Lover Unveiled, page 19
And she didn’t. She waited until everything was closed up.
“Good girl,” he said softly. Even though she wouldn’t have approved of being called a girl.
Sticking to the shadows, he got out of his pack what he had stolen from the cottage when she’d been taking Tallah to bed: Morton’s un-iodized salt. Although he’d have taken it with the iodine. Didn’t matter.
With a steady hand, he popped the top, and he was lucky on two parts: The container was almost full, and the seventies-era ranch wasn’t big. Still, he was careful to ration the stuff. He only poured it on the ground in front of the doors and the windows. He’d have preferred to do the sealing all the way around, but he couldn’t risk running out with any of the job left undone.
After he’d covered the ground floor, he materialized up onto the roof. No chimney, but there were two pipe vents, probably for the bathrooms, and he poured the salt on the shingles around them on a just-in-case.
Then he sat his ass on the mid-beam of the house and kicked his legs out in front of himself on the easy slope. He wondered what the female was doing beneath him, maybe grabbing something to eat, going through her mail. She would head back to the cottage for the day, though. She wasn’t going to want that old female left alone.
Cursing himself, cursing Mae, he scanned the yard and the neighborhood with not just his eyes, but every sense and instinct he had.
He wasn’t sure he believed in the salt. But it was something Rahvyn had always sworn by, and that was as good a recommendation as he was going to get in this nightmare.
God, he wished his cousin were here. She would know what to do.
Hell, maybe she could have talked Mae out of this madness—
The first thing he noticed was the stars disappearing overhead. But not because of clouds. It was as if a black shroud had been pulled across the sky directly above the ranch.
“Fuck.”
Getting to his feet, he outed both of his guns, and eyed the neighborhood, which was suburban-tight and suburban-peopled: Both houses on either side, as well as the ones across the street, had humans in them, men and women winding down in bed, watching TV, having midnight snacks. The last thing he needed was a bunch of forefingers dialing 911 when he was trying to save that female’s life.
“Fuck.”
With grim purpose, he walked down the roof incline to the gutter and jumped to the ground, landing with a boom. Turning to the front door, he was going to bang on it—except he stopped himself.
The garage. He hadn’t sealed the garage door.
Shoving one of the guns into its holster, he ripped the Morton’s back out, and ran for the tiny seam between those retractable panels and the concrete lip of the garage slab. The salt needed to be down on the ground before whatever had shown up at the cottage turned up again—
“You don’t actually think that’s going to work, do you.”
The voice was female, and seemed to be coming from every direction. But as much of a shocker as it was, he refused to be diverted. He kept pouring, the lightness of the container freaking him out as he closed in on the far side of the broad entrance. Faster. Faster. Fasterfasterfaster—
Sahvage all but threw the goddamn container at the corner formed by the house’s edge and the concrete—on the theory that the salt was still in place, even if there was a cylindrical cardboard container wrapping around it.
It was as he looked up that he saw the leg.
The very shapely leg . . . that was plugged into a shiny black stiletto with a red sole.
His eyes followed the dainty ankle to its delicate calf—and went farther up to a very lady-like knee. After that, there were the thighs, the incredibly smooth thighs that were set on display by a black miniskirt that gave both “skintight” and “short” new meaning. And Jesus . . . the top half of the woman more than lived up to the bottom part. Between the black push-up bustier, and all that brunette hair, and that face . . .
“Hi,” the woman drawled as she leaned up against the house, right over the salt container. “Fancy meeting you here.”
Her eyes were jet black and gleaming like they were backlit, and her lips were blood red, and she was as beautiful a woman as he had ever seen.
And her malevolence made him want to get his other gun back out. So he fucking did.
“Now, now,” she said, “is that really necessary. We haven’t even been properly introduced. If you’re going to shoot me, shouldn’t we at least shake hands first?”
With a graceful bend, she picked up the Morton’s. Meeting his eyes, she ran one blood red fingernail around the open metal spout.
“Just so you know, I’m totally resisting the urge to make some ‘you so salty’ jokes right now.” That finger continued to play with the opening. “I’ll say it again, do you really think you can keep me out of anywhere?”
In the pool of light thrown by an exterior fixture, she was an all-wrong trying to pull off perfectly-normal: The shadows under her body moved even when she didn’t, and then there was her aura. A pitch-black shimmer tinted the air around her.
Because she radiated evil.
She tossed the Morton’s over her shoulder, and the container bounced away like it was running from her. “You’re going to need a lot more than shit for seasoning French fries to keep me out. But enough about entrances and exits, tell me something, does this skirt make my ass look big.”
Pivoting around, she struck a pose and stared over her shoulder—as her hand took a stroll down the tuck of her waist to the perfectly proportioned swell of her hip.
“Hm?” she prompted in a throat purr. “What do you think of my ass.”
Sahvage blocked his thoughts by picturing a closet, a closet that had shelves running up its walls from floor to ceiling. Inside his closet, the shelves were empty, the bald overhead light revealing all the absolutely-nothing in there. When he was sure he could see the details clearly, from the wood graining on those vertical boards to the little string hanging from the bulb, he shut the closet door. And locked it.
