She shivered when he trailed a hand down her side and under her bottom and thigh.
A tiny sigh escaped her lips as he eased her hips away, lowering her feet to the floor but keeping her flush to his hard, hot body. The air was cool on her damp back when Peter scooped her up and deposited her in bed, crawling in after her.
Tucking in against her backside, he pulled her deep into his embrace and wrapped corded arms around her.
She’d never felt so safe, so cherished, and so complete. Over her shoulder, she kissed him deeply. For a split second, she caught a glimpse of a normal, passionate relationship.
Only nothing about this situation was normal—not her freakish powers, not the superhumanly strong killer laying next to her in the bed. With a yawn, she drifted off into a dreamless, exhausted, but uneasy sleep.
Chapter 13
Peter drifted, semi-awake, aware of the amazing woman in his arms. He didn’t move for fear of disturbing her and simply watched her sleep. He wanted to breathe in her sweetness like this for as long as possible. Was this how Barnaby had felt about his wife, that he would do anything for her? Like … break the contract?
Damn it, he wasn’t going to entertain that kind of magical thinking. He preferred to think about how perfectly Allie fit him.
Even now, with her sound asleep, he sensed the low-level electricity of their mental connection, though it didn’t overwhelm either of them anymore. Now it felt familiar, like wearing a favorite piece of clothing or having a friend nearby.
Yet there was also the reality of Allie doubled over on the concrete, her face tear-streaked, earlier today. What kind of future did she have with him? His presence put her at risk from Jerahmeel or his associates. Beyond the amazing sex, Peter had nothing else to offer, other than unending suffering. How could he lead her on, when he had no realistic hope of a long-term relationship?
Hell.
When he tightened his grip, she murmured in her sleep and stirred.
The only light came from the living room, and her face was cast in shadow when she rolled back and touched his stubbled face with one finger. A bolt of desire shot into his groin. Reveling in the sensation of her smooth body next to his, he leaned on one arm and kept his other arm around her small frame.
“Peter, I … ”
“Shh.” He brushed her swollen lips with his thumb and then dropped a light kiss onto them.
“I feel … ” Allie’s grumbling stomach interrupted her.
He laughed. “Hungry?”
When she leaned over and turned on the bedside lamp, he froze. On her back were abrasions where her soft skin had torn. At his expletive, she turned around, perplexed.
“Hell.” He gently pressed her onto her stomach and examined her back. Red scratches bloomed against her fair skin. He ran a finger over one and she flinched. “Allie, your back. I had no idea.”
She peered up at him over her shoulder. “It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not. I told you I couldn’t control … ”
She rolled back toward him, her breasts pressed enticingly together. He dragged his gaze to her face, expecting to see accusation there. If he couldn’t keep from hurting this woman, then he deserved the blame.
Instead, she smiled. “If you want to blame someone, I’ll give you the name of the general contractor who built this house.”
“What?”
“Knockdown wall treatment. Much rougher on skin than regular flat walls. Who would’ve thought?”
She maintained a deadpan expression until she broke into peals of laughter. Peter shocked himself by suddenly laughing as well, a sound foreign to him.
“Let me grab a quick shower, and then maybe we can have some pizza.”
Still dissatisfied that he had put a mark on her, he agreed. “I’ll heat it up.”
He couldn’t take his eyes off her lithe frame as she rolled out of bed and, naked, flitted to the bathroom, flipped on the light, and closed the door. The shower started.
Jealous of the water sluicing over her body, he hardened. With a groan, he rolled out of bed and pulled on his clothes, using brute willpower not to join her in the shower.
Fifteen minutes later, the microwave beeped as she entered the kitchen, her hair towel-dried and tendrils curling. He inhaled the scent of flowers from her shampoo.
“Smells great.” She pushed up her sweatshirt sleeves; she was endearing in wool socks and sweatpants.
“I agree.” He picked up a damp strand of her hair and put it to his nose. Her pinkening cheeks were a treat.
