by Jackie Ivie
He cleared his throat. The sound reverberated through the room.
“Um. Hi,” he offered.
His voice had never sounded quite so deep. The room burst into applause again. A bit of laughter. And a lot of sighing. He lifted the arm holding Nightshade and went into his “Doctor Reid” spiel. Because it was memorized. And easy.
“This is Nightshade. He’s a Tyonidae, commonly referred to as a barn owl. He’s part of the raptor class of birds. They’re called that because they are hunters. Isn’t he beautiful?”
He jostled his arm a fraction and Nightshade spread his wings as if on cue. Another burst of applause greeted that trick. Samson had to wait for it to die down again in order to speak.
“Nightshade is nocturnal. That’s why I brought him. Most birds of the raptor class are diurnal birds – day hunters. If I’d brought one of them, he’d have probably slept through the show.”
Another bit of applause. Nightshade settled back and tipped his head as if listening. And approving.
“Um. As you just heard in the introduction, my name is Doctor Reid. My field is Ornithology. I guess you could call me a ‘bird-nerd’. I’m also a licensed and certified falconer – which is a different field entirely. Falconry is the term for training and working with raptors. It isn’t a game or a sport, although in medieval times it was considered one. It’s not a bond between bird and man, either. It’s an arrangement, if you will. Raptors are opportunistic creatures. They’ve learned that life with a falconer provides an easy and reliable source of food and protection. That’s pretty much why they obey.”
He flicked his arm again. Nightshade responded with a bit of hooting, and a head butt against Sam. Laughter and applause followed that maneuver. This wasn’t as difficult as he’d expected. Especially since the light shone so brightly on the stage and them, it was difficult to make out faces beyond the front row.
“Nightshade is a fully grown specimen. He stands twenty and a half inches tall. That’s above average for a barn owl. I think he knows it. What do you think?”
Samson tightened his fist and rolled his arm, flexing muscle beneath the bird’s claws. Nightshade responded with a bit of wing flapping that sent more than one loose feather into the spotlight’s haze. The audience responded with another wave of clapping.
“The sanctuary has raised Nightshade since he was a fledgling. As you can guess, a bird that young is the easiest to train. Even so, a raptor is never fully trained. That is why he’s wearing a hood. It’s part of the training process and helps calm him. I think he’s going to be a good boy, though. What do you say that we take it off?”
The audience response was even louder and longer-lasting than before. Sam worked at the strap holding the bird’s hood on, but before he could even get it open, Nightshade opened his wings, started flapping aggressively, and then the bird slipped his jesses free. Sam made a grab for a claw, but Nightshade was already aloft, winging toward the ceiling while a spotlight tried to follow him.
Oh. Shit.
“Calm, everyone. Please. He’s just testing.”
Sam pulled the wooden owl call from his pocket and sent a few hoots into existence. Nightshade ignored him.
“Um. Please don’t panic anyone. He’s not a danger...uh. Unless somebody brought a small live rodent with them this evening.”
Sam’s words got a bit of laughter. He tried the owl call again before leaping from the stage onto the ballroom floor. He kept his eyes moving. First to the floor lined with rows of seated, evening-gowned ladies. Next, to the ceiling and Nightshade’s movement as the spotlight followed him. Back to the floor and the ladies. He scanned for footing, ignoring how it felt as if everyone tried to catch his eye. He looked toward the ceiling again and stumbled. That brought his attention back to the floor. And when he next sighted Nightshade, the owl was swooping down to land on someone’s shoulder. The audience gave a collective gasp. The spotlight hit the area. Sam was right behind it.
Whoa.
Life was handing out weirdness tonight. Nightshade wasn’t perched on a nondescript shoulder. The bird was atop one of the most stunning women Sam had ever seen or imagined. Ever. She had a mass of burgundy-shaded hair, amazing eyes of an indecipherable shade...the most pristine perfect skin. And she had one spectacular figure. Tight jeans hugged curves, while that top of hers put one hell of a bosom on display. He couldn’t help but notice as his eyes flicked there more than once.
