Lover Arisen, page 11
Granted, it was cover of the ridden-hard-put-up-wet variety.
“And here we are,” Shuli said as he turned into the gravel drive.
Down at the end of the lane, a farmhouse with a wraparound porch had loads of lights on in its interior, and as the illumination spilled out onto the still-brown lawn, Nate decided that the place looked like a spaceship that had just landed, but come in peace. With a tree in the side yard and a meadow out behind, it was a really special spot—and not for the first time, he could see exactly what the Brother Qhuinn had loved at the setting.
Luchas House was named after the fighter’s brother, and was part of the race’s social services program, offering a haven for youth who needed shelter, resources, help. Unlike Safe Place, which was reserved for females and their young, males were allowed into the facility, both as residents and as guests. Which was a good thing for Nate.
With a desperation he didn’t want to admit to himself, his eyes shot to the second floor on the left. The windows of that particular bedroom were dark, and he had a moment of panic.
But surely if she had left… she would have said something?
Taking a deep breath, he brushed at the front of his SUNY Caldwell sweatshirt. There were some paint streaks on the bottom and he pulled the hem up and took a whiff. Great. Cologne by Benjamin Moore.
He had to take these opportunities when he could, though.
The second the Tesla stopped by the walkway to the front door, all Nate wanted to do was break out of the car and bull-rush the entry, knocking the barrier down so that he could race up the stairs and check to make sure she hadn’t—
“Listen,” Shuli said in his best I’m-two-months-older-than-you voice, “tomorrow night’s going to be good for you, and I’ll make sure it’s chill. We’ll go to this new place, Dandelion. You’ll love it, and you don’t have to stay forever if you don’t want. You can just have a drink and see what happens.”
“I don’t know.” Nate popped the door handle. “It’s not something I’m really interested in. Besides, I’m guessing you’re going to be busy getting busy.”
Shuli threw out a hand and caught Nate’s upper arm. “It’s way better than… you know.”
“Better than what?”
“Coming out here every chance you get.”
Nate froze for a second. He thought he’d been smoother than that, and if Shuli had noticed—as self-absorbed as the guy was—who else knew he was kind of stalking the house?
Pulling out of a tailspin, he said, “What are you talking about. I’ve been here twice since we finished working on the garage, including right now.”
“And those were the two chances you had.”
Nate took his arm back. “I just need to get my sweatshirt.”
“Oh, really? The one that’s exactly like what you have on? And is worth twenty bucks, tops? Look, I don’t care about what you pretense to the rest of the world, but between you and me, we should be honest.”
“Pretend,” Nate muttered as he got out of the car.
Caught up in a surge of nervous, he closed the passenger-side door and forgot about Shuli, the guy’s big, fat, hairy opinion, and all the clubs that were, or ever had been, in Caldwell. Striding up to the front door, he tugged at his paint-smudged sweatshirt, stamped his work boots to get any mud off of them—and would have run a hand through his dark hair if Shuli hadn’t been riding up on his ass.
The door opened before he could knock.
“Good timing, dawn is close.” The social worker smiled as she stepped back. “Your sweatshirt’s in the kitchen.”
The female was just what you’d expect someone in her line of work to be, motherly, kind, soft-spoken. Shoot… what was her name? He’d been told a couple of times, but he always forgot it. He did remember her blue jeans, though. Wrangler. Not a brand he was familiar with—but like he knew anything about clothes?
“Thank you so much…” He returned her smile as he came inside—and hoped she didn’t catch his forgetfulness. “Oh, wow, smell the chocolate chip cookies.”
“They’re right out of the oven,” she said. “Every night, just like clockwork.”
As Nate walked through the living area, he could hear footsteps up on the second floor. They were heavy. A male’s.
“Has someone else moved in?” While he frowned at the ceiling, he reminded himself it wasn’t his house—and then straightened a throw pillow on a couch and tried to be casual about it. “Sounds like you have another resident.”
“We have a new one, yes.” The social worker went ahead into the gray-and-white kitchen and stopped at the inset desk by the eating table. “Here it is.”
His sweatshirt had never been treated so well. The thing was folded neatly, and as he took it, he could smell fabric softener.
“Thanks.” He glanced over to the stove, at the lines of cookies cooling on racks. “You know, those Toll Houses look great.”
“Help yourself.” The female headed over to the cupboard and took out a plate. “I always make a full batch even though there’s just three of us here. Old habits, you know. From Safe Place. Milk?”
“I’d love some. Shuli would, too.”
“Have a seat and I’ll wait on you guys.”
Pointedly ignoring his buddy’s double take, Nate pulled out one of the chairs and sat down at the table. Like the rest of the house, everything in the kitchen was neat as a pin, the stainless steel stovetop sparkling, the sink free of dirty dishes, the granite counters clear except for the cooling cookies.
So yeah, nothing he could volunteer to fix or tidy up or help with.
“Actually,” Shuli said with a gleam in his eye, “I am feeling a little peckish. I’ve been working out.”