After they enjoyed the reheated pizza, she sat back, satisfied, and rubbed her flat belly. “Perfect dinner.”
“This is the best I’ve felt in as long as I can remember.” It was certainly the most human he’d felt in forever.
She was silent for a moment. “So what are you?” Nodding toward the bedroom, she added, “The images I see of you? The knife? I’m justified in asking.” She glanced at his leg.
He dragged his hands over his face. Where to start?
“So the short answer is I made a very bad deal many years ago and am still paying for that decision today. I was born in 1915 near Columbus, Ohio.” Now he had her attention. He cringed at her speculative raised eyebrow. “Yes, that means I’m very old.”
Pushing the chair back, he rested a hand on his crossed leg. “So I was a teenager during the Great Depression, but my parents always wanted me to go to college. I attended Ohio State and got an ROTC scholarship in the 1930s. Right when I was accepted into the master’s program in history in 1941, Japan bombed Pearl Harbor.”
Allie leaned an elbow on the table and propped her chin on her fist.
Peter let himself relax a small amount. At least she wasn’t running for the door. Yet.
“The army let me finish my degree in May of 1943. I walked across the stage, received my diploma, and headed off to Fort Bragg the same day.”
“Wow, that’s quick.”
“Many men had similar experiences. After infantry officer training, I shipped out to France a year later, served behind the lines for a few months, then got sent to the front for the Battle of the Bulge.”
Her green eyes widened. “Either you’re completely delusional or this is one disturbing story.”
“I wish I were delusional.”
And he hadn’t even tackled the part he dreaded. But she needed to know.
“So I was commanding a platoon in the Ardennes, December 1944, in miserable conditions. We got dumped right in the thick of the fighting. The death tolls were horrendous, on both sides. In one attack, we managed to ambush a German platoon and kill most of them in hand-to-hand combat.”
He rubbed absently at his right arm. “As I searched for survivors, a German officer shot me in the arm, so I killed him.” He indicated his watch with the worn leather band and scratched face. “I kept this as a souvenir although I never expected to have the watch for quite this long. They transferred me to Ravenel Field Hospital in France when infection set in. Thankfully, penicillin had come into use during the war or I might’ve lost my arm. I ended up having surgery a few days later to get rid of dead tissue and was discharged due to nerve damage in my arm.”
She pressed her lips together. “Your arm seems to work well now.”
“I’m getting to that part. So what I haven’t mentioned yet is the woman I left behind in Ohio. Claire.”
“Is that the woman in my visions?”
He nodded, his memories bittersweet. “Sweet girl—we dated in college, and she waited for me until I returned from France. After I was discharged from the army, we got married, in the summer of 1945. We were eager to start a family, but right after the wedding, she contracted polio while visiting relatives in Illinois.”
Tapping her chin, Allie said, “Adult-onset polio was supposed to be much worse.”
Yes, it was. He could still hear the drone of the iron lung bellows compressing air in and out to aid Claire’s pitiful, exhausted efforts to breathe. The only par
t of her visible, her sweat-covered head, was bound at the neck by rubber gaskets.
Lying flat on her back, trapped in the depths of the machine, she could only communicate in broken sentences timed with the rhythm of the bellows, and even that became too difficult. Her world boiled down to a sterile hospital room and a mirror angled over her head to see the visitors and attendants when they spoke with her. That iron lung sealed her in as surely as a metal coffin.
“She was suffering, and the doctors told me she wouldn’t survive. I needed to settle her personal matters.”
“How awful.” Allie covered her mouth with her hand.
“Well, I wasn’t about to prepare her last will and plan for her imminent death. I got mad, really mad. Like drunk and screaming-in-the-streets, pissing mad. Here I’d survived the war—hell, survived the Ardennes—and now the woman I loved would be dead soon? No, sir. I refused to accept it.”
