“Yes. I came home on Christmas Day to find you dead, the walls of our home decorated with your blood.” His voice broke and she leaned into him.
“But I’m not a ghost.”
“No. We found a way to bring you back thanks to some very ancient magic. It was tied to a pendant, a pendant of a rare kind. The Aurora Diamond is unique. In it, you can see not only the Aurora but the universe and beyond. It was created from your love and mine and your life force was already inside it. When it was found, here in Lapland, you were brought back to me.”
He reached into his pocket. “It was stolen by someone we trusted. The trouble was, all your memories had been tied to it as well as your life. We might have lost you again but the pendent remained intact with your life force—it was just that it was sold and re-sold so many times that eventually it passed into legend—for most people.”
He pulled it out of his pocket. “Now Peter has brought it back to you. Your memories will be restored, my darling one.”
He made to place the chain over her head but she pulled away. “Wait, wait …” Bronte got up and paced the room, her hand on her chest, tears in her eyes.
“When I put that on, I’ll be someone else again?”
Nik understood her trepidation. “No, you will be you, just with all your old memories.”
“But what about my new ones? My life in Melbourne? My parents, my friends? Please tell me that was real?”
“Mostly. And, by the way, they all know about you. Some memories we had to recreate—your childhood for instance.”
“None of that happened?”
Nik shook his head. “I’m afraid not. It’s a very complicated spell, but effective.”
“So why couldn’t you spell me with my actual memories of you?”
“We tried.” The sadness in her voice made her want to cry. Bronte sat down beside him and touched his face.
“What’s really strange is—I believe you. Two weeks ago, if you’d said this much to me, I would have called the crazy cops. Nik, I once asked you if you were human—I was joking then. I ask you again but with an amendment. Are we human?”
Nik kissed her softly. “Physically, yes. Except we don’t age.”
“Ever?”
“Ever. We both reached the age of twenty-five and stopped, although we can make ourselves look older.”
“Some more of that useful magic?”
“The same,” he grinned, obviously relieved at her acceptance of his story. He held out the pendent and she took it from him, studying it. The large irregular shaped diamond was uncut and unpolished but in it she saw infinity. She closed her eyes and wrapped her hand around it. Flashes of memory flickered in her mind, black and white at first, then bursts of color as her life before now dissolved and her true story was beginning to come back to her—slowly.
She looked at Nik with her eyes wide. “I know you …”
He smiled. “Welcome back, sweetheart.”
Nik told her to take it slow, not to try to absorb everything straight away but Bronte was eager to learn anything and everything. She asked Nik to tell her about the years they’d spent apart.
“Actually, we always spend Christmas together. Here, in our home. Do you remember Dakota?”
Bronte thought back to the night she and Nik had met at the singles evening. The gorgeous leggy girl who she’d made fun of Muuurrrlll with. “She knows?”
“She’s one of us. In fact, she’ll be here in the morning. She’s your oldest friend.”
“She is?” As soon as she asked the question, Bronte remembered spending time with Dakota, watching the Aurora. Nik was watching her expression, testing that she was really okay with all of this.
She stroked his face. “So, tonight …?”
“Tonight I do my job.”
She laughed. “Oh, goodness me … you are Santa Claus.”
Nik laughed. “Yes and no. There is no Santa Claus, just a worldwide web of people who do what we do. I just happen to be in charge, is all.”
“Why?”
He grinned. “Because I’ve been around longest.”
Something was nagging at the back of her mind. “So … how old are we? Are we the same age?”
“Worried about wrinkles?” They both laughed. Nik kissed her gently. “You have nothing to worry about, beauty, you’re still a baby. You were born in 1789.”
A shock ran through her. “1789?”
Nik grinned. “Before you moan, remember, you’ll always be twenty-five.”
Bronte chewed her lip. “So … I was human, but somehow stopped aging … Nik, you remember I once asked you if you were a …”
“No, we’re not vampires, Bronte,” but his face was serious. “It’s something else, something we don’t have a name for. Yes, I admit, I “created” you, and, yes, it was a process.”
“How?”
“We made love.”
Bronte started to laugh. “And now I think you’re teasing me. Are you serious?”
“You’ll remember all of this soon, I promise. Are you ready to put the pendant on?”
She considered. “There’s one thing I’d like to do first …” and she pulled him down on top of her.
Peter was never very good at keeping his mouth shut. As soon as he’d showered and eaten, he made his way to the bar and was even now getting rowdy with his friends.
The watcher hid in plain sight. After all these years he had become adept at changing his face, his gait, his entire being. It had been an age since he’d been here the first time. The time he saw her and knew she had to be his. He’d cried while he killed her. Then to find out that she had been brought back with the Aurora Pendant …
Once it had been stolen—along with her memories—it had given him time. He’d followed her around the world and sometimes, yes, sometimes, he’d gotten close by Posing as a potential suitor, but always one of Nik’s minions was ready to swoop her away or block his vision of her. They couldn’t see him but they could sense him. He wondered why they couldn’t feel him here, in this festive, revoltingly cheerful wonderland of theirs. This was the last time, though. When it was over, either she would be dead or it would be him who would be gone forever.