As the woman stroked her rear assets, he held that final image foremost in his mind: A stout door, a thick door, a reinforced door that was dead-bolted, protecting a closet with nothing in it.
The woman chuckled. “Look at you, with the parlor tricks.”
Say nothing, he told himself. You give nothing out loud.
“So protective of the female under this roof, you are.” The woman—“woman”—glanced at the house. “You must care deeply for her. Or are you just making sure she lives long enough so you can fuck her?”
Sahvage stared forward and barely blinked.
“I’m right, aren’t I.” The woman smiled as she turned back around to face him. “You haven’t fucked her yet. But you want to, don’t you. You want her naked under you and you’re going to mark her as your own—like that means anything these days. Haven’t you heard that monogamy is out of style?”
Her voice was low and seductive, backing up her body, her lips, her hair. She was such an enticing package, but once you got that ribbon off? Ripped free the wrapping paper?
“Or maybe there’s more to you two.” She extended an elegant hand and pointed her blood red forefinger at the center of his chest. “Does she have this? What beats in here . . . has she taken your heart?” There was a pause. “Already . . . wow. I’ll have to take some pointers from her. She’s not much to look at, but her game is evidently on fire.”
I give nothing, Sahvage thought. I give nothing, Igivenothing, IgivenothingIgivenothingIgive—
Her eyes gleamed with menace. “You know, you make me want to get inside of you. I think it would be fun—for me, at least. And for you, for a short while. But hey, sometimes in life, all you get are short little funs, right? Itty-bitty funs. So what do you say, fighter. How about we fuck and I show you a really good time.”
From out of the blue, a thought came to him, like a paper airplane sailing into his line of sight.
This woman, who was not a woman at all but something else . . . was his ticket off the planet.
After all these years, his death, which he had so often wished for, and too many times been denied, had finally crossed the threshold of his inner house and sat down in a chair.
To wait for the right moment.
The woman smiled, her blood red lips pulling into an expression of evil satisfaction. “You’re going to be mine.”
• • •
The rush of the ice bouncing off Rhoger’s immobile chest and falling into the sides of the tub was the kind of thing Mae was going to hear in her nightmares forever. And the tinkling sounds, so soft, so gentle, reminded her of how unhinged she had become. Even as she was able to dress herself properly and eat her meals and drive her car without disaster, she was chaos barely reined in, the undercarriage of all her seemingly a-okay really ten thousand volts of fucked-in-the-head.
“It’s going to be fine,” she told her brother as she crumpled up the dripping, empty bag.
Reaching for the next one, she tore through its plastic skin and then realized she’d forgotten to bang it on the floor first. It was a solid frozen chunk.
“Damn it.”
Grabbing a towel off the rack, she wrapped the bag up and dropped the thing on the bath mat a couple of times, the shattering inside too close for comfort.
Now the chips poured out, though.
When she was finished refilling things, she sat back on her heels and propped her hands on the slick rim of the tub. Staring at her brother’s face through the tesserae’d ice, she couldn’t recognize his features. But she wasn’t sure she would have anyway.
It had been a long time since she’d properly looked him in the eye, and not because he had passed.
“I’m so sorry,” she croaked out. “I didn’t mean . . . that night you left, I didn’t mean to yell at you. I really didn’t.”
There was no answer coming back at her. Which hadn’t been the way things were. Before Rhoger had taken off that night and not come home, they’d been fighting constantly.
Over such insignificant things—or so it seemed now.
God, she wished she had been more patient. Or maybe not have dug so deep with the criticism. Maybe if she hadn’t been so hard on him, he would have stayed home that night.
Maybe . . .
She thought of the summoning spell. And everything Tallah had told her the Book would do for her.
Yes, she wanted to bring Rhoger back. But the truth was, it was her wrong that she wanted to rectify. She had started the downward spiral that had ended in his tragic death: After that particularly brutal argument, he had stormed out . . . and then crossed the path of his murderer at some point.
With a curse, she remembered those terrible days of waiting, sitting in the hard chair in the kitchen, praying for a call from him. And then the nights, trying to work at her desk, braced for the door to open when he came home.
The latter had happened, eventually . . . nearly two weeks after he had gone missing. She had smelled the fresh blood first, and then heard the stumbling feet. Rushing out of her room, she had come down the hall just as he had collapsed inside the front door, his loose limbs and out-of-joint torso the most terrifying thing she had ever seen.
“Rhoger,” she whispered.
If he hadn’t come home to die here? She never would have found him. She would have spent the rest of her life listening for the door, stuck with this house because it was where he would know to find her, wondering and imagining and torturing herself with a thousand different bad outcomes.
“I’m going to fix this,” she told him. “I promise.”
Getting to her feet, she groaned as every muscle in her body hurt—except that wasn’t true. It was only her upper arms that ached, and for a moment, she couldn’t figure out why.
Then she remembered being on the doorstep of the cottage. With Sahvage. Shooting at a shadow.
“I’ll be back tomorrow night,” she said to Rhoger. “I have to make sure Tallah is okay. It’s . . . a long story.”
