Lover Unveiled, page 15
Sahvage jabbed a thumb toward the windows that faced out front. “You couldn’t hold that gun up without me—”
“You couldn’t see to shoot—”
“So we make a perfect pair.” As she huffed, he had to smile. “Now how ’bout that coffee? Great, thanks. I take mine black.”
“Just like your soul, right.”
Levity lost, Sahvage lowered his chin and stared out at her from under heavy brows. “Here’s a little tip for you.” As her hand went to the base of her throat, he thought of everything he had done in the past. “When your enemy is evil, you don’t want your shield worrying about virtue. You and that old female are not going to survive this without the likes of me.”
• • •
Two hundred years in the past, and some indeterminate time following his demise from the penetrations of many arrows, Sahvage kindled back into consciousness, the gathering of his wits calling unto him an awareness that was gradual, yet irrevocable upon its arrival: The meadow was gone, replaced with a mist that was so thick, he felt as though he was floating, even as the weight of his body registered. The scent of his fresh blood was likewise no more, and the same was true of his righteous foes with their cries of judgment and vengeance.
The one thing he cared about, the only thing that mattered . . . Rahvyn . . . was as well nowhere to be seen, heard, or sensed—
Was this a dream? Had he lived? No, that could not be true.
With confusion, he regarded the front of himself. He was in a loose white garb that he neither owned nor had any memory of dressing himself in, yet did that truly matter? What was more germane was that no shafts protruded from his chest, and, placing his hand over his heart, he breathed in and felt no congestion, no struggle for draw. There was no pain, either.
Looking about, a shiver of awareness licked down his spine as he noted the white landscape that was nothing earthly-bound. Mist . . . only mist as far as he could see. Indeed, there was no division betwixt sky and ground, no structures, no flora or fauna, and no one else around him. It was as if this odd, troubling environ had been created for him and him alone.
Following a moment of collection, he turned to the left as if called to do so.
And when he saw what was before him, dread flowed throughout his body, replacing the blood in his veins.
The door unto the Fade presented itself just as it had been described unto him by a wahlker, and he recalled the male’s words, spoken in a haunting voice: From out of the fog shall appear before you a door, and should you desire to proceed unto the other side, then open it. If you wish to stay among the living, do not lay your palm upon the latch. Once contact be made, your choice is ratified fore’ermore.
Sahvage wrapped his arms around himself, in the event his hand acted on its own provocation, without his consent or prompting. Rahvyn was down below, undefended, in the midst of a sea of males with cruelty in their hearts. She needed him to keep her safe—
The latch depressed of its own volition, and there was the unmistakable click of a lock disengaging. The portal unhinged from its jambs, opening with an inexorable force and a manner that recalled the departure of his life force down upon that meadow’s soft bed of flowers, neither volunteered for nor deniable.
“No!” he called out to the milky sky. “I shall not proceed! I refuse—”
All at once, a swirling o’ertook him, the indistinct landscape casing ’round, or mayhap it was he who was turning and churning within it. And then there was a pulling, as if he had returned unto the birthing canal, his body sucked through a narrow aperture that he could not see, but most certainly sensed, the compression squeezing the air from his lungs and compressing his ribs such that his heart could no longer beat.
Nausea roiled within his gut, and his head became fuzzy, thoughts refusing to form properly—and yet what could he know about what was done unto him the now? He was alive no longer, his body an abode which had been locked by death’s key against his soul’s reentry . . . unless all his prayers to be of service unto his first cousin had been honored? Mayhap—
A free fall followed a sudden release of the stifling compaction, his senses informing him that he was set upon a descent through air that offered no sufficient drag to slow him down. And as he strained to see where he was, his vision left him. Throwing out his arms, he clasped at nothing. Kicking his legs, he encountered nothing. Twisting and turning . . . he came up against nothing.
And in the midst of it all, there was no fear, only rage, as was his nature.
Dhunhd.
Having rejected the gift of the Fade, having forsaken the eternity of love and life he had miraculously been given in spite of his earthly actions, he was now being punished for the temerity of attempting to determine his own destiny.
The Omega’s den of suffering was to be his infinity—
Without preamble, a stunning impact registered throughout his limbs, his torso, his skull. It was as if he landed flat upon his back on the most unforgiving of stone, but without the bounce that would have characterized such a fall from such a height.
Blackness.
Utter blackness.
A claustrophobic strangulation claimed his windpipe, and he began to pant, his breath, heavy and urgent, echoing close unto his ears . . . what madness was this? He seemed to be in an enclosed space. A tight-quartered, clearly defined space.
Placing his hands up—
Sahvage could not bring them unto his chest. There wasnae room for him to bend his elbows, and his knuckles rapped against something hollow.
Wood. Directly above him.
Kicking his feet, he encountered the same down at the terminal of his body. And spreading his arms a-width, he learned the limits of his confines, so narrow and contouring of the shape of his corporeal form.
His conscious intellect informed him of his location.
And even as his mind rejected the conclusion, and his temper rose to unsustainable levels, it was as yet inescapable.
Could he be in a coffin?