All he had to do was destroy the Aurora Pendant. He smiled to himself and finished his drink. He knew how to destroy the pendant. He was the only who could.
Because he was the one who had made it.
One by one her memories were returning and as she walked the long corridors and forests of her new—old—home, a certainty was settling into her bones. She belonged here. She belonged with him. Her heart had opened wide and now she held him there with perfect love and perfect trust. Her fingers closed around the Aurora pendent and thrilled at the knowledge that was given to her.
And his work … if only the world of humans knew, she thought, shaking her head. Their figurehead, their icon, Santa Claus, a drop-dead gorgeous six-hundred-could-pass-for-twenty-five-year-old with a global network of delivery drivers and a will to make people’s lives better. My man, she thought rather smugly.
She found herself in the beautiful foyer with the ice fountain. She put her hand in the stream of ice to catch the crystals. So beautiful.
“Hello.”
She spun around at the sound of the stranger’s voice. As she took him in, the Aurora pendant seemed to quiver and a strange pain shot through her. The stranger smiled but his eyes were dead and cold.
“Hello again … Bronte, is it now? When I knew you before, you went by another name.”
As he spoke, her old name came back to her. Sophia. She stared at him, feeling uneasy. “How do I know you?”
He smiled but said nothing. She stepped away. “Well, I must be going.”
“Oh, I don’t think so, Sophia. We have some unfinished business.” And he went for her.
Nik heard her scream from the other side of the palace and darted towards the sound immediately. His heart almost stopped when he saw her struggling with him … Maceo … her murde
rer.
With a roar, Nik went for him, knocking him away from Bronte, who staggered back and fell to the floor. Nik was only able to glance quickly in her direction before Maceo came for him. The other man’s face was twisted with rage.
“Not this time, Nicholas. This time she dies for good.”
“No, Maceo,” Nik said, throwing him off, “it’s your time to die now.”
In a second the room was filled with other people – Peter dashed to his brother’s aid while Dakota went to help Bronte. She exclaimed in alarm when she saw Bronte was injured. “Bronte … God, are you okay?”
Bronte, her hand clutched to her chest, nodded. “It’s not serious. I’m good, thanks, let me up.”
Dakota, her eyes concerned, helped her to her feet. Bronte wrapped her hand around the Aurora pendant and stepped towards the fighting men. “Stop.”
To everyone’s utter astonishment, Nik, Peter, and Maceo froze. Bronte’s voice carried new weight and as she walked up to her would-be murderer, her eyes changed from the deep dark brown to almost translucent silver.
“Maceo. I remember your name now.”
He couldn’t take his eyes from her. “You were supposed to be mine.”
Bronte looked amused. “I am not a possession, Maceo. I don’t belong to anyone. I belong with Nik because I choose to be with him.”
As she spoke, she moved her hand to reveal her blood from the wound on her chest had been absorbed into the diamond. Nik nodded and took her hand. Peter stepped up and bound Maceo’s hands.
Bronte turned to her lover. “My love, I remember everything. Everything.”
Nik grinned at her. “Then it’s time to start where we left off.”
“What about him?” She nodded at Maceo. She couldn’t believe this little man had once murdered her. He seemed so small and insignificant now.
Nik’s smile faded. “You leave him to me, beloved. He won’t see another day.”
“No,” she said. “Don’t kill him. We don’t need to sink to his level.”
“Whatever you wish, my love.”
Christmas Night. Bronte and Nik lay in each other’s arms, sated and happy. Last night Bronte had relived the joy of gift-giving the world over.
Nik watched her, smiling. “The best gift I ever got was getting you back.”
“For good now, my love.”
“For good.”
Bronte kissed him, moaning softly at the feel of his lips. “I love you, Santa Claus.” And as they laughed together, they began to make love long into the night as outside their icy home, the snow began to fall again.
The End.
The Fireman Book 9
The night beautiful artist India Ray is murdered by her jealous ex-boyfriend and left on the roof of a burning building, she is brought back to life and rescued by Teddy Markham, a handsome fireman with seemingly otherworldly powers. When India recovers, she seeks out her savior, but no one seems to know where he is. A year later, on Christmas Eve, the anniversary of the attack, he turns up at India’s apartment to see her and what follows will change India’s life forever …
Detroit, Christmas Eve, 2012 …
“Wake up.”
India moaned to herself softly. No, not moaned, she thought, dead people don’t moan. Dead people don’t think either, you idiot. So how was she hearing this voice telling her to wake up? I can’t wake up. I’m dead. I know this because a few minutes ago a man I used to love murdered me. I felt myself dying as his knife sliced into my body again and again.
“Wake up, beautiful. I need you to wake up.”
Tell that to Roger who stuck his knife in my belly over and over and over …
“Sweetheart, I don’t want you to burn.”
Burn? How will I burn on this freezing cold rooftop in Detroit on New Year’s Eve? Tell me that. But now she could smell smoke. Which was odd because, once again, dead people can’t smell anything. Fuck, what the hell is going on?
She felt herself being lifted and now she really did moan. It was agony as she was moved.