She was small. She might reach mid-chest on him. He didn’t test it. He stopped two steps down from her, the position placing them at an even eye-level. He didn’t dare go closer. She was on the landing, an open exit door right behind her. Nightshade was too close to escape.
The woman didn’t say anything. She just regarded him with those unfathomable eyes. Shivers rippled over his skin. All-of-a-sudden the tuxedo jacket felt too tight. And Sam’s mouth went completely dry. Despite that, he tried swallowing.
That was stupid.
“Um. I apologize. Miss? Nightshade is not usually this...uh. Yeah.”
Well. Great. Apparently he was still tongue-tied and awkward around women. Especially drop-dead gorgeous ones. The magazine had missed that part.
She didn’t answer. Her expression didn’t change, either.
“Can I have my bird back?” he asked.
She moved her hand to Nightshade, who promptly scuttled to perch atop it. It took an expert to even consider holding a raptor without gloves. Or a fool. It was never advisable. Nightshade hadn’t clawed before, but he was equipped with them. It was always a hazard. She held the bird out to Sam, as if a sizeable predatory bird wasn’t gripped to her flesh. Nightshade’s weight was also above average, yet she held him as if the owl weighed nothing. She didn’t even move her gaze from Sam’s. He was starting to hear a buzzing noise while every inch of him went into a sexually stimulated and interested mode. Or something as primitive and basic. It was uncontrollable. And massive. The tuxedo trousers pinched. Restricted. He only hoped the audience at his back matched her lack of awareness. She hadn’t changed from being calm and collected as she stood there. Nightshade matched her. The owl wasn’t the least perturbed.
This was really getting odd.
Sam had learned falconry from one of the best. His grand-father was a legend in the field. Sam had been apprenticed almost from the time he started walking. Grandpa had been experienced and easy around every kind of bird. This woman surpassed even that. One part of Sam’s brain wondered where she’d learned such skill. The rest of his mind wasn’t cooperating at all. It was fully hooked on absorbing and reacting to the sensual vibes she emanated. They surrounded him. Encasing him with something tangible. Vital. Necessary.
Addictive.
Nightshade hopped along her finger toward him. Still on auto-pilot, Sam raised his left arm for Nightshade’s arrival. This time he looped the bird’s jesses through the hooks and tied him in place. Without once taking his eyes from her. More weirdness. He didn’t even glance at his arm to check. Because it would disconnect him to the woman, breaking whatever linked them. Despite where they were. The spotlight. The crowd about them. The publicity.
It was her move that did it.
She shook her head slightly, blinked, and then stepped backward, leaving the spotlight to him. Sam jerked, as if he’d just awakened and narrowed his eyes at the shadowed area the woman occupied. He could barely make out her outline. He needed to ask for her name. How to contact her. Her number. Anything. She stepped back farther, fading into the dark, the maneuver leaving him feeling oddly alone. Vulnerable. Lost.
Chilled.
He followed, taking the two-stair difference without looking for steps. The spotlight trailed along, sending light onto the landing. The owl. And him. The room was reacting about him. Waves of sound lapped along the backs of his legs, his back. His skull. As if it had a physical presence. He didn’t seem to have a choice. Sam lifted the arm holding Nightshade and turned around. His arm wavered. It wasn’t noticeable over Nightshade
’s graceful demonstration. The owl spread his wings and flapped them a few times before settling back as if he’d done nothing extraordinary. Chairs scraped along the floor. A ripple of movement ensued. The audience was giving them a standing ovation, filling the room with cheers and wolf-whistles and enough stomping that the floor thundered. It didn’t sound at all like a roomful of elegantly-gowned ladies.
The announcer took over, gaining another spotlight, as well as the audience’s attention, over to the stage area. Sam would have to thank him later.
“And that, ladies and gentleman, is Nightshade. Oh. And the man with him is Doctor Samson Reid. Can’t forget him, now can we?”
Laughter greeted the man’s words. They probably thought this had been part of the program.
