by Nina Croft
Did someone live here?
It didn’t matter, he had to get Lola to safety. He pushed open the gate with his hip, carried her down the path, then shifted her in his arms so he was able to try the door. It opened to his touch. Inside was total darkness, but he was used to the night and made his way unerringly to the sitting room. Found the sofa and lay her down. He moved to the edge of the room, located the light switch. At first he thought he was out of luck, nothing happened, then somewhere he heard the hum of a generator starting up and the lights flickered on.
He hurried back to Lola and sat on the huge brown leather sofa beside her. Took her hand; it was icy cold. Felt for her pulse with fumbling fingers. Still there. Her clothes were damp. He hesitated a moment, then stripped her down to her black bra and panties. They were dry. He shrugged out of his coat and covered her with it, while he went and searched the house. He found the bedroom and snatched the duvet from the bed, ran back, and wrapped it around her, tucking it in so only her pale face showed.
Then he sat back for a moment and blew out his breath. The place was nothing like he remembered. The cottage of his childhood had been a cold, damp, miserable place. With a dirt floor, bare stone walls, and windows shuttered with rough wood, the gaps stuffed with straw to keep out the drafts. Now the floors were polished wood, with thick rugs, the walls cream, dark red curtains at the windows. A Christmas tree stood in the corner, decorated in red and silver and a holly wreath hung from the door. A leather chair sat across from the sofa and on it lay a sleeping ginger cat. He smiled. His mother had owned an almost identical animal. It hadn’t moved since they entered, presumably frozen in place by Lola’s spell.
A fire had been set in the fireplace, and he went across, found the matches and lit the kindling.
He gave Lola one last look—her eyes were still closed—and left the room in search of food and drink. The kitchen was off a small hallway. His mother had cooked over an open fire when they could risk it. Most of the time they’d eaten their food cold and often raw. When they had food to eat.
The fridge was well stocked, and he found cooked chicken, some sort of pie, cheese, and piled them all on a plate. Added bananas from a dish on the big scrubbed wooden table. He picked up a bottle of water, then spotted a wine-rack, selected a bottle of red and added that to his pile.
When he got back, Lola was still unconscious.
He couldn’t let her die. He was going to make sure she lived, and then he was going to get the hell away from her. He was the kiss of death. Everyone he had ever cared about had been taken from him. After Culloden, he had sworn never again. He would send her back to her family whether they liked it or not. Unless they were also frozen in time.
How far had Lola’s spell spread? Could the whole world be affected? It seemed inconceivable. Maybe when she woke, she could tell him more. The room was warm now, and he added wood to the fire, then got a couple of glasses from the cabinet. He poured wine into one, then sat beside her, wrapped his arm around her and shifted her so she was lying against him.
“Lola, wake up.”
Nothing. He put the glass to her lips. The first mouthful ran down her chin. He tried again, and this time she swallowed convulsively, then coughed and her eyes flashed open. Panic flared on her face, and she flailed but was wrapped too tightly in the duvet to do much.
“What? Where are…?” She searched around her frantically.
“We’re safe,” he said.
For a moment, he thought she wouldn’t or couldn’t believe him, then she slumped down. “I thought I was dead. I thought you—” Her eyes widened. “You drank my blood.”
“You offered it.”
“Not all of it,” she snapped.
The tight band around his chest, eased a little. She was fighting back. She would live.
She freed her arms and then peered under the duvet. “You took my clothes off.”
“Not all of them.” That could be remedied. Then he couldn’t believe he had thought that. He’d already decided she was going far, far away. As soon as possible. He handed her the glass and she looked at it suspiciously.
“Are you trying to get me drunk?”
“Possibly. But you need to drink—replace fluids. And eat.” He got up and got the plate of food from the table, placed it on her lap. “Eat. Drink.”
She scowled. “I wondered how long it would be until you started giving orders again.” But she took a sip of wine. Then a nibble of chicken.