“Oh?” The social worker—God, what was her name?—put the plate she’d layered with Toll Houses on the table and turned away for glasses. “Where have you been exercising? And what kind of stuff are you doing?”
Nate narrowed his stare at Shuli, the universal signal for “don’t you fucking dare bring up your fucking.” Shuli made googly eyes in return, but at least he didn’t go there.
“We have a home gym,” was all he said as he took a cookie and bit off half of it.
Home gym, Nate’s ass. Shuli’s mansion had a D1 football team’s worth of equipment and floor space. He got points for not bragging, though.
“These are amazing,” Nate said as he tried one of the cookies. “No nuts.”
“Just like you,” Shuli whispered.
Nate flipped the guy off on the side, then he leaned out and tried to see through to the back hall. You know, just in case somebody had walked in from the garage. Even though no doors had opened and closed.
“That’s really convenient.” The social worker put a milk carton back into the fridge. “We’d love to add one off the garage here, but we don’t have the funding quite yet.”
Crap, what were they talking about again, Nate thought as he glanced into the living room.
“Exercise can really help with mood and feelings of mastery,” the social worker continued. “It’s an important component to health and recovery—”
“Gym,” Nate blurted.
The female laughed. “Yes, I wish we had a—”
“We’llbuilditforyou.” As her brows went up and she stopped in mid-delivery of the glasses of milk, Nate forced himself to slow down. “We can totally build one here for you.” He nodded at Shuli. “He was just saying the other day that he wanted to do something charitable for the community with his allowance.”
“I was?” Shuli said around a bite.
“And he and I’ll do the construction work for free.”
“We will?”
Nate shot his buddy another look. “Our foreman, Heff, can draw up the plans and give us a deal on the supplies with his contractor’s discount. We can work here on our off days.”
The social worker put a hand to the base of her throat and her eyes shimmered with gratitude. “You guys… that would be so kind. But are you sure?”
Nate nodded as if they’d sealed the deal with a blood pact. “It’s our pleasure.”
“It is?” Shuli muttered.
* * *
Out behind the farmhouse that smelled like chocolate chip cookies, Rahvyn walked through the meadow, the grasses and wild flowers yet to kindle, the acreage still scruffy and barren of life from winter’s cold embrace. As she zeroed in on the far-off wood line, she thought of her arrival in this place and time. Her trajectory had been off. She had had to visit a few other finite folios before she’d gotten it right.
Halting, she let her head fall back and looked at the galaxy above. The fact that she was where she was… she knew it was a miracle, an exception to the order of natural things, and she should have appreciated the rare power she possessed as the boon it was. Instead, she felt empty. Lost. Alone.
Then again, this was a whole new world, and not just because she was no longer in what people in the here and now called the “Old Country.” Old Country indeed. Back where she was from, there had been nothing old about it. It had just been where all vampires had lived.
Centuries had passed, however, and therefore perspectives had changed. Unless one had hopped across all the years as opposed to plodding through them.
Time, as it turned out, was not linear in the strict sense of the word. It was more like a book full of short stories, all of the moments simultaneously re-readable, relivable, existing in paralleled perpetuity because they were bound together. Mortals, like readers, passed through each proverbial page of their tale, the letters, the spaces, the punctuation being the years, the decades, the life they lived.
None of them had any idea that it was all predestined. Even their free-will choices were a given—because their fates were on an endless loop, nothing finishing, just infinitely restarting, ever new, ever old.
The trick was, once you started your story, you couldn’t not finish it. And you had no choice but to read and no conscious memory of what you had been through before.
It was vital that mortals did not know the truth of time. If they did… they could jump into the stories of others and influence things they were not supposed to—and like a third party editing something that had already been published, that was a mess the original author did not care for.
Rahvyn re-leveled her head. As she regarded the meadow, she felt herself get sucked back in time, although not metaphysically. With her memories coming to the forefront, she was transported to another field, one that had been in the “Old Country.” And there, beside her, was her cousin, Sahvage, yelling at her, his face twisted into rage. He was screaming at her to go as the guards approached—but she would not leave him… and then the arrows came… and he was killed in front of her.
After that, other things happened, violent things, things that changed her, but in a necessary way. The pain she endured had given her the power to bring Sahvage back—and then she had had to leave him. He had seen inside her the change. He had also seen what she had done to the aristocrat who had taken her so violently. She had thusly come here, to this point in time and this location, to find him once more. She had hated to force Sahvage to suffer with not knowing what her fate had been, but she knew he needed centuries to evolve from what he had seen her do.
And now they were here, in Caldwell, the two of them once more together. He had even found a mate, which was such a blessing.
He did not look at Rahvyn the same way, however. How could he.
Thoughts of the little cottage they had once shared, back when she had been an orphan and he had been her whard, had her glancing at the farmhouse where she had been staying. The females there had been so kind to her, so gentle.