“If you think that was something extraordinary to witness, please. Accept an invitation to check out Doctor’s Reid’s demonstrations with the other raptors down at the sanctuary. The schedule of shows is in your brochure. And now I have to speak a bit on the business. Keeping these birds safe and healthy is time-consuming. It can be very costly, too. Oh. And Doctor Reid isn’t cheap, either.”
Another round of amusement greeted that jest. Sam was listening, but not consciously. He was still connected somehow to the woman. He could swear he felt her. Watching. Still sending out some sort of sexual-tinged vibes that should have embarrassed rather than continue to intrigue and fascinate.
“We really need your support, ladies and gentlemen. So. What do you say? Let’s get out those checkbooks. We’ve got attendants on hand to assist...”
The man droned on. Sam gathered his wits. Some strength. A bit of courage. Everyone seemed engrossed in writing. Talking. Other than a glance or two, nobody seemed to be watching him or Nightshade. Sam turned to check over his shoulder for the woman.
And saw nothing but empty space.
CHAPTER THREE
This was all wrong.
She was mating?
Oh no. No. Never.
Long ago she’d been informed that this might happen. She hadn’t really considered it. Not for her. Cherish couldn’t have a mate. And even if she did, didn’t she have to be supremely lucky to find him? And shouldn’t she want one first? Maybe suffer loneliness? Ache for companionship? Desire? Something?
And besides all that, shouldn’t a mate be difficult to find? Surely, he wouldn’t appear one night in her hometown? Without one bit of searching?
No. Not now. Not here. Not like this. She refused to accept it.
Cherish was good at denial. That’s how she managed just about everything. She forced her mind to work it through. Cover the incident with something else. Alter it to a different experience. The woman’s blood had contained some sort of drug. That was it. Cherish had imbibed something odd. Something she couldn’t absorb. Maybe she was allergic, and this was a reaction.
That had to be it.
She was not allowing thirty minutes of time to destroy her afterlife. So. What had happened? She’d handled two kills. Fed. Nothing else. This was simply a normal evening...like all the others that had come before. She’d finished an assignment. It was time to return to her decaying wooden coffin that should be in the pauper’s section of the cemetery. That’s where they’d placed it. On that moonless night. During the Civil War. They’d buried her coffin beneath barely a foot of soil. Atop two layers of older coffins. Because nobody wanted to waste time and effort and space on an illegitimate orphan.
If anyone had opened the lid and checked, they might have suspected that Cherish hadn’t perished of any fever. She was simply resting. Waiting for nightfall. So she could rise, see the poor excuse for a burial plot they’d given her, and correct it. She’d moved her coffin the first night, breaking into the Bartlett Family mausoleum over in the hill section. Appropriating a rich man’s space. Nobody had noticed her poorly-equipped coffin in a back corner.
Not then.
Or since.
For some reason, the thought of her resting place caused her eyes to sting with a long-forgotten sensation of...could this be tears? After all these years? No. Impossible. This was stupid. And it was stopping.
Cherish blinked until her vision cleared. Set her jaw. Made her decision. She’d return to her coffin-home. Pull the shred of material they’d placed as her shroud over her. Rest. She was not suffering emotions. She refused. She denied. Tears were for the weak-willed, and that was one thing she’d never been.
Cherish bent her knees, prepared to jump, but something stopped her. It hit right through her chest, seizing her heart in a painful spasm as it stole her intent, along with her breath. It was unbelievable. Ridiculous. She hadn’t needed breath a half-hour ago. And now, she had trouble if it went missing? She scowled and wrapped her arms about herself, willing the sensations away. Why did this have to happen, anyway? And why her?
She refused to have a mate. She didn’t even like humankind. As far as Cherish was concerned, people were mean-spirited. Evil. Manipulative. Rude. Arrogant. Greedy. Hypocritical. Spiteful. Vengeful. She might was well stop listing traits. Her list was long. She’d received a good dose of what humans were capable of during her lifetime. Afterlife hadn’t altered her opinion one iota.
And she really detested men.
Especially good-looking men.
Like that Doctor Reid.