He prowled around the room. Searching for anything familiar. Then into the hall and to the back door. Opening it, he stared out into the darkness. Then took a step, unable to stop himself. Down the dark, shadowy path, just out of sight of the cottage, he found the place.
He and Gabe had dug the graves. At the time they’d had nothing to mark the site. But now someone had built a fancy fence around the small plot, and stones had been placed at the head of the five graves. Shrouded in snow, but he pushed through the small gate and ran his fingers along the engraved names, picturing each one in his mind.
Who had done this?
There had been no one left.
He turned away and headed back to the cottage. The plate was empty and so was the bottle. Some of the color had returned to her face. Clearly, she had a resilience that was more than human. And was quite capable of protecting herself. And him. Despite her lack of stature.
Suddenly, he was curious as to what she was. Witches had always kept to themselves, been cloaked in secrecy. He went into the kitchen to grab another bottle of wine, came back, and poured them both a glass. Picking up the cat, he moved it to the floor and sat down.
“What are you?” he asked.
“I’m a witch.”
“And what is a witch?”
“We’re the daughters of the Morrigan. The Goddess of war and pestilence.”
“Your mother was a goddess?” Of war and pestilence? That didn’t sound good.
She sniffed. “Still is somewhere. She dumped me on my sisters when I was only a few days old, and I haven’t seen her since.”
“Your father?”
“No clue. I didn’t exactly have a birth certificate.” She sounded a little bitter.
“So what do witches do?”
She sniffed again. “Well, I don’t do a lot. I told you we’re not allowed to use magic until we are trained, and we aren’t trained until we’re twenty-one. But after that, I’ll be able to do lots.” She smiled. “Witches guide the souls of the dead from this world to the Shadowlands and then beyond. We also have the power to open other gates. We could open the gates to Hell if we wanted to.”
A shiver ran through him at her words. “Anything else?”
“We have power over the sun and moon. We can extinguish the light and turn the world to darkness forever.”
A deep sense of foreboding washed through him at her words. She was telling the truth—he could hear it in her voice—and the idea of so much power made the muscles of his stomach clench. But then he’d seen the evidence of what she could do. “And stop the world?” he asked.
She took a huge swig of wine, looked away and then back. “Maybe. But that should not have happened.” Another swig. “I’ll think about it later. Soon—when I’m stronger. Just not quite yet.” She emptied her glass. “I also have visions.”
“Visions?”
“Sometimes of the past, mostly of the future. And they always come true.” She gave him a dark look. “Well, up to now. That’s changing though, because some visions are not meant to be.”
“And can you use these visions and tell us what’s going to happen?” Like would the world start up again.
“Unfortunately not. They just come…” She blinked. “Speaking of which…” Her eyes fluttered closed, and the glass crashed to the floor.
Lachlan jumped to his feet and was beside her in a moment. He grabbed her hand…
And present day disappeared.
Chapter Eight
Christmas Past…
&n
bsp; For a moment, Lola tried to fight the vision. She wanted to stay. But as always, she had no choice and her world shimmered and darkened and was gone.
And she was cold, so cold.
She was in a stone room, with an earth floor and it was dark, the only light from the stub of a candle, that guttered and smoked so the air was hard to breathe. At a guess, the past not the future.
A woman sat on a cot bed, her arm around two young girls. Two more sat beside her, blankets wrapped around their shoulders. A dark-haired boy squatted on the floor; arms wrapped around his knees.
“Can we light a fire, ma?” one of the girls asked.
“Don’t be stupid,” another replied. “There are patrols about.”
“Is it really Christmas tomorrow?” the first asked.
“It is, darling.”
“Like we used to have. When da was with us, and there were presents and lots to eat and fires everywhere.”
A look of sadness flashed across the woman’s face but was quickly gone. “Just the same,” she said. “All you need is a little imagination. Close your eyes and picture the tree. Red and silver—it’s in the corner almost as tall as the ceiling. A holly wreath on the door. And there’s a log fire in the grate. Red velvet curtains keeping out the draft. Thick rugs on the floor.”
