Sun God Seeks…Surrogate? Read online

  She’d been serious about the handbook? “You’re not telling me there’s really going to be a pop quiz, too?”

  Cimil’s eyes glowed with wicked joy. “You’re off the hook. Rochell, who handles that little tidbit of fun, is resting after an unfortunate Twister mishap at last night’s party.” She shrugged. “Strippers. Policemen. They all look the same to me. Especially after you steal their clothes and grease them up. Yunno what I mean?”

  I blinked as my mind tried to form a cohesive connection between those thoughts. I was coming up blank. “No. No, I do not.” Moving on…“What sort of handbook is this?”

  “The kind that will give you answers, silly. For things.” Long awkward pause. “What else?”

  Well, that was vague. And weird. Just like this entire depraved situation. “Okeydokey. Anything else?” I asked.

  She laughed hysterically for several moments and then shook her finger. “You! You’re a firecracker. Kaablam! Pow! Fire! Cracker!” She paused and stared at the ceiling, completely checked out.

  Damn, she freaked me out. “Are we…done?”

  She burst back to life. “Yep. Here’s the address and time.” She handed me a slip of paper from the pocket of her pink satin jumpsuit.

  I snatched it from her hand, swiped the handbook, and prepared to flee. I wanted to skedaddle before this got any weirder or she tied any more strings to this little bunny.

  “Penelope,” she bellowed as I was almost home free and out the front door.

  I cringed and turned to find her scampering after me.

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?” she asked.

  Oh jeez.

  “The check.” She shoved it at me. “And buy yourself something nice for tonight. It’s your birthday.”

  Thanks for the reminder. I put the check in my purse and gave her a polite smile as I reached for the door. Then I paused, fighting the urge to kick my own tuchus.

  Dammit. I couldn’t leave without saying something. As awkward and ludicrous as the situation might be, she was about to help my mother.

  I took a deep breath and faced her. “Cimil, I know you’re not doing this to help my mom, but I wanted to thank you, anyway.”

  She flashed another wicked smile. “Don’t mention it. Helpful is my middle name—except on Saturdays. Then it’s Jaaaasmine…” She waved her hand in a semicircle through the air.

  It was actually Saturday, but I thought it best not to say anything.

  “Any hooo”—she shrugged—“you’ll pay me back someday. They always do.”

  I didn’t like that answer one little bit. In fact, my body lit up with tiny adrenaline-fueled tingles. Why did this woman evoke the fight or flight—mostly flight—response?

  I scrambled out the door.

  “And, Penelope…” she called out when I reached the bottom of her front steps.

  No, no, no. More strings. I reached for the wrought iron railing at my side to steady me.

  “There are three rules…”

  “I ask you to leave here tonight, you knew it was planned

  When the world takes your heart from the fight

  You do what you can,

  You’re living here lost in this land

  So brother, don’t force my hand

  Please let’s see the forest for the trees

  ’Cause it’s time to rise up, it’s time to rise up from your knees”

  — Pilot Speed

  CHAPTER 6

  Kinich. December 1, 9:30 p.m.

  Grinding his teeth, Kinich watched his brother, the infamous God of Death and War, stroll into the trendy Manhattan hotel bar with an expression on his face that could, well, kill. The maître d’ took one look at the towering mass of muscles donning an Armani suit, and thick black hair wild and loose, and practically dove out of the way. The crowd parted like the Red Sea, leaving a trail of gaping-mouthed females in this muscled man’s wake. Like all gods, if he did not leash his energy, humans of the opposite sex—sometimes of the same sex, too—turned into rioting, sexually flustered mobs.

  “Good evening, Kinich.” Votan took the barstool to his side.

  “Nice of you to come, brother, but must you always flaunt your powers in public?” Kinich scolded to hide his uneasiness. Votan was the one brother whom he admired and respected above all others. But this was not a conversation either would enjoy. Kinich could only hope that Votan’s sense of duty would prevail over his anger.

  “Can’t help it. It is impossible to contain such strength inside this humanlike body.” Votan stretched his neck from side to side.

