“Don’t ever try this again,” she growled.
The pair gathered up the naked, wounded man. Man? No, he was barely more than a kid. The former-cat’s features were a bloody mess but he was a normal, skinny kid with chestnut hair and… With a sudden horrible recognition, she realized it was Joey Bayle. The porter.
“You stupid peasant!” Leather Jacket spat and laughed, raucous and a little unhinged.
“Call me that again.” She flipped the knife lightly in her hand, it was slippery but she knew she could throw it hard enough to wedge it in his throat. When she advanced on them, they fell back, dragging their bloody, babbling companion with them.
A bubbling snarl echoed up as the black spirit-beast bounded after them, a deadly shadow in starlight. Whether it was the threat of the knife or the jaws of the ethereal feline, she couldn’t say but the trio stumbled around the corner and out of sight.
The jaguar swung his head, golden-green cat eyes flashing as he came to her, soundless and sleek. Just as when he’d changed into the cat, he melted back into his human form.
Naked.
Bleeding.
Dropping the horrible knives, she flung herself at him, seizing him in a fierce hug. She grabbed either side of his head, sinking fingers into black curls and pulled his head down to hers. He swept her up, arms going around her and she felt her feet leave the ground as he spun her.
His hands wove into her hair as she bruised her mouth against his, breathing in the peppermint taste of him against her tongue. When he finally broke the kiss, he rested his forehead against hers, growling low in his chest.
Her heart pounded savagely in time with his. “Did they hurt you?” she demanded, enraged.
At the same time, he snarled, “Are you all right?”
With the questions came the realization he was nude and pressed flush against her on the dark street. He blushed and started to draw back but she tightened fingers in his hair.
She looked him over. God, even in this dire situation he looked devastatingly handsome. His muscles were taut and hard, dark skin and hair gleaming with sweat and blood.
Blood.
“I’m not hurt,” she said. “You’re cut.” She could smell it. “Did the fucking knife hurt you?” Horror gripped her as she remembered the feel of those threaded connections melting and tearing away.
The cut made an ugly curve against his dark flesh, the blood weeping down his stomach just under his ribs. It swept along one side like a cruel smile.
“I need my clothes. I’ll be fine.” He covered his groin with a hand, his only attempt at modestly. Like this happened all the time.
Maybe it did.
“But the knife. Christopher.” She didn’t want to let him go until she knew he was all right. “Why were they after you? What do they want? Who are they? That guy was Joey. What was he—”
He muted her with a hard kiss.
The wild, sweet contact of his mouth silenced her. Her knees went weak, her lips bruised under the determination of his bold caress. She savored the exchange with a shuddering, breathless eagerness. She could taste his heartbeat as his tongue tangled with hers. Every second of her life she’d been without him were aching lifetimes.
The kiss ended too soon, and he moaned against her mouth before drawing back. His body betrayed his resolve—she could feel him responding to the kiss with a mixture of satisfaction and embarrassment.
“Clothes, Frankie. I need them,” he whispered, tone husky with a partial growl. Then he twisted free, grabbing for her hand to draw her after him.
She bent to fetch the knives, wrapping them in his shredded clothing. He darted back into the restaurant, smirking over his shoulder at her.
She waited in the lobby while he dashed to his office, presumably to get the change of clothing. She caught her reflection in the windows, blood-streaked face, scratches marring her cheek, the bridge of her nose and neck.
There wasn’t a dull moment in this town.
Chapter 16
Talent
When he came back dressed and clean, he acted even more remote than earlier. His hand was pressed to his stomach and he wouldn’t let her see it.
It was his turn to evade her touch.
“Don’t hide from me,” she whispered.
“You should go home.” His walls were up again, focused on his pain and the twisted events of the evening. “Please. You don’t need to get involved in this.”
“I am not going to let you do this alone. I am already involved. Hey!” Frankie’s throat closed as her heart froze.
An expression of guilt filled his eyes before he turned from her. With obvious effort, he walked away.
He took one step toward the Range Rover, and then another, the pull of their connection stretched thin and painful. The third step took his legs out from under him and he slumped to the ground with a shuddering groan. Rushing to his side, she gathered him into her arms.
“Frankie, don’t… I can—” He tried to protest but she put her finger against his lips to silence him.
“Like hell.”
He let her put her hand against his stomach but the moment she touched the wound, his body spasmed with pain. Her palm ached unpleasantly in sympathy.
Home, Intuition urged her, immersing her with the smell of the house, of the soap they had used that morning and those strange little pears. Home! More insistent, it jabbed at her.
His head lolled as she pulled him to his feet. She untangled his keys from his fingers and half carried, half dragged him to the passenger side and got him in. His breath rattled, eyes rolled back where he slumped into the seat.
There was nothing safe about the speeds she took the curved mountain roads. This wasn’t the time for caution. She couldn’t hold his hand much of the ride, as the twisting roads required both. It took so long. Too long.
What if she lost him?
Then she was at the gates, slamming in