The door banged open, and they all jumped.
A boy rushed in. He looked to be about eight years old, with dark red hair and clear green eyes and a too-thin face. His expression both fierce and scared.
“There are patrols around the castle,” he said. “But I got past them. The Sassenachs canna catch me.” He’d been holding his hand behind his back now he drew it forward with a flourish revealing two dead rabbits. “Happy Christmas.”
Lola blinked her eyes open. Lachlan was on his knees beside her, his hand gripping hers.
“I saw it,” he said. His tone held a sense of wonder.
Well, that had never happened before. Could it be a side effect of him drinking her blood? She wished she knew more.
She looked into his clear green eyes. “That boy? It was you?”
He nodded. “And my ma and sisters.” His lips curved up. The first smile she had seen on his face. But his eyes were sad. “Morag, Maidie, Katrine, and Jessie.”
And for the first time she heard a faint Scottish burr in his voice. The wonder had faded, replaced by a melancholy.
“And your brother?” she asked, remembering the dark haired boy, sitting on the floor.
“Gabe was my foster brother. His family all caught the pox and died when we were four, and my da took him in.”
“What happened to them?” She had a feeling it was nothing good.
He got to his feet, thrust his hands into his pockets. Why did she think this wasn’t going to have a happy ending?
“It was Christmas. We…I was sure there wouldn’t be another patrol.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “The next morning—Christmas day—ma lit a fire to cook the rabbits. The redcoats came. I was out hunting with Gabe—two rabbits wasn’t a lot to feed seven of us. When we got back, the soldiers were already gone. They’d killed them all. Ma still had da’s old musket in her hand. My sisters were children, the youngest was three years old. And they killed them anyway. Bastards.”
She sniffed, her eyes pricking. His memories made her childhood seem wonderful. She would never moan again.
“What happened to you both?”
“We stuck around for a while. It was easier just feeding the two of us. Then we joined one of the clan armies. Gabe’s da had been a Macleod.” He shrugged. “We survived. Many did not.” He gave another shrug of his shoulder. “Hey, it was hundreds of years ago. It’s the past. What does it matter?”
“It matters. It’s not that we die—everyone dies, even the immortals among us. It’s how we meet that end that counts.”
“Maybe. If that’s the case, then it was a shit end.”
“That’s why you don’t like Christmas,” she said. It was so sad.
“Who said I don’t like Christmas?”
She snorted. “You wouldn’t let me decorate the castle. Not even my room. And I wanted to cook Christmas dinner—”
“We’re goddamn vampires. We don’t eat turkey.” He gave her a speculative look, his gaze dropping. “Unless there was something else on the menu.”
Her hand went automatically to her throat. The wound was already healing. She’d been trying not to think about it, but now she had a flashback to the feel of his mouth on her. Her nipples tightened, tingles shooting down to her sex. It had been amazing. She’d had an actual orgasm. More than one. Gina had kept that to herself. Heat flushed her skin at the memory, and she resisted the urge to fan herself.
When she looked back at him, he was watching her, his nostrils flared. His eyes had bled to crimson. For a moment, she leaned toward him, her whole body yearning. Then she snapped back.
Get a grip.
He was a vampire. He was emotionally retarded. And while she now had some idea as to why, it made no difference. He would still love her and leave her, like everyone else.
And she had the idea that this time would hurt more than the rest put together.
Oh, but she wanted him. Like she’d never wanted anything in her life before. But that was probably because she was feeling weak. Not enough blood and too much booze.
“No more blood,” she snapped. “You’ve had enough.”
“There are other things we could do. No blood involved.”
He was the devil tempting her.
She pressed her thighs together, trying to ease the ache. Her body felt like it didn’t belong to her. Her mind was saying no, but the rest of her wasn’t in agreement. If he pushed a little harder, she would melt. How to stop him?
She raised a hand to her forehead and swayed slightly. “I feel weak. I think I might be going to faint.”