  “Perhaps you need to return to our realm for a vacation,” Kinich suggested.

  “I cannot. Emma has forbidden it until things are”—Votan cleared his throat—“settled. So what’s your excuse? Why haven’t you returned?”

  “I have been spending time with an old friend—a very old friend. One who may help us with the Obscuro problem.”

  “Who is he?”

  “I am unable to discuss the details, Votan—”

  “I no longer go by that name,” Votan snarled.

  “Ah yes.” Kinich stifled a laugh. “You’ve chosen a new name. What is it that Emma calls you?”

  Kinich knew, but enjoyed egging his brother on.

  “Guy. She calls me Guy.”

  “Very modern,” Kinich said teasingly.

  The bartender tiptoed over like a gazelle about to serve two hungry lions. Kinich ordered a bottle of Chateau Petrus 2008.

  Guy raised his two dark brows. “Yes. I bloody well like my new name. Nick, is it?”

  “Touché.” Only his brothers and sisters called him Kinich. Everyone else called him Nick. But the gods had many, many names, depending on the culture. Votan, on the other hand, now had just one: Guy. Guy Santiago. Not very deity-like, but whatever. Didn’t change his gifts: killing and fighting.

  “And why are you trying to butter me up with a three thousand dollar bottle of wine this evening?” Guy asked.

  No use in beating around the bush. “This.” Kinich held out the black jade amulet Cimil had given him and each of the gods at her party.

  Guy sneered. “Thanks, I’m flattered, but I have several already…and a mate.”

  Kinich growled deep in his chest. “This isn’t a fucking joke, Guy.”

  The bartender quietly crept up and served them each a glass a wine.

  Guy thanked the man and then swilled the ruby red liquid in his mouth before responding. “I’m well aware of your feelings, Kinich; Cimil warned me, but you are mistaken in your point of view. Chaam did not turn evil because of the black jade. He was already fucked in the head when he discovered it.”

  Chaam was the God of Male Virility who’d found the black jade mines in southern Mexico. The jade had the ability to absorb and blunt the gods’ powerful energy in the physical world. With it, Chaam discovered he could be intimate and procreate with humans; both acts were an impossibility for any deity up until that point because prolonged contact with a god overloaded a human’s circuits, so to speak.

  But no one knew for certain what caused Chaam to turn against humanity. Kinich still reeled with horror every time he thought of the hundreds of women Chaam had used to provide him with female offspring whom they called Payals. Eventually, he would slaughter his female descendants and harvest their divine energy to fuel his apocalyptic weapons. A complicated, horrific mess.

  “You are correct; the jade is not to blame for what happened to Chaam.” Kinich sipped his wine. He much preferred a fine tequila or cognac—anything that burned, actually. “However, even Cimil admits she does not know the consequences of our using it. She thinks screwing humans is a recreation, like driving her latest new car.”

  “I assure you, screwing my fiancée is infinitely more enjoyable than a new Pagani—and trust me, I know. I have three. Paganis that is. Not fiancées. Emma would kill me if I ever looked at another woman.”

  Emma, one of the surviving Payals, was Guy’s new fiancée and
the love of his existence. His devotion to her went beyond disturbing and disgraceful. Guy pranced around like a sappy, lovesick fool.

  Sad. Simply…sad. Kinich shook his head in disgust.

  “What?” Guy barked defensively, misinterpreting Kinich’s reaction. “I won the cars in a poker game from Cimil. But damn her, if she hasn’t taken every automobile, carriage, and horse I’ve owned for the last three centuries. It was about damn time I won.”

  “Idiot. Cimil sees the future. She let you win.”

  “Who cares?” Guy shrugged. “They’re Paganis. But still—nowhere near as enjoyable as a night with Emma.”

  “Yes, Emma is indeed special, brother. But there will be consequences for bringing more Payals into this world. This black jade is nothing but a test—if we were meant to bear offspring, the Creator simply would have given us the ability.”

