take a look at my private collection. I can show them to you some time.”

  “Pass, thanks.” Why am I even talking to him? The guy is intimidating and clearly out of my league. And where is the chief? It’s a quarter past midnight, for crying out loud. Aunt V, Rob, and Izzy must be worried sick. Thanks to detectives Johnson and Radcliffe confiscating my phone, I can’t even text them to let them know
where I am. Don’t I have the right to a phone call? Maybe the law doesn’t apply to the Angel of Death.

  “Name’s Blaze,” he says, extending his cuffed hands.

  Kindness goes a long way, my mom used to say. Maybe it can cure overconfidence, too? “Nisha,” I reply.

  His lips curve into a real smile. One touching his eyes. “Pleasure to meet you, Nisha.” He sounds as if he means it.

  I remind myself he’s new in town. He hasn’t heard the rumors about Nisha Blake yet. Doesn’t know who I really am, or why no one in this town would use the words “pleasure” and “meet” in connection with my name. I should probably tell him. He’s going to hear it anyway. The part of me that is happy he doesn’t run from me keeps my lips sealed.

  A few quiet moments pass before he speaks again. “Tough day?”

  I shrug. “All days are tough.” I have no idea why I’m telling him this. It’s the truth, though. My life has always been tricky. The past year took misery to a whole new level. One I’d rather never reach.

  The cockiness fades. “Are you all right?” I say nothing, and he adds, “I’m an excellent listener.” There’s the kindness I saw in his eyes. Blaze is more than just a tattooed, handcuffed, rock star look-alike.

  Pulling my gaze off him, I rest my head against the wall. “I’m just a little tired.” And so over waiting for the chief.

  He doesn’t push for a more satisfying answer, but ogles me suspiciously. I stare at a poster advertising neighborhood watch, the blue door across from me, the old vending machine a little farther down the hall—anything to keep me from looking at him.

  Blaze’s gaze drifts to my blood-soaked Chucks. “Care to tell me what a girl like you is doing at a police station this late?” He makes it sound as if my being here was out of the ordinary.

  It really isn’t. I’ve spent countless days and nights here. I’m part of the inventory by now. He doesn’t need to know that, though. “Long story,” I grumble.

  “The way I see it”—he shows off his shackles—“I’ve got nothing but time.”

  I’m too tired to go through another interrogation. Blaze, however, doesn’t seem like a guy who’d accept a “no comment.” So, I give him the short, PG-rated version. “I witnessed an accident.”

  Blaze’s ripped jeans brush against my knee. “That wasn’t very long now, was it?” He knows I’m not telling him the whole truth, but I don’t care.

  I shove my hands between my thighs. “I guess not.” Before he can continue his inquisition, I change the topic. “What about you? How did you end up in those fancy silver bracelets?”

  He flashes me a sweet smile. “Ah, you know. Same old same. Woke up this morning and felt like getting arrested.” He proudly presents his wrists. “Mission accomplished.”

  I can’t help but laugh. No one wakes up thinking: I’m going to get myself arrested today. “This feisty American calls bullshit.”

  “Yankees,” he says, rolling his eyes playfully.

  “Hey.” I nudge him. “Show some respect. We do, after all, make the better TV.”

  Blaze’s eyes pierce through mine. All of a sudden, it’s incredibly hot in here. Like on a summer day after weeks of no rain. “Agree to disagree, princess. Your Sherlock is a beat-up of our very own Benedict Cumberbatch.”

  Can’t argue with that. Benedict Cumberbatch has perfected the role of the slightly weird, always moody detective. No one can top his performance. “Okay, so you might have Sherlock, but we have The Avengers.”

  His warm laughter echoes off the dull walls. “You know,” he says. “Getting arrested might have been the best thing that happened to me in weeks.”

  Wow, and here I was thinking my life sucks. “You’ve set the bar pretty low if that’s the case.”

  He bends his head. The intensity in his eyes makes me gasp for air. “Quite the contrary. You just set it very—”

  “Nisha,” the chief snarls. “Are you waiting for a special invitation?” He’s leaning against the doorframe of his office, murder on his face.

  Blaze glares at the overweight, grumpy policeman. He obviously doesn’t like the chief. We have that in common. Knowing he’s bold enough to mess with him, I jump up before the handcuffed Brit says anything he’ll later regret.

  I’m halfway inside the office when Blaze’s remarkable rock star voice stops me. “I’ll see you around, princess.”

  For his sake, I hope he won’t.

  I dream of deserts and gold, of blood and roses.

  Garnet eyes gaze back at me, searching my soul, penetrating my heart. They belong to him. The man of my dreams. The merciless ruler who commands an army of half-human, half-animal-like beings. Everyone fears the conqueror. Everyone but me. I don’t know what is drawing me toward him, but every fiber of my being is certain he’d never hurt me.

  “Soon, we’ll be united,” he whispers, gently caressing my cheek. “Together forever, my love.”