Alarm flared in his eyes. He disappeared and came back a moment later with a glass of water. “Thank you,” she murmured.
She watched him over the rim of her glass as he sank down onto the chair opposite, a brooding expression on his face.
“You don’t have to worry,” he said. “I won’t touch you.”
“You won’t?” That was good. Wasn’t it?
He leaned back, resting his head against the leather, stared into space. “I’d be mad to touch you. You’re a witch—everyone knows witches are evil creatures and not to be trusted.”
That was news to her. “Who’s everyone?”
He ignored her question. “And you’re too young and too immature.”
She frowned as she realized he was listing out all the reasons why he shouldn’t touch her. It sounded like he’d given the subject a lot of thought.
“And you’re impetuous. And I’m supposed to protect you. You’re my sire’s sister-in-law.”
“Does that make us related?”
“No. And you’re needy.”
That was it. “I am not needy.”
“Yes, you are. You want somebody to love you. And that’s not going to be me.”
She gritted her teeth. He was so annoying. Thought he knew everything about her. Well, she knew a few things about him as well.
“You know,” she said. “I don’t actually want you to touch me.”
He frowned. Hah, that had got him thinking. “You don’t?”
“I mean. You did give me an orgasm. I’m not going to deny it. If someone had told me some skanky, Scottish dead guy sucking my blood would make me come, I would have said—hell no. But it happened. Big deal. You know what? I could do the same with my vibrator and without all the drama.”
“Drama?”
“Come on. Car crashes, werewolves… Not to mention the fact that you’re a blood-sucking monster.” No answer. She picked up her empty wine glass. “Is there any more wine? This talking about feelings stuff is hard work.”
She sat back as he disappeared and returned a minute later with another bottle. He poured her a glass and sat d
own, took a mouthful straight from the bottle. “Go on.”
“Well, you’re Scottish. And you’ve obviously got a huge chip on your shoulder.”
His eyes narrowed, but he didn’t speak, just raised the bottle to his mouth again. Christ, he was gorgeous—she wouldn’t mention that bit. Just remember—not happening.
“And you think you don’t need anybody.” Could she say this next bit? Yes. Tough love. “Because obviously, it must seem like everybody you ever needed died and left you. And that’s hard. I sympathize. Really, I do. But I don’t need a man with that sort of baggage.”
“You don’t?”
“No.” She curved her lips up into what she hoped was a sappy smile. “I want a nice man. An uncomplicated man. A…teacher or a doctor. Someone…normal. Someone I can watch the sun rise with and not worry about him spontaneously combusting.”
“That’s…nice. I’m sure you’ll be very happy with Mr. Normal.” He raised the bottle to his lips and swallowed.
“Hey, don’t hog all the wine.” She thrust out her glass. Lachlan leaned across and filled it. Their fingers brushed and a tingle of electricity shot through her. She snatched back her hand. Swallowed the wine. Took a deep breath.
“All I’m trying to say here is—you’re right. We’re obviously, totally wrong for each other.”
At his silence, she peered across at him. He was slumped in the chair, and her gaze wandered up over the long, lean length of him, finally landing on his face. His expression was pensive, sort of sad and alone. Was he thinking about his ma and sisters? And maybe all the empty, lonely Christmases in between.
He caught her gaze, and his eyes narrowed, gleaming green from beneath a fringe of dark lashes. He slowly swiped his tongue across his lower lip, and a frisson ran through her from her toes to the top of her head.
Two could play at that game. She loosened her grip on the duvet, let it drop a smidgen, revealing the upper curves of her breasts. She nipped her lower lip, then flicked her tongue across it. His eyes flashed. Hah.
“So,” he murmured in a dark smoky voice, “obviously, we’re totally and completely wrong for each other.” The bottle was empty, and he tossed it away. “But have you considered that perhaps we’re the only two people left alive on the planet? No more Mr. Normal? Just you and me.” He rose to his feet. Took the two steps between them and stood over her.