  Guy ran his hand through his long black hair. “We’re hardly in a position to guess the Creator’s intentions. And who’s to say this is not fate playing its hand, guiding us into a new era of our existence?”

  “Or leading us to destruction,” Kinich argued. “The universe is in a state of cataclysmic imbalance. If we do not intervene, the Maaskab will overrun the planet.”

  The Maaskab, a cult of dark priests, descendants of the Maya and secretly ruled by Chaam before the gods managed to imprison him, grew more powerful by the day. Kinich suspected the Payals were somehow linked.

  Guy sighed with irritation. “What is it that you want, Kinich?”

  “I’m going to call it to a vote in the next summit. Creating offspring will be forbidden, punishable by banishment to the human world for eternity.”

  “Fuck you, Sunshine Boy,” Guy growled under his breath. “You’re not getting my vote. Emma’s nesting, and if I don’t give her a baby, she’ll have my balls.”

  “Since when does a female—or anyone— decide your actions?” Kinich challenged.

  Guy narrowed his luminescent aqua eyes. “I still decide. And I decide to make her happy. After everything that happened with her grandmother, all the suffering she’s endured, I her owe this much.”

  Emma’s grandmother, one of the first Payals, had disappeared several years ago, and was believed killed by the Maaskab. Emma, Guy, and others later learned the hard way that they were wrong when she turned up on Guy’s doorstep in Italy, leading an army of Maaskab. Obviously, her mind had been poisoned.

  When the dust finally settled, they’d killed the Maaskab and captured the woman. But before they could cure her, she escaped. A traitor named Tommaso had made sure of it.

  “Besides,” Guy added, “have you ever seen Emma when she doesn’t get what she wants? Now that she’s been honing her powers and we’ve given her immortality…” He shivered. “No, thank you. She could make my life a living hell for eternity. I would rather face banishment.”

  Guy glanced at his watch. “Christ. Speaking of, I’m supposed to meet Emma and her parents for dinner. I’m late. She’ll have my head.” Guy promptly swallowed the last of his glass and gave Kinich an overly sharp slap on the back, thrusting Kinich forward on his stool.

  “Good luck,” said Guy, “but unless you can prove that having a child with Emma is detrimental to humanity, I’m sticking with marital harmony. And sex. Lots of sex.”

  Kinich swallowed hard, partially from the pain of the slap and partially from his current confusion.

  How was it possible that a god as dedicated as Guy, who’d sacrificed so much of himself throughout his existence to safeguard humanity, would say he’d rather be banished than displease a woman? He might expect such a response from mortals—their lives were fleeting and they were known for being overly obsessed with love. But Guy was the infamous God of Death and War. He was ruthless. A goddamned beast of destruction.

  Good gods, what is happening to us?

  If Kinich were going to convince the gods that procreation with humans would ultimately lead to their demise, then he needed to understand what he was truly up against.

  CHAPTER 7

  Almost twelve hours after I’d left Cimil’s home, I stood across the street of yet another building, staring at its ornately carved stone entrance and revolving glass door. Only this time, it was a posh boutique hotel named Eden situated in Manhattan.

  I’d managed to walk the entire eight blocks through the snow from the subway in three-inch heels and a tight black silk dress—the only suitable outfit I owned for a formal restaurant. Five hundred thousand dollars richer or not, I could never throw away money on frivolous comforts, even on my birthday. Not when there were so many people going without.

  So there I was—10:00 p.m. on the dot—perfumed, plucked, slightly frozen, and ready for a meeting with a man I didn’t know, was inexplicably obsessed with, and determined to leave behind forever once I’d upheld my part of the bargain: listening.

  And drooling.

  I slipped my mirror from my black handbag and made one last check. The walk and sprinkle of snow hadn’t undone my sleek bun or makeup. I’d done a fantastic job of masking the circles under my dark green eyes, which now appeared greener than usual due to my red-tinged whites.

  I sucked in a deep, fortifying breath and plowed across the street, with my knees wobbling, toward the hotel. A thin man in a black suit immediately greeted me at the door. He reached for my no-frills parka, and I slid it off while reminding myself that breathing mattered.