  Somewhere in the back of my mind, I hear my mom screaming. Open your eyes, I plead with myself. Something is terribly wrong. I try to push the weird images away, but the desert holds me captive. Sand weaves around my ankles, anchoring me.

  “Run,” my mother’s voice echoes through my subconscious. “You gotta run, Nisha.”

  I want to, but I can’t move. Not even an inch.

  The desert fades into oblivion, and I’m standing in my dad’s office.

  Glass shatters.

  Mom cries.

  Then, it’s eerily quiet. You’d hear a needle drop. Until—

  BANG.

  A nasty shade of red bleeds into my vision. Lots and lots of red. I’m drowning in an ocean of crimson, am dying in a sea of blood. The nightmare within the nightmare sinks its sharp teeth into my soul, devouring me from the inside. A prominent ringing vibrates through my numb skin. I struggle to breathe. It’s the end. It’s my—

  Alarm. I slam my fist on the digital clock, shutting the annoying tune up. I’m beyond exhausted. Feel like I crawled into bed minutes ago. In reality, I got three not-so-glorious hours of sleep. Funny how the day has just begun, and I already wish it was over.

  I blink my eyes open. A vicious headache roars through my brain. All I want is to go back to sleep. Then, I think of the nightmare and quickly change my mind. Anything—even school—is better than enduring those barbaric images again. I should be used to them by now. Should have gotten a grip on them. They have haunted me since last Devil’s Night—the day my life changed from miserable to why-am-I-even-breathing. But I doubt I’ll ever get accustomed to them.

  Give yourself time to heal, my psychiatrist said. PTSD requires lots of work, but I have no doubt you’re strong and brave enough to get through this.

  How much more time are we talking? It’s been almost a year, and I’m still a wreck. Sometimes I think all the therapy Aunt V spent her hard-earned money on was a waste. It’s not like my shrink didn’t try to help me. The man was determined to make me better, to make me whole again. But people like me can’t be fixed. We don’t deserve it. And whining won’t make things better. A nice breakfast and lots of coffee might help get me through the day, though.

  I drag myself out of bed and head to the bathroom. My PJs are glued to my sweaty body. I smell disgusting. Need a shower, urgently. So, I strip down and step under the hot water. It washes away the stink of last night. Shame it can’t do the same to the hollowness in my soul.

  I climb down the stairs, taking two steps at a time. The scent of fresh-brewed coffee and fried bacon wafts through the house. Rob, Aunt V’s boyfriend, is making pancakes, wearing nothing but David Beckham boxers and an apron with boobs printed on it. His wet blond hair is sticking to his forehead, and he dances to an old Bob Marley song. “I Shot The Sheriff,” if I’m not mistaken.

  I bite back a smile. “Morning.”

  Half twerking, half—I’m not sure how to describe the way he shakes his hips—he waves his spatula at me. “I made breakfast, but I did not take the trash out, oh no! Oh!” he sings along
to the tunes. I can see why he and Aunt V are together. They’re both on the nuttier side of the fruitcake. I’m loving it.

  “Ignore him,” Izzy, my cousin, aka the prettiest and most popular girl at Jefferson High, murmurs. “Rob still thinks he has a shot at winning The Voice.” She moves to the kitchen island. Her long aquamarine-purple mermaid hair is cascading down her shoulders. The small amount of mascara she’s wearing makes her gray eyes pop, and despite wearing sneakers and jeans, she looks like an America’s Next Top Model contestant—flawless to the teeth.

  Rob cocks a brow at her. “Keep making fun of me, sweetheart. But once I’m team Adam, you’ll be begging me to get you a signed CD.”

  Izzy tries hard not to laugh. “Did you just say CD?”

  Rob looks startled. “You betcha.”

  My cousin and I meet each other’s gaze and chuckle. “Hate to break it to you, Rob. No one my age buys CDs anymore,” Izzy explains.

  Rob turns to me, half surprised, half scared. “That true?”

  I don’t want to make him feel old, or out of date, but Izzy has a point. “Sorry.”

  His shoulders sink. “Man, oh, man. First they get rid of the good old vinyl. Now they kill CDs?” He shakes his head. “How do you people even live?”

  Izzy grabs a pancake from the plate and smiles. “With iTunes, Rob. Courtesy of Steve Jobs.” She makes the sign of a cross. “May his soul rest in Software Nirvana.”

  “So sad,” he says, throwing another pancake on the plate. I can’t tell if he’s talking about Steve Jobs, or CDs. Judging by the look on Izzy’s face, neither can she.

  I load up my plate and join my cousin at the table. “Where’s Aunt V?” I hope she’s still in bed. Poor woman waited up for me last night. By the time I got here—around four a.m.—she was at the brink of a nervous breakdown. Turns out the chief had called her to let her know where I was. Unfortunately, me being anywhere near the man made her worry even more.

  Rob switches off the stove and carries the pancakes over. “Jocelyn called her in. Romy is sick and your aunt is stepping in.” The sourness in his voice speaks louder than any words. He hates that she’s working overtime and double shifts.