Furious Fire: Grimm's Circle, Book 8 by Shiloh Walker Page B

eyes, white clothes. As perfect as if he’d been cut from crystal by a master—and there was no emotion on that hard face.
    Nervous, I looked around. Instinctively, my lip curled. We looked like we’d fallen into an art deco nightmare. A very posh one, but it still made my eyeballs gyrate and vibrate inside my skull. Red walls, set with black and white geometric prints. The floor was white. The furniture was black. Everything was vivid and harsh…
    Including him.
    That man moved a few steps closer to me. He wasn’t quite as painful to look at as everything else in the room so I focused on him. Much easier, I decided, than the prints on that wall. They made my eyes feel like they’d bleed out of their sockets if I stared too long.
    Rising from the bed, I looked around, searching for some clue as to where I was. Oddly enough, this interior decorating nightmare didn’t seem to be his idea of comfortable digs. A glance out the window told me one thing—we were still in St. Louis. I’d know that skyline anywhere. Downtown, even. And pretty high up.
    Hotel, maybe? I flicked another glance around, decided that was entirely likely. The suite of rooms was pretty large but it didn’t seem to be a condo.
    The knife’s grip was sweaty in my palm and my heart was racing harder than I could ever recall. I’d faced some scary shit. It was stupid that this man would terrify me like this.
    “Who are you?” I asked. I hated to hear my voice shaking like that. But I couldn’t stop it.
    “Nobody you’d know.” He stood, arms crossed over his chest, head cocked.
    “That’s why I am asking ,” I snapped, even though some part of me was whispering “be nice to the crazy man who can kill you with a blink.”
    And I had to wonder if maybe that wasn’t a fanciful thought. He all but burned with power. Maybe he really could kill me with a blink.
    “You’re a puzzle,” he said, his voice soft.
    “No. I’m an open book.” I gave him a dazzling smile even as I surreptitiously looked around. I was wearing most of my clothes. Not my boots, though, and half my weapons were missing, I could tell just by a few shifts of my body.
    I needed those weapons, particularly the guns.
    “An open book.” His words were flat, but the corner of his mouth quirked up. “Perhaps one that was written in ancient Sanskrit. How many lives have you lived?”
    That was the last thing I expected to hear.
    Dumb, I stared at him.
    My mouth went dry. I cleared my throat, had to do it twice before I managed to speak. I didn’t quite manage the are you out of your mind tone I’d been shooting for, either. “How many lives ?” I lifted a brow, thankful that at least my facial expressions would cooperate even if my voice wouldn’t. “Did you crack your head or something? I’m pretty sure we only get one trip on this crazy ride, man.”
    “The lucky ones, yes.” His tone was bored. “And you’re lying.”
    Without looking away from his face, I gauged the distance between him and the door. Could I make it? I really didn’t know. But I’d damn well—
    “You won’t make it. If by some miracle you’d reached the door, I’d simply stop you from moving, from opening it. It won’t be hard. Now, why don’t you answer my questions? It will go much easier if you do.”
    That did it.
    I lunged. I was fast. People never, ever believed how fast I was—it hadn’t occurred to me how odd it was until I saw how slow everybody else seemed to be.
    I’d cleared three quarters of the distance between the bed and the door even before my brain processed my movement. Victory was a jubilant song in my head.
    And then—just like that, my body froze.
    Literally.
    It froze.
    I couldn’t move.
    I barely managed to breathe.
    There was a sigh behind me and then, wheeling my eyes around, I saw his shadow fall across the floor as he moved to stand between me and the door. “Woman, I told you it would go much easier if you would just answer my questions.”
    He stood