  He returned quickly with smile and a claim ticket. “Here you go, miss. Do you have a reservation?” he asked.

  “I’m meeting someone.” My eyes swept the formal, candlelit room to my right filled with cozy couples sipping wine, eating, and laughing. To the left, through a large open doorway, was a dimly lit bar decorated in a Deco style—mirror-covered walls, paintings of swanky 1920s flappers, and high-polished maple floors—packed with elegantly dressed patrons.

  My eyes immediately gravitated toward the far end of the room. With his size, he stood out like a hi-def, larger-than-life giant among a sea of washout gray.

  I lost my breath for multiple heartbeats.

  It seemed odd for such a magnificent man to be sipping wine alone. I expected to see a posse of adoring women groveling at his feet, perhaps nibbling on his ankles and kissing his toes. But a tiny part of me rejoiced. I didn’t want to share him with anyone, a realization that instantly scared the hell out of me.

  Sigh. Who was I kidding? I wasn’t there to listen. I was there to gawk and fawn. Who could blame me? Double sigh. With eyes that pierced your very soul, those strong, full lips—the kind you wanted to run you tongue over and suck on or watch as they did delicious things to the most intimate parts of your body—his stratospheric height, wide shoulders, and thick caramel-colored hair hanging just past his collar…triple sigh…he was simply a specimen of divine masculinity.

  I shook my head, realizing the bizarre truth. Devil crackers, I want that man. He was a complete stranger, yet I’d already had one erotic dream and played ten rounds of imaginary house with him.

  I forced the breath into my lungs and willed my feet to make the journey.

  Weaving through the crowd, I caught several brief glimpses of the male morsel in question as he stared into his wine glass. A prominent frown occupied his sublime face, and he clenched something in his fist. Whatever it was, he seemed troubled by it.

  So there I was, facing his back and ready to wow him with my brilliant wit, when I realized I didn’t know his name. Cimil had said it once, but I couldn’t recall.

  Ugh. I groaned inwardly. Well, why not make the situation extra-extra awkward?

  “Hi,” I said.

  Cimil’s brother continued staring at his glass.

  “Hello?”

  Nothing.

  He was completely checked out—a family trait?—and now, several people to my side noticed I was being ignored by the delicious, brawny man sitting at the bar who everyone was desperately trying to avoid staring at.

  Now I felt like an idiot
.

  I poked the back of his shoulder. “Hey—um…” Hell. Why couldn’t I remember his name? “You.”

  With an irritated, deliberate slowness, he turned on his barstool, apparently ready to unleash a fury on whomever had disturbed his wine-templation.

  His angry eyes settled on my face. “Oh. It’s…you.”

  Me? It’s…me? Is that how a man greets the future mother of his child?

  Whoa! Penelope! You’re here to listen. Remember?

  Yes, yes.

  And lucky for him, I wasn’t going to hold a little thing like sorry manners against him, because I was frightfully close to losing my cerebral skills once again—holy hell, a man has no right being that good-looking—so I was pretty sure my own manners were about to fall off a cliff.

  Is groping a stranger in public considered bad manners?

  “Yep. It’s…me.” I shrugged, grasping my evening bag in both hands.

  He stared.

  I stared.

  He stared some more.

  Is this the standoff at the OK-we’re-going-to-have-a-baby corral?

  Penelope! Listen! Just…listen!

  Oh! Yeah.

  I finally decided to make the first move. A smile. Wasn’t the most original icebreaker, but it was a timeless classic.

  His intense turquoise eyes examined my face for several moments before a forced smile shaped his lips. “Care to sit?” He stood and held out his hand to offer me his seat.

  His large…strong…manly hand. Sigh…

  “Thanks.”

  “You look…nice,” he commented in slow, hypnotically deep voice.

  Trying to ignore the sensuality embedded in his timbre, I flashed another polite smile and slipped past him. His gaze slid down my body, all the way to my black heels, and then swept up over my bare back as I lowered myself onto his barstool.