“I’m sorry, my love. I can’t let you die here.”
She was pulled against a hard, warm chest, felt her face rest against soft cotton. A T-shirt?
“Breathe for me, gorgeous.” God, his voice was low and soulful, almost musical, and the way he used endearments ...
Almost worth living for …
Breathe … 'That’s it, baby, come on; we’re going to see the New Year in together after all.
Breathe. Who are you?
Breathe. “Come on. We can do this together.”
Breathe. I’m trying. I promise. Just don’t leave me, please …
India opened her eyes to bright white light. She winced and squeezed them shut again. “Hey, kiddo.”
Sam, her best friend and art dealer, took her hand and she blinked and tried to smile at him. “Hey …” Her voice was gravelly, her throat dry, and Sam reached for a glass of water. The cool liquid felt heavenly as she drank.
“Where am I?” Stupid question, doofus, you’re obviously in the hospital. Sam grinned like he knew what she was thinking, and then his smile faded.
“Indy, I cannot begin to tell you how sorry I am this happened.”
“Roger did this.” She had no problem in saying his name, injecting anger into her tone no matter how weak she felt. Sam nodded grimly.
“We know. The police found Roger’s body at home with a written confession. Ate a bullet. Quick and painless for himself. Said he loved you and wanted to be with you in heaven. Like St. Peter would let that cocksucker into heaven. Fucker.” Sam spat the word. He’d always been her de-facto older brother, throughout art school and beyond; they joked that if only he had been straight, they would have been married by now. His hand gripped hers. “No one who loves someone does this to them. Sorry, honey. How do you feel?”
“Disconnected, somewhat.”
“That’s the morphine. Believe me; you’ll need it for a while yet.” Sam glanced behind him, out of the doorway. “The police will want to ask you what happened. Jesus, Indy.” His voice suddenly broke, and India was shocked to see tears in the big man’s eyes. “The thought of what you must have gone through.”
She rubbed his hand. “Think positively, Sammy—I’m still here. Thanks to whoever brought me down off that rooftop. Is he here? I want to thank him.”
Sam looked confused. “What?”
“The guy on the rooftop. He found me and was talking to me … Sam, I was dead, for sure, and he started to talk to me and brought me back. I know that sounds crazy but I swear … is he here? Who is he?”
Sam shook his head. “Darling … they found you in the road outside a burning building. There was no one else there, not for blocks and blocks.”
India stared at him in disbelief. “I don’t understand.”
“Indy … there was no rooftop, no savior. You must have been delirious … you were found by a bunch of kids …”
No hero? No, she wouldn’t believe it. She had heard his voice and felt the beat of his heart as her head rested against his chest. He wouldn’t have just left her on the road after all of that … he couldn’t have. Not a man with a voice that tender. His gentle pleas for her to live had been like that of a lover …
Wait. This is the morphine talking, right? India closed her eyes, feeling a wash of pain flow through her. This wasn’t the time to wonder about a mystery man. It was time to recover, to heal.
To get her life back …
Portland, Oregon, three days before Christmas, 2015 …
India opened the email and gave another hiss of disappointment.
From: [email protected]
Dear Ms. Ray,
Thank you for your email. We regret we are still unable to trace the gentleman in question and would suggest that, as per your surgeon’s advice, you concentrate instead on getting well. I understand that your recovery has been long and arduous with many setbacks. We wish you a speedy recovery and hope you can now find clo
sure with this issue.
Yours …
“Blah, blah, blah. In other words, drop it, crazy lady.” She sighed and deleted the email. A year. A year since the stabbing, a year since her mysterious hero had saved her. And the police commissioner was right; it had been a hard year. Her injuries had been so severe she’d had to learn to walk again, and when Sam, who was self-employed and bi-coastal anyway, had suggested relocating back to their hometown of Portland, she’d known it was the right decision.
But she couldn’t get her savior out of her mind. Just a name, she thought, so she could stop calling him “The Savior.”
India glanced at the clock. She hadn’t been working for months now, and she was getting restless. Her doctor, Shae Ford, had been helping her through rehab and had become a friend but was strict with India about stretching herself.
Thanks to the large settlement she had reached with Roger’s family—they hadn’t even fought it, disgusted and disgraced by their son’s brutality—they’d paid her twice as much as she had sued them for.
“It’s the least we could do,” Roger’s mother told her tearfully. “I’ll never forgive him or myself for what he did to you, sweetheart.”
India had wanted to hug the other woman, but all she could do was nod dumbly. She had felt numb after the Fields’ lawyer had told her and her own lawyer that they were settling for just shy of seven million dollars. After medical bills, government taxes, and legal costs, India had walked away with a cool two million, which had meant, more than anything, breathing space.
The downside was, as Sam told her daily, it also gave her time to obsess over the man who had brought her back from the dead. Sam was skeptical, but India insisted, “Sam, I was dead. I know what it felt like to be in the void. I was gone, and he brought me back.”
Sam had given up arguing after a while. When they had come back to Portland, he had asked India if she wanted to stay with him and his husband, Jay, for a while but she had demurred.
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