Demons & Dragons

by Gina Kincade

  A California palm frond slammed against the window at his back, making his stiff body jump, his pulse tremble as he fought to catch his still sporadic breath. He stood rooted in place, couldn't move even if he wanted to. Still, his leg muscles tightened as if ready to run from the spectacular horror he faced, lied to himself that it must be a hallucination, drunken insanity bringing his past into the present. Healthy fear ignited all of his senses beyond the hissing sort of hum in his ears from his blood pressure, so high a heart attack imminently threatened his young, thirty-something, hours-spent-in-the-gym body. Clenching his free hand into a fist, he refused to let this split second in time be a measure of the man he knew himself to be. No man, no matter how powerful, how rich, how strong, and he was all of these things in spades, could endure such a terrifying experience.

  "Why, Ciaran Byrne, you do look like you've seen a ghost."

  Her voice, soft, yet deep for a woman, rushed over him, along with a measure of dark, unhealthy lust which fired from each nerve ending. He became acutely aware of every inch of the ethereal being standing before him. Of this world, not of this world, his senses still couldn't decipher which as his mind played tricks, attempted to dismiss the truth despite all facts and exquisite figures within his reach.

  "Allanah Adams," he managed, the deep tone of his voice strangled, losing certain sounds almost completely as he'd struggled over her name. Though he sounded like a baffling idiot, he figured she knew her own damn name so he'd stop while he was ahead rather than humiliate himself further. Besides, embarrassment wasn't exactly familiar to him in any way. So, he had to swallow it down, crush it immediately, though the how-to on that remained as elusive as the next words he attempted to utter.

  The smell of sweet vanilla and heady sandalwood, like an instantaneous aphrodisiac, intoxicated him more so than the whiskey ever could. The mix of her wildly colored curls framing the creamy skin of her face, set off by her deep, ruby-stained lips, and cat-green, shining emerald eyes, made his pupils dilate while sending his blood rushing in new directions that made his Dolce & Gabbana jeans tortuously tight. As he licked his lips, the taste of her came rushing back to him, a memory of the tongue if there were such a thing. Yet, when she dared put her hand on his arm, feather her long fingers over his sleeve onto bare skin, burning him, torturing him, he forgot that most feared him from his intimidating mix of money and muscles, brains and brawn if you will. Instead, he fell apart at a cellular level, as if his body could crumble right there before hers, smoking into a pile of ash like the demon inside him would in some sci-fi flick. While that wasn't possible, comparing his life at this moment to a B-grade horror movie seemed all too appropriate.

  In fact, he could hear the distinctive, tenor voice narrating the simple plot of a great beast of a man literally brought to his knees, to a shell of the man he'd once been just seconds before. As this new monster came on the scene, the music would grow comically eerie, as it should be in this moment.

  Only, Allanah stood there far from a monster, more an angel he couldn't have, as always. The only one he'd ever loved. The only one he'd ever lost. The only one, still, thanks to his curse, out of his reach. Although, at this moment, she stood dangerously close. He had to use all the energy he had in him to not pull her to him, crush her lithe body to his, take her against the wall behind him, the only thing holding him upright.

  "Well, at least you remember my name," she murmured under her breath, her voice taut, tight as she turned her back to him, though she stayed right there, too damn close for comfort. Visions of slipping the straps of her dress off her shoulders to encourage its fall to the floor preoccupied his mind as memories of her naked before him flooded his system. Back. And. Front. Views. Memories.

  "Love what you've done with the place. Not extreme or extravagant at all," she continued, the hostile distaste, heavy disapproval dripping from her tongue. Sarcasm deepened her tone to a bewitching husky. "Not that you were ever over the top or anything."

  He looked around the room, which constituted exactly half of the main floor square footage. The space served well as a place to entertain guests with the other half of this floor the kitchen and dining areas, which led out to a deck overlooking the ocean. Sure, his trappings were lavish, maybe even over the top on a grandiose scale, but what else had he to do with all of his money? The funds he didn't hide away with impossible hopes and dreams that had always starred this woman before him, anyway. This lady he figured he'd never see again. Yet, here she stood, in all of her five-foot-six glory of lightly bronzed skin, glowing warm, inviting his brutal touch, which could escort her to where dark desire influenced by anxious waves of desperation took her to places she'd never been before, calling out his name, begging for more. A man, a beast, could hope, could dream.

  "When my father died," he got out, redirecting his thoughts, as well as his blood flow before those thoughts became obvious in his tightening jeans, "and the place became mine—"

  "The place? You mean this simple mansion on a cliff?" She interrupted him, gesturing eloquently to the area around them. At the same time she managed a glare over her shoulder, uncovered in her white, strappy dress flowing with layers of sheer floral patterned material edged with lace. Surely one of her originals, it suited her body, showed off the sensual curves of her breasts and hips, the long lines of her arms and legs.

  He just couldn't let the memory slash fantasy of them entwined, heated, manic, go. He'd thought, literally hard and heavy, on it a million times in the years she'd been gone from his life. He'd enhanced the memory into one hell of a fantasy by now. Yet, here she stood before him after all of these years, and his stressed imagination worked in overdrive.