Cherish closed her eyes. Brought his image to mind. He’d been introduced as Doctor Reid. Doctor Samson Reid. Samson. Cherish licked her lips as a tingle of something blissful slid along her spine. Oh. Doctor Reid wasn’t just good-looking. He’d been amazingly handsome. Eye-catching. Tall. Fit. With blue eyes that caught. Hooked. Stole wits. Caressed...
She gasped. Her eyes flew open in alarm.
Deny it, Cherish.
At least, the gasp had gained air. As if she needed it. She sucked in a huge gulp. Held it. And then eased it out. But before she’d finished, a shiver added to her troubles, racing along her skin, raising goose bumps before it centered in her belly. It started spreading warmth. And when it reached her heart, it wrapped that organ with a layer of pleasure that radiated outward with every beat. There was no denying that. Her heart was definitely beating. Rhythmically. Steadily. Inexorably. Each one sending more sensation. More awareness.
This was worse than terrible. Yet nothing stopped it. Nothing even slowed it. The return of sensations just kept happening. Without one bit of permission. She felt the chill of each misted breath as it hit her cheeks. Cherish stepped into the shadows, avoiding anything to do with the moonlit path before her. She was in the garden area alongside the hotel’s pool. Looking over shrouded lawn furniture.
This is all the farther she’d managed to move?
Damn everything.
She needed help. There was only one place to get it. She pulled a cell from her inner pocket, pushed the buttons for her three-digit code, and that’s when she noticed that her hand was shaking. That was disconcerting.
“V.A.L. Headquarters. Lizbeth speaking. How may I direct your call, please?”
“May I speak with Akron?”
“Who is calling, please?”
“Cherish.”
“Last name?”
Cherish felt herself flush. In the shadow of night? By herself? Recounting her bastard status bothered this much? After so many years? Oh. This regeneration thing just kept getting worse and worse.
“Tell him Cherish from St. Louis is calling. He’ll know who I am.”
“Very well.”
There was a click. A slight hum of white noise, and then Akron’s voice filled the speaker with the sound of her name. The man was probably speaking in a normal range. It was intense and loud. Annoyingly so. Cherish moved the cell phone a fraction from her head because her ear started ringing. That was another issue she was placing at the feet of this mating curse.
“I...need some help. I’ve got...trouble.”
Cherish had been an introvert. Shy. Rarely seen. Never noticed. Those personality traits had been buried along with her. So, w
hy did they start manifesting now? As if more than a century of time hadn’t passed? She winced as she finished.
“Lizbeth? Access the Abyss Link. Bring up St. Louis. Report anomalies, please.”
“I don’t have access to the Abyss Link, Sir.”
“Why not?”
“The politically correct thing to say is that I haven’t reached a level in my training that would allow it. But I think the reason is my trainer...and his archaic, preconceived, ill-advised, and incorrect notions of my gender.”
“Let me guess. You are referring to Nigel Beethan.”
“I hope I don’t regret saying this, but you should already know. He is a chauvinistic asshole. One – I might add – who even managed to miss the women’s movement that happened during his generation. Need I go on?”
Akron gave a heavy sigh that echoed through the earpiece. Cherish moved the phone farther from her ear.
“Forgive me, Cherish. It appears I have a small housekeeping issue to handle on this end. Can you spare me a moment to correct it?”
“Of course.”
“Lizbeth, please. Have Nigel fetched for me. And you may wish to avoid this chamber for the time being.”
“Yes, Sir.”
There was a span of silence. Cherish’s heart was thumping so mightily it hurt. She didn’t know if she should stay on the line or not. And she didn’t dare ask. The sound of a door opening and then closing came next.
“Nigel Beethan!”
Cherish jumped, moved the phone to her other ear, and rubbed at this one. She was grateful not to be in the same room with Akron. And she’d really hate to be on the receiving end of his attention. But for some reason, Nigel sounded completely immune.
“What is it, Sir? And you don’t have to yell. I am in the same castle as you are. I’m even in the same room.”
“Why doesn’t Lizbeth have access to the Abyss Link? I specifically instructed you to see to it.”
“I don’t trust her.”
“Excuse me?”
“Just because you trust her, doesn’t mean I have to.”
“Are you questioning my judgment?”