The fact that she paused for his response made her feel really unhinged. So she went to her room and quickly packed an over-day bag. The truth was, she couldn’t wait to leave the house—which made her feel guilty. But for godsakes, it wasn’t like Rhoger was aware she was leaving him all alone. Besides, it was better for her not to be around the body. If another one of those shadows showed up?
If she didn’t have him intact, she didn’t know what the hell she was resurrecting.
Holy hell, what kind of life was she living.
Out in the garage, she took a deep breath—
The scent of spoiled meat put her paranoia back in the driver’s seat: Was it a legion of the undead coming for her? Dear God, why had she told a weapon like Sahvage to leave? She was totally undefended—
Mae’s head cranked around. To the rolling trash bin in the corner.
“It’s Thursday,” she muttered. “It’s trash day.”
As opposed to the Zombie-apocalypse.
Going to the Civic, she tossed her canvas over-day bag into the back along with her purse. Then she hit the garage door opener and marched over to the roller. As the panels trundled up, she tilted the weight and started to pull—
Directly outside the garage, there were two sets of legs.
That were standing toe to toe. Or boot to stiletto, as was the case.
She recognized the former. Those were Sahvage’s cargo pants and footwear. But the female’s?
As the door continued to ascend, Mae paid a whole lot of attention to what was revealed on the fairer-sex side of things: Lots of leg. Tiny skirt. Perfect hip-to-waist-to- . . . wow, that was a heck of a bust. Long brunette hair.
And a profile that was begging for a close-up.
Okay, so she’d been wrong. Sahvage didn’t belong with one of those rave types from back at the parking garage. This was who he needed. The female was as stunning a specimen as he was, the extremely feminine balanced with the extremely masculine. And their bodies would fit perfectly together.
The fact that Mae was ever so slightly jealous was nuts.
And what the hell were the happy couple doing in her driveway?
Just as she was about to bring up the trespassing laws of New York State, Sahvage’s head snapped in her direction.
He didn’t say a word. But his eyes were communicating a clear warning.
And then the woman looked her way.
“Hello,” the brunette said in a voice that was part Sophia Loren, part Judge Judy. “It’s soooooo nice to meet you.”
As she spoke, Sahvage didn’t move. It wasn’t even clear whether he was breathing. But those eyes of his. So intense, they did not even blink.
Meanwhile, the woman’s glittering stare drifted down Mae’s body. “You know, I’m sure you’re all well and good—and that your mother loves you. But I’m really surprised he’s risking his own life to save the likes of you.” She put her palms forward as if to be reassuring. “No offense, I mean, I just think honesty is the best policy, don’t you? And you’re not exactly what I’d expect.”
Sahvage looked down. But not because he was being called out. He was focusing on something.
Sending a message.
Mae let the woman continue to talk while she tried to figure out what he was directing her to—wait, was that a salt container on the side lawn?
The woman sauntered up to the edge of the garage’s concrete slab. “Anyway, enough with the chitchat. I’m thinking about buying a place in this neighborhood.” She indicated her fabulousness, sweeping a hand down her curves. “You can thank me for improving your property values later. But right now, how about you give me a tour of this incredibly quaint little abode of yours? I’m just dying to see what you did with the kitchen. Harvest gold, right? With macramé plant holders and a throw rug the color of an avocado. I mean, you look like someone who peaked in the late seventies, early eighties. Assuming second grade teacher is, like, a style or an era.”
The smile was a study in condescension.
And as Mae looked back at Sahvage’s face, the woman threw her hands up. “Oh, will you stop worrying about him? Fine, yes, I’m going to fuck him, but I assure you, it’ll mean nothing on my side, so it won’t threaten your relationship—well, until he kills himself. That’s not going to be my fault, however. Besides, take my word for it, he’s a bad bet for anything long-term. You should never trust what you cannot control. Something tells me you already know that, though, don’t you.”
Mae focused properly on the woman.
And in a slow, clear voice, she said, “You are not welcome here. I do not welcome you into my home. Now and forevermore.”
The woman’s black stare narrowed. “I think you’re mistaken.”
Sahvage took three steps forward and crossed over onto the concrete slab. Facing the female, he stayed silent and went still again.
The expression on the rare beauty’s face shifted, her lashes lowering over eyes that now glittered with rage.
“Oh, you fuckers,” she said in a low voice. “You’re not that smart, either one of you. And parlor tricks aren’t going to keep me away. I am everywhere.”
Backing up, Sahvage extended his arm and punched the button to close the garage door.
As the panels began to trundle shut, the woman growled deep in her throat, like a predator.
“You’ll be seeing me again soon,” she said. “That’s a promise.”
Knocking.
Lots of knocking on Balz’s bedroom door.
As his heavy lids lifted, he couldn’t figure out why in the hell someone was waking him up in the middle of the day. He was fucking sleeping.
“What,” he snapped.
At his kind invitation, the door opened and airmailed him a shaft of light from the hallway that was like getting rusty-spiked in the iris. With a hiss, he went classic Dracula, putting his forearm over his face and rearing back.
“How are you still in bed?”
Syphon, back again. Of course. The Mother Hen motherfucker was an alarm clock that ran on gluten-free organic smoothies, almond shakes, and organic porridge.