If they knew she had skinned alive a male and impaled him through his anus on a pole, right over the entry to his castle, would they continue to be as compassionate? She did not think so. And yes, it had been centuries ago for their timeline, but that murder, and all the others that evening, had been so violent, she did not believe the traditional passage of years mediated them at all.
Which was, of course, why her cousin treated her differently.
Lifting her hands, she stared down at them, expecting to see blood dripping off her fingers and gleaming red in the moonlight. For her, the carnage had been mere nights ago. Her body was still sore from how the aristocrat had used her.
He had deserved everything that had come unto him. She regretted nothing. She did have a secret now, though, and a side to her that no one knew about.
No, that was not true. Sahvage suspected it, and that was why he looked at her the way he now did. The young that he had been so carefully protecting… had turned out to be something he feared.
“I do not belong,” she whispered into the night. “Here or anywhere.”
Some kind of movement pulled her out of her internal trap, and as she focused properly, she realized she had pivoted to fully face the farmhouse.
In the windows of the kitchen, there was a gather of three, two males and a female. They were sitting at the table, a piece of paper between them, some kind of sketching going on.
The dark-haired male in the sweatshirt captured and held her attention, and as if he sensed her regard even through the distance that separated him, he looked up and stared out at her.
With the lights on as they were for Nate, he could not in fact see her.
It was best that things stayed that way for her sake.
But mostly for his.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Erika regained consciousness to find herself lying with her head cradled in the crook of a strong arm and one of her hands clasped in a warm, firm grip. As her eyes fluttered open like she was a damn Victorian, she was confused by the stained ceiling overhead, and what was that delicious smell—
She sat up in a rush. The sight of Connie’s body, laid out on a bare mattress, brought it all back.
Wrenching around, she looked into the face… of the man she had been trying to find, who she just knew she had seen properly in her dreams. But the recognition of him was as far as she got. The moment his features registered, her thoughts began to spin and the buzzing that had knocked her out returned. Aware that she was likely to pass out again, she grabbed hold of his leather jacket and jerked their heads together.
Except before she could demand to know what he was doing to her, he said roughly, “How do you know.”
It wasn’t a question, more a declaration. What was he talking about?
Whatever. That wasn’t what was important.
“You’ve done something to my memory,” she groaned through the pain between her temples. “You need to stop it—”
He grabbed her in return and gave her a shake. “How do you know!”
“Let my mind go!”
Their faces were so close, she could see the flecks in his irises, and for no good reason at all, she decided his cologne was the best thing that had ever been in her nose—not that that was in any way helpful or appropriate.
Breathing through the headache, willing herself to stay conscious, she said hoarsely, “I know you’ve taken something from my memories. You have to give it back. Whatever you’ve done is making my mind unstable and causing me to question my sanity. Please. Give it back.”
She was talking fast, slurring her words, careening through the begging request, but it was the best she could do. Her thoughts were loose in a way that scared her and made forming cogent statements nearly impossible.
“You don’t have to save me,” he said roughly.
Save… him, she thought.
Yes… in the dream she’d just had back at headquarters. The black smoke that had come out of him. And then the second nightmare, with the shadow in her house—
“How do you know what was in my dream?” she whispered, aware that she was standing on the precipice of mystery, of another reality.
“I don’t. Those were the words you were saying as you passed out.” Then he cursed. “You’ve been dreaming of me?”
“Yes, and it’s always the same.” The headache got worse as she tried to access the recollection, but she forced herself to keep going. “I can’t… I can’t remember the specifics. It’s not with me when I’m awake, but when I’m asleep, I see you. And I know…” All at once, she felt a terrible dread. “There’s something coming after you, isn’t there.”
The man in black leather eased his hold on her arms. “No, there isn’t.”
When he didn’t go any further, she had the sense she wasn’t going to get anywhere pushing him on that front.
“Give me back my memories,” she demanded.
On some level, she couldn’t believe she was talking like this, especially because she didn’t believe in hypnosis or mind control or any of that kind of crap. But he wasn’t disagreeing with her, was he? If anything, he was looking guilty.
“You know what you’ve done to me is wrong,” she said.
“It’s to protect you,” he shot back. “You have no idea what I am.”
“Yes, I do. You’re a thief.” He winced at that, so she went harder, probing his weakness, her mind becoming a little clearer as she went on, more grounded. “You’re a thief and a violent criminal. I’ve seen you on a hidden camera bringing the watches of a murder victim to the trailer of a known trafficker in stolen goods—who happened to be dead on his couch as you walked in. He’d been shot in the head, but you barely noticed. It didn’t bother you in the slightest. You just took some money and left.”
“How do you know the watches were stolen?”
Were they really doing this next to Connie’s body? she thought numbly. But like she was going to get another chance? If he took off, she knew she was never going to see him again. Their intersection right now was a one in a million stroke of luck.
Unless he killed her. Then it was not so lucky at all.
And she should probably care a little bit more about the danger she was in, being alone with a man like him.
“So you don’t deny you were there in that trailer?” she said. “With the watches?”