  "How the hell did you end up with it anyway?"

  "Well, my brothers didn't want it, so I bought out their portions. I don't know, I wanted to, maybe needed to... I needed to change something, so I started here in the house I grew up in. And, I felt the need to change it dramatically. I went out of my way to find a decorator known for her unique flair and told her to go crazy."

  "Crazy. That describes it. You live on a cliff overlooking an ocean, and that wasn't enough water for you, you had to make the entire floor of this room a water feature?"

  "You don't like it?" He inquired, not able to read her tight, maybe forced smile as to whether she liked the changes or hated them. She'd never cared for the extravagances of his family when she'd been young and poor, so he'd guess the latter, but things had changed for her in recent years. "I mean, you've earned enough money yourself now, run in close to the same crowds as I do these days, exist in the same tax bracket. Surely you're used to shows of wealth by now."

  "I didn't say I didn't like it," she countered, taking a large gulp of what looked to be a mix of whiskey and ginger ale. His workaholic brain wondered if the light amber liquid were one of the newest blended whiskeys called the Mystics, premium blends of American and Irish whiskeys produced by his company, Old Alchemy Distillery.

  "Usquebaugh?" he asked, referring to her drink with the Irish term for whiskey, meaning water of life, since they were on the subject of water it seemed.

  "What else would one drink in the home of a Byrne?"

  He left it at that. Didn't keep going for lack of anything to say that might calm the obvious ire he now read loud and clear in her strained voice. He didn't know how, in this moment, to make her see him as she once had so many years ago, as a man worthy of her love. He hadn't cherished it enough, her attentions, the fleeting moments they had spent together. Nor had he the strength, so young then still, to stand up to his family's distaste of his choice and the evil use of money his father threw out to tear them apart.

  There'd been a time, forever ago, another life it seemed, where she'd maybe even been grateful to be with him. Not due to his wealth, of course, she'd never been one of those girls, just happy to be in love, and seemingly happy it was with him. In fact, way back then, they had been inseparable, their bodies connected like magnets if they were in the
same room. The phantom memory of her body against his wrought equal measures of pain and pleasure as glimpses of her soft skin, bared for him, came rushing back again and again, yielding blinding flashes of heat to his blood.

  They stood there, for a few silent moments, both looking over the crowded room. It had come out extreme. She hadn't been wrong. The entire base floor consisted of about four feet of water. You walked up a few steps to the room to walk on wooden floors that had been crafted to look like boardwalks, though highly polished versions. A structural glass floor system connected them to grant a view of the water without anyone falling in, or needing to watch where they were walking. Except for at the edge on the far left side of the room from where he stood. At that point in the room the glass and wood stopped at varying lengths to expose the water between the edges of the floor and a weeping wall water feature prominently housing a large fireplace in the middle of it.

  He had a thing about fire and water: the opposing forces, destructive and impossible, like him, his life. From the wall flowing with water on either side of the fireplace, large, metal candle holders complete with thick, white towers of melting wax added to the whole elemental effect. It was stunning really, the mix of orange and yellow flames over patina ripples due to clear water flowing over metal and stone. Many evenings he sat here, whiskey in hand, a glass or whole bottle depending on his mood. He'd stare, mesmerized, thinking of her, of the life they could have together if he lived in another world, another time, another dimension, maybe. More to the point, if he'd been born to a different man, to a father rather than a hellish fiend, she'd have remained his, without question, and he'd never have been forced to leave the love of his life alone.

  "Why are you here, Allanah?" he asked, wishing the thought hadn't fallen out of his mouth in such a fashion that he sounded like a defeated man.

  It wasn't in his nature. Not ever. To lose. To want. Never had been. Except with her. Which was why he'd lost her, because he'd shown an inkling of weakness. In that instance being in love with someone had been seen by the family as beneath him, so his father had beat it out of him. No, weakness had never been an option except for that brief period in time when he'd had her in his arms, in his bed, thinking them unseen by the man, the dictator, the beast, he'd been forced to call father. Yet, the woman could bring even a man like him to his knees, begging. Even now, right this particular minute, he feared. Probably the reason his father ended it so quickly. She'd have been a distraction to the tyrant's creation of another monster to groom to run his company. The hate harbored over his imposed loss still brewed inside him to a lethal inferno with just a single thought.

  As the muscles in his neck corded, his jaw clenched, he squared his shoulders, standing at the ready to battle the memory of a dead man as he squared off with the one loss he'd never recovered from. A mixture of lust and love whipped through him more violent than the storm-infuriated ocean battering the cliff outside his home. The rush of both would have made him stumble if he'd dared to attempt a single step.

  "You want me to leave?" she voiced with a hint of disappointment, he thought, or wished, deepening the edges of her confident tone.

  "No... No. I'm just surprised. Shocked as hell, actually. I haven't seen you since we were in high school. You haven't changed a bit either. Beautiful. Some, like me, may even say breathtaking. I would add bewitching."