When Allie reached over and squeezed his hand, he focused on the gold flecks in her green eyes. Despite being long-lived and superhumanly strong, he’d never told anyone the entire story of Claire, never shared the pain his decision caused every time he remembered his wife’s suffering, tear-streaked face. Something about Allie sitting here and listening with seeming acceptance shored up his strength.
“Apparently running around the streets yelling that I would do anything to save my wife attracted attention. The wrong kind of attention.”
“I don’t understand.”
Releasing her hand, he rubbed his face. “I ended up in an alley with a dapper-looking man named Jerahmeel. He looked like a slick salesman, fancy gold rings and chains, oiled hair. But he promised me he could save my wife. What did I have to lose? I was drunk. So I signed some paper Jerahmeel put in front of me without reading it, shook his hand, told him to go right ahead and try to save my wife, even wished him every success with his efforts.”
“And?”
“Damned if she didn’t get out of that iron lung within the week. Walked shortly after that. Doctors said it was a miracle.”
He stared past the wood grain on the kitchen table—if only he’d appreciated that brief halcyon time before his real life ended and hell truly began.
Allie cleared her throat. “But?”
“A few months later, Jerahmeel knocked on my front door and told me it was time to pay up. That was the last time I saw my wife.”
“What?”
“I told Claire I was going out for a drink with an old friend. I still remember the look on her face. She knew something wasn’t right and tried to make me tell her what was going on. I wasn’t allowed to say anything. So I lied. The last time I saw her, she was yelling and crying. And I never went back. God knows what she thought of me.
“Then I was in a cold cave somewhere. Jerahmeel strapped the knife to my leg and explained that I had, indeed, made a formal deal with the devil. I always thought that was a figure of speech. I was dead wrong.”
“There really are deals with the devil?”
Pointing a thumb at his chest, he frowned. “I’m living proof.”
“Jerahmeel is the devil?” Her green gaze bore into him.
“Pretty much. He’s the human representation of Satan in this world. And he has the power to destroy. He has the power to command those who are under his control—under contract. He requires me to find and kill bad people and trap their souls’ energy into this knife. Jerahmeel feeds off the energy. It’s how he survives. And there’s something extra-special about criminal souls that are tastier. The more evil, the better, as far as he’s concerned. The knife gets hungry when he’s hungry.” He motioned toward his lower leg.
The condemnation in her eyes hurt like a spear in his chest. “So what I saw? That was you, killing people? On command?”
He was so tired.
She didn’t understand his struggle. Why should she? It didn’t make sense to him, even after all these years.
“I have no choice, Allie. I’m what is called an Indebted. Jerahmeel owns me. I have to kill. The only way to break the contract is to make what is called a Meaningful Kill. Dammit, I’ve tried that numerous times. I enlisted for the Korean Conflict, Vietnam, and the Gulf and Iraq wars, trying to kill as many bad guys as possible, hoping that each time would be my last murder. I’ve tracked down rapists, serial killers, and pedophiles. You name the heinous crime, I’ve exterminated the perpetrators. Nothing. No Meaningful Kill. Still under contract.”
She shoved her chair back. “I don’t believe this. You can’t be a cold-blooded killer.” Her eyes glistened.
“If it’s any consolation, the only people I kill are people who are bad.” It even sounded lame. Like how he’d justified his actions for decades now. Damn Jerahmeel and damn this cursed job.
“Why only criminals?”
“Jerahmeel is compelled by certain rules. I don’t know all of them myself. But my friend Barnaby has known him for centuries. Jerahmeel might be powerful, but he is limited in how he can replenish that power.”
Crossing her arms, she said, “Sounds like a convenient excuse to commit murder.”
“I agree it sounds that way. But there’s nothing I can do about it.”
Silence descended on the kitchen. He couldn’t even hear her breathing, though her chest rose and fell beneath the sweatshirt.
There it was: bleak, blank nothingness. He saw nothing when he considered a future with Allie. She was correct. He had no good answers for her, nothing to commend him as a man. Nothing to offer anyone.