As Nate stared at the female he had spent all day thinking about, he felt suspended in thin air even though his feet were on the ground. She was just as he remembered, her pale hair streaming out from under the hood that covered her head, her hands hidden in the folds of her long, loose black coat. And as with before, she was off to the side, standing alone.
“Hi,” he said, lifting his hand.
When she took a step back, he put both his palms out. “I won’t hurt you, I promise.”
She didn’t move away any farther, but she looked behind herself as if to be reassured that the coast was clear for a dash. Or a dematerialize.
“I’m Nate.” He pointed to his chest—and then felt lame. Like there was anyone else around making intros? “Are you . . . did you come back to see this again?”
She glanced at the divot in the earth.
“It was amazing, right? Who’d have thought—a meteor. Out here?”
Nate cleared his throat and wanted to get closer to her. But he stayed where he was, and like an idiot, even though they were only six or seven feet apart, he spoke more loudly. You know, just to make sure she heard him.
Over the din of the absolutely quiet, no-sound-anywhere forest.
God, he was an idiot.
“My buddy Shuli and I were working.” He thumbed over his shoulder. “We’re helping renovate a house over there, across the field. Anyway, we saw the flash of light in the sky. Did you see the flash? It was amazing. So . . . ah, where are you from?”
Great. Next thing you knew, he’d be asking if she came here often. What her major was, even though they were vampires, not human. Whether she’d like a drink, in spite of a total absence of bartenders, liquor, or glasses anywhere near them.
Such game. And he didn’t even like alcohol.
“I live in town. With my parents.” He tacked that second part on to make himself seem more approachable. “Do you live with yours?”
As opposed to a mate. Who was, like, big as Murhder and as possessive as a guard dog. Who would likely tear Nate limb from limb with his teeth and bury the pieces in his yard.
“My mom’s a scientist. My dad’s—” No, wait, he wasn’t going to talk about the Black Dagger Brotherhood. “He’s a fighter for the . . .” No, he shouldn’t mention the King. “He takes care of people.”
The female’s head turned to the impact pit again, and he got a good look at her profile. It was . . . well, as perfect as the front view of her face was. Her features were fine and well-balanced, her eyes set a little on the deep side, her mouth a wisp of pink between her nose and her chin. There was a shriveled brown leaf in the ends of her hair, a leftover from what had fallen in the autumn, and he was so tempted to go over and pick it out of such delicate entrapment. Put it in his pocket. Keep it safe throughout his shift.
Hide it in his bedside table when he got home. Hide it forever.
Something told him he was going to want proof that he’d actually stood with her.
“Last night, I was going to talk to you.” Jesus, he sounded pathetic. “I wanted to say hi. But I didn’t think—well, there were a lot of people around.”
She continued to stay silent, but as her eyes returned to him, they didn’t leave—and he wasn’t sure whether that was a good or a bad thing. She looked wary and weary.
And that was when he saw the dirt on the folds of her cape-like thing. And noticed how pale she was.
Nate narrowed his eyes. “Did you spend the day out here?”
She took another step back.
He shook his head. “I’m not judging. I just . . . it’s not real safe. From the sun. From other things.” He gave her a chance to say something. “Look, is there someone I can call for you?”
When he took out his phone, she put some more distance between them, the fallen pine needles rustling under her feet—which he could not see, and he hoped had shoes to cover their soles.
“Please,” he said. “Just let me help you. I can call for help. Who can I call for you?”
“I am lost.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I am lost.”
He pointed to his ear. “I’m sorry, I, ah, I can’t understand what language you’re speaking. Can you—of course you don’t speak English or you’d be speaking English.” He talked slower—which was frickin’ stupid. “I’m calling someone who can help.”
With a hand that was kind of unsteady, he pulled a number out of his contacts and put things on speakerphone. “Just give me a minute. She’s a good female, she can help—”
Two rings in, and from out of the tinny speaker, Mary, the shellan of the Black Dagger Brother Rhage, said, “Nate! How nice to hear from you. You all are doing such great work out at Luchas House. We’re moving the rest of the furniture in tonight—”
“Mrs. Mary, I have a problem.” He locked eyes with the hooded female and prayed—prayed—that she stayed where she was. “I’m here with a . . . friend . . . and she isn’t speaking a language I can understand. She needs . . . a friend. Can you help me help her?”
There was only the slightest of pauses, proof positive that Mrs. Mary was the right person to call. “Okay, Nate. First of all, are you two in a safe place? Do you want me to send someone to you?”
He pictured the likes of the Brother Vishous showing up. Qhuinn. Shit—Zsadist. “No, no, we’re perfectly safe. We’re just in the forest by Luchas House. Where the meteor landed.”
“Good. Can you put her on?”
“Here,” he said, holding out the phone toward the female. When she just stared in confusion at what was in his palm, he felt like further assurances were necessary. “Don’t worry. She’s a professional. You can trust her.”
Yeah, like any of that was going to help if she didn’t speak English.
Shit.
• • •
“So you were telling me about this Book thing.”
Over at Tallah’s kitchen counter, Mae closed her eyes and swore to herself that the coffee she was pouring was going to stay in its ceramic delivery device. She was not going to toss it across the table at the male who’d put in his order like he was at a 24-hour diner.