  "Interesting use of terms," she said with a shrug, still not looking at him directly.

  He couldn't read her, and he slowly went mad with the need to. He wanted to touch a curl of her hair, maybe a chestnut brown one, or a golden blond one, or even one of the fiery red ones; the need to feel the silky locks drift though his fingers burrowed through him, so intense that he fisted his hands tighter until his nails cut into his palms, forcing himself to overcome the urge.

  "My mother did a whole guilt trip inducing song and dance to get me here, if you must know," she continued when he faltered for anything else to say. "I was visiting. A surprise for her birthday, and she said she had this party to go to. When I found out it was yours, I refused, of course, not wanting to make anyone uncomfortable, including myself, honestly, but my arguments fell on deaf ears. She won in the end. Cheap mom tactics and all. I appreciate the fact you kept her on once your father passed away. I'm sorry for your loss. I really am. And, she would have been lost if she'd lost her job after he died."

  She had to be a witch, he thought, to his own amusement, because she turned him inside out like no other woman—hell, human—could. Not that she knew of magic in this world like he did, or of the true evil lurking in his veins. That truth would have ended them anyway, and so when his father had threatened, he'd obeyed, let her go on at least thinking him just a human boy, rich, spoiled, and whatever else she'd once thought of him. Who the hell knew what she thought now with all the media attention his family had received over the years, even with the magic stuff, the worst of it all, still a family secret. While protected by financial means and power, his father had tarnished his family name with his ridiculous ways, his lavish lifestyle and severe, dictator-like rule.

  "I honestly don't know how my father would have survived, let alone run the company without your mother. I'm well aware of all she did for him, the good, the bad, the ugly, not to mention the cover-ups when he fucked up yet again."

  "She was indebted to the man. His money gave us our life, a way for her to support us both," she said, anger, disdain, building in her ever-deepening tone. Some words sounded forced out, too breathy. "I swear, she would have done probably just about anything for him."

  "I never got why," he added, the same derision apparent in the choked quality of his timbre as he actively wished harm to a dead man. "Of course, one didn't ask my father questions, just obeyed his curt and direct orders. I'd no idea what he had over her. The only reason I could imagine a woman as sweet as your mother working for such a monster."

  "He protected us, she would say, brought us to this country, gave us a way to survive... It's not my story to tell, though. Sorry, it's hers. I can only say she was young, made a mistake, and when she ran here, got a job, he found out, and he decided to use what he knew of her past to protect and insure his future."

  "Okay, then. Sounds like my father, though I can't imagine what mistake your mother could have made that was bad enough to need my father's help. I'm not... I mean, I wasn't prying, just stating a fact. Your mother is an amazing woman, and she made mine, and my brother's transitions to our new roles into the company flawless. I couldn't have survived it all without her. She probably knew this company better than my father did. She definitely knew it better than I did when I inherited it all, along with my brothers."

  "I did..." she went on, but yet hesitated, ignoring his comment or the sudden edge that had increased in his voice, making him feel more like himself again.

  He shook off the initial effect she'd had on him, or at least attempted to. Seeing this woman he'd been forced to let go so long ago after all of these years could well be the worst torture he'd ever endured, and the bar had been set pretty high there thanks to his family. Truth be told, while he'd dated a lot since her, no one in all of that time had ever come close to measuring up to Allanah. And, she'd been the one he measured everyone up to, always on his mind, the memory of her forever taunting him with regrets.

  "You did what?"

  "I did try, many times, to talk her into quitting, especially once I started making good money, but she wouldn't hear of it. She more than deserves retirement," she finished, the regret clouding her voice though the frustration and anger remained obvious in the biting off the ends of certain words.

  "Make good money, huh? That's what you call single-handedly designing a line of boho chic clothing, I believe they call it, and then taking yourself to millionaire status?"

  "I came from money, somewhat, remember. Your father paid my mother, his secretary slash personal assistant, more than any doctor on this coast could hope to make in any given year. In addition to th
at, he funded my elaborate education, surely opening doors that otherwise would have been closed, all to the end of keeping me far away from you. She was forever indebted for that, too, given our meager beginnings.

  "Anyway, though, I'd been around you and your family enough to know how the other half lived. Having money now, my own, hasn't felt entirely my achievement. He took that from me, the chance to know if I could have reached the same success on my own without his funding, his bribes or threats, or whatever he did to make it happen. It all worked to his advantage. I'm a success, which he thought would keep me from you. The idea that I was then worthy of you still wasn't there, though. Guess I had to be bred from money to gain that right. Your father took so much from me despite all he generously gave to his own ends. But, then, I suppose only you could understand that thin line between gratitude and outright loathing—no, seething hate for the man."

  "Yeah. Well..." Had been all he managed, his own ire, for her, for him, choking him. His mind did flips trying for anything to say to make it right. Faltering, failing, he moved back to the conversation about her mother. "Us... Him... Anyway, your mother, she earned every penny and more managing his investment into whiskey, film, and airlines, just to name a few. And, that wasn't anything compared to how she managed his scandals and his lavish lifestyle."