that explanation . . . and when she was engrossed in her research, she believed she could provide it, too.
But her father had been so angry whenever she showed him her stories about fairies and dragons, witches and magicians. He had been so insistent that she forget all the things her mother had taught her about the Chosen Ones and their enemies.
How did she dare to imagine she could find a true prophecy among the multitude of farcical ones? Irving had gone to great lengths to keep her here, but she had to find a life to live that did not include research.
If she could only get it started.
Remembering the way Aaron looked at her, as if she were the village idiot . . . remembering the way Lance Mathews looked at her, as if she were the first course of a meal . . . she knew what she had to do.
Pulling her cell phone from her pocket, she texted Lance Mathews. sorry missed r date. try again?
Chapter 12
L ance Mathews threw his phone across the office and hissed in annoyance. “The stupid little—”
From the desk in the shadows, a smooth, quiet voice spoke. “Mr. Mathews, you know I don’t appreciate inappropriate language.”
The sound of Osgood’s rebuke was enough to calm Lance’s fury. Or rather, his rebuke was enough to freeze Lance’s fury.
Because no one knew better than Lance just who, and what, Osgood was.
“It is bad enough that the Chosen recruits escaped the blast at the Gypsy Travel Agency.”
“That wasn’t my fault!”
“No. The people whose fault it is have been punished.”
“Are they dead?” If Osgood had taken his irritation out on them, it might go better for Lance.
“No. They were lucky that I always find it amusing to hunt inexperienced Chosen Ones. It adds a piquancy to eternity.”
“Right.” Lance’s mouth grew dry.
“But as for you—you should have secured the girl when you first made contact.” Osgood’s tranquil voice held a hint of a Southern accent.
“I thought it would be better if she anticipated our date.” When actually, Lance had been intent on putting off his painful duty as long as he could.
“Excuses, Mr. Mathews?”
“No.” Excuses were a waste of time. Osgood had a way of always knowing the truth.
On the surface, Osgood was nothing more than a New York City businessman, a very successful one, with nightclubs and bars all over the city, the East Coast, and beyond. He owned whorehouses, too, and single-handedly had gained the monopoly on prostitution, illegal gambling, and drugs. If there was money to be made on immorality, he made it.
Yet no one—not the media, not the government, not the man on the street—really knew anything about him. He owned enough police officials and politicians to make sure of that.
Osgood had no family. He had no friends. He had come up from nowhere and no one knew where he slept—or if he slept.
Lance could have sold the story on Osgood for a lot of money, but he wasn’t fool enough to try. No one rolled on Osgood and lived. In fact, it was a fast and easy way to die in agony—and that wasn’t the end of it.
The problem was what happened after death.
Because Osgood owned the monopoly on suffering in the afterlife, too.
At some point, Osgood had invited the devil into his soul.
Together, they made one hell of a team.
Now Lance stood in Osgood’s bare, dim office in his high-rise in midtown, and asked, “Who the h—Who knew that homely thing would go off with another man?”
“This kind of disappointment, especially coming from you, frustrates me. And you know how much I dislike frustration.”
Lance risked a glance toward the gray metal desk.
Osgood hadn’t moved, so maybe Lance would come out all right this time.
“It won’t happen again,” he said fervently.
“I trust not, but I like to give guidance when I can.”
A chill ran up Lance’s spine.
“Take off your shirt and come here.”
Lance didn’t dare move. Didn’t dare not.
“Oh, come, Mr.
But her father had been so angry whenever she showed him her stories about fairies and dragons, witches and magicians. He had been so insistent that she forget all the things her mother had taught her about the Chosen Ones and their enemies.
How did she dare to imagine she could find a true prophecy among the multitude of farcical ones? Irving had gone to great lengths to keep her here, but she had to find a life to live that did not include research.
If she could only get it started.
Remembering the way Aaron looked at her, as if she were the village idiot . . . remembering the way Lance Mathews looked at her, as if she were the first course of a meal . . . she knew what she had to do.
Pulling her cell phone from her pocket, she texted Lance Mathews. sorry missed r date. try again?
Chapter 12
L ance Mathews threw his phone across the office and hissed in annoyance. “The stupid little—”
From the desk in the shadows, a smooth, quiet voice spoke. “Mr. Mathews, you know I don’t appreciate inappropriate language.”
The sound of Osgood’s rebuke was enough to calm Lance’s fury. Or rather, his rebuke was enough to freeze Lance’s fury.
Because no one knew better than Lance just who, and what, Osgood was.
“It is bad enough that the Chosen recruits escaped the blast at the Gypsy Travel Agency.”
“That wasn’t my fault!”
“No. The people whose fault it is have been punished.”
“Are they dead?” If Osgood had taken his irritation out on them, it might go better for Lance.
“No. They were lucky that I always find it amusing to hunt inexperienced Chosen Ones. It adds a piquancy to eternity.”
“Right.” Lance’s mouth grew dry.
“But as for you—you should have secured the girl when you first made contact.” Osgood’s tranquil voice held a hint of a Southern accent.
“I thought it would be better if she anticipated our date.” When actually, Lance had been intent on putting off his painful duty as long as he could.
“Excuses, Mr. Mathews?”
“No.” Excuses were a waste of time. Osgood had a way of always knowing the truth.
On the surface, Osgood was nothing more than a New York City businessman, a very successful one, with nightclubs and bars all over the city, the East Coast, and beyond. He owned whorehouses, too, and single-handedly had gained the monopoly on prostitution, illegal gambling, and drugs. If there was money to be made on immorality, he made it.
Yet no one—not the media, not the government, not the man on the street—really knew anything about him. He owned enough police officials and politicians to make sure of that.
Osgood had no family. He had no friends. He had come up from nowhere and no one knew where he slept—or if he slept.
Lance could have sold the story on Osgood for a lot of money, but he wasn’t fool enough to try. No one rolled on Osgood and lived. In fact, it was a fast and easy way to die in agony—and that wasn’t the end of it.
The problem was what happened after death.
Because Osgood owned the monopoly on suffering in the afterlife, too.
At some point, Osgood had invited the devil into his soul.
Together, they made one hell of a team.
Now Lance stood in Osgood’s bare, dim office in his high-rise in midtown, and asked, “Who the h—Who knew that homely thing would go off with another man?”
“This kind of disappointment, especially coming from you, frustrates me. And you know how much I dislike frustration.”
Lance risked a glance toward the gray metal desk.
Osgood hadn’t moved, so maybe Lance would come out all right this time.
“It won’t happen again,” he said fervently.
“I trust not, but I like to give guidance when I can.”
A chill ran up Lance’s spine.
“Take off your shirt and come here.”
Lance didn’t dare move. Didn’t dare not.
“Oh, come, Mr.
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