How they’d managed to make it downstairs in one piece was a miracle of sorts. And not because they were being chased by anything.
Oil and water. They were oil and water together.
“Well?” Sahvage prompted as he put his leather jacket over the weapons he’d taken off his torso. Leaning back in his chair, he regarded her with a steady stare.
“I wasn’t talking about the Book,” she said as she carried the mug across to him.
“Thanks for this.” He smiled as he palmed what she’d made for him. “It’s perfect.”
“You haven’t tried it yet.”
“You made it for me. That’s all perfection requires.”
With a frown, she sat on the other side of the table. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what.”
“Try to be charming.” She rubbed her aching eyes and wondered whether there was any Motrin in her purse. “It doesn’t work.”
“I’ve never been charming.”
“Well, what do you know. We’re going to put self-awareness on your short list of positive attributes.”
“Someday, you’re going to like me.” There was a siiiipping sound. Then an ahhhhhh. “See? I told you this is perfect. Now talk to me about the Book. And yes, I’ll stop being a smartass.”
“Not possible.”
“Give me a chance.” Sahvage grew serious. “I want to know whatever you do about it.”
As the fighter went silent and seemed prepared to wait, Mae felt herself recede into her mind—but it was not back to her brother, to that ice-cube-filled tub, to the terrible mission she’d set herself on. Instead, she was once again out on the front porch of this previously peaceful cottage, shooting a heavy gun that, Sahvage was right, she couldn’t have held steady on her own.
“I didn’t have two hands,” she muttered. “With two hands, I could have done it.”
“What?” he said. “Oh, you’re thinking about my Glock. Yeah, it’s a big one.”
Mae narrowed her eyes. “You can stop with the double entendres. Anytime.”
“You’re going there, not me.” He shifted to the side and put the gun on the table between them. “The name’s right there on the weapon.”
“What is it about males wanting to show off their guns.”
“You can’t give me an opening like that—”
“What did I say about the entendres—”
“You mean these guns?” he said as he curled up two huge biceps. “Oh, and now she shoots me the death glare. Like anyone wouldn’t flex on that stage.”
As Mae tried to not smile, she watched him tilt and reholster the weapon—and when she noticed how muscular his shoulders were under that skintight t-shirt of his, she couldn’t stay sitting. Up on her feet again, she took the two teacups with her and Tallah’s loads of cold Earl Grey to the sink. Then she came back for the sugar pot and the creamer pitcher. As well as the crushed lemon carcass.
“You take vinegar with your tea?” He picked up the bottle and inspected the label. “Strange palate.”
“I’ll take that.”
When she went to grab the stuff from him, he didn’t let go. “Talk to me, Mae. I know you don’t like me and you sure as hell don’t appreciate me barging in here. But that guy with the Mohawk is right. I owe you my life—and I may be a piece of shit, but I do have a code of honor. Besides, you’ve just seen how handy I am in a fight, haven’t you.”
Now he released his hold. He didn’t stop staring up at her, though.
So as she turned away and put the vinegar back in the cupboard, she could feel his eyes on her.
“I promise to be good,” he murmured. Then he chuckled. “Fine, I promise to be better. And make it last this time.”
Leaning back against the countertop, Mae considered her options. Which didn’t seem to include kicking him out of the house—and not just because she couldn’t possibly have carried him to the door.
With a sense of defeat, she returned to the chair she’d been in. Putting her hands on the table, she linked her fingers and took a deep breath.
“Whatever it is,” he said, “I’m going to believe you.”
“What an odd thing to say.”
She glanced at him. He was looming there in that seat, his huge body overflowing the chair, the table . . . the cottage. Yet he was still, and silent. Ready to hear her out.
“But this is all so crazy.” Mae shook her head. “Really nuts.”
“Life is crazy. The foolish thing is thinking it isn’t.”
“If you had to take a guess, what was that shadow thing outside?”
“Tell me about the Book. I have a feeling that’s going to answer your question—and it’s what you believe as well, don’t you.”
“Stop reading my mind.”
“I’m not mind-reading.” More with the sipping. “It’s intuition.”
“Isn’t that for females?”
“Traditional sex roles are sexist.”
Mae didn’t want to laugh. So she covered her mouth with her hand to muffle the sound, hide the expression.
“You should do that more often,” he said softly.
Flushing, Mae smoothed the flyaways from her face. Funny. Even though her clothes were on right and her hair still in a ponytail, she felt completely disheveled. Like someone had put her in a wind tunnel.
“I haven’t had much cause to laugh lately,” she heard herself say.
“Talk to me.”
Mae’s eyes went to the empty silver dish, nothing but the residue of her blood and the other ingredients of the spell left. “I’ve lost a lot of loved ones recently. And I’m not going to lose another.”
“Who died. Or is dying.” When she didn’t reply, he shrugged. “Let me guess. Prayers haven’t been working—or you don’t feel like they go far enough. So you’re taking things into your own hands.”
“Do you believe in magic?”
When he didn’t answer, she lifted her eyes to his. He was staring at her with a remote expression.