A tear rolled down her cheek and landed on her arm. “Do you have an assignment to kill me?”
“No!” he roared, jumping to his feet. “I would never hurt you, I swear.”
Dammit, she flinched away from him.
“What if you were compelled by this Jerahmeel guy?” Her voice shook.
“I wouldn’t do it. Besides, you’re not a bad person. You’re not a criminal.”
“But I thought you had to kill whoever he chooses?”
All good questions. “Sometimes it’s his choice, and sometimes it’s mine. But I would rather die first than hurt you.”
“Aren’t you dead now?” The question hung heavy in the air between them.
“Not exactly. I was human until the day Jerahmeel got hold of me, but I’m not dead. I’m something in between. It’s virtually impossible for me to die. I guess it’s possible, but difficult. As you know, my healing rate is fast. We apparently don’t age, either.”
“Are there others out there like you?”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“I don’t know. But most of them have been around a lot longer than I have.”
Her fingers shook as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “So you may walk the Earth for, what, hundreds of more years?”
“There’s a good chance I’ll still be here many years from now.”
Peter couldn’t meet her eyes.
• • •
Leaving him to stand next to the table, Allison jumped up and walked to the cabinet, took out a bottle of red wine, and attempted to open it. Damn it, her hands trembled. She couldn’t hang on to the bottle. Tears spilled down her cheeks.
“Here.”
She startled.
Peter had moved behind her. With steady hands, he uncorked the bottle and poured them both a glass.
She downed hers in two gulps, nodding at him to pour another. She didn’t care about his somber expression as he filled her glass. She took another swig.
Swiping at her damp cheeks, she cursed her stupid emotions. Allowing herself to feel this deeply was what got her into this morass in the first place. “So who’re you here to kill in this dangerous town of La Grande?”
Her tone was sarcastic, and she didn’t care. All she wanted was a nice man in her life, some affection, safety, and companionship. Someone who wouldn’t die after she saw visions of him. Apparently, that was too much to ask.
Actually, in a twisted way, she’d gotten her ju
st desserts. Allison had landed herself a grade-A, half-dead, devil-possessed murderer—apt punishment for predicting her father’s death years ago, and all the subsequent deaths. The tears started fresh again, and they ran unchecked.
She lifted her glass for another splash of wine. “You didn’t answer my question. Who are you here to kill?”
“I think it’s the man who’s stalking you.”
“You don’t know for sure?” Her voice rose a notch and cracked. “Shouldn’t you, like, confirm who’s supposed to die before you start killing folks?”
“It’s not that easy this time. Jerahmeel’s toying with me. I’m not sure why. But yes, I believe my next kill is the man you saw earlier today.”
Hysterical laughter bubbled up. “Fantastic. So we could be part of a demented riddle? Maybe you’re not here to kill the guy who wants to kill me. Maybe you are. So this guy is like you, right?”
“He’s nothing like me!” Peter growled, leaning toward her.
She should’ve been nervous. His eyes turned jet-black and heat radiated from him. Tense lines formed at the corners of his mouth as he stared at her. It would be stupid to provoke him. He could tear her apart with his bare hands. But what did it matter?
She pressed forward, choking on inappropriate giggles. “Maybe this stalker guy is the same as you. The images in his mind do feel somewhat similar, though his are a hundred times worse.”
Ignoring the vein bulging out on his tense neck, she took another gulp of wine. The surface of the liquid quivered in the glass. “So, if it’s ‘very difficult’ for you to die, then I would presume that this guy is similarly … difficult to kill?”
His lips thinned to a white line before he replied. “I think we have to assume that yes, he is difficult to kill. This guy seems to be similar to me but perhaps stronger, as best I can tell.” He spoke too quietly, too calmly.
“So he appears to be stronger than anything you’ve seen before?” She hiccupped and poked a finger hard into Peter’s rock-hard chest.
A muscle in his jaw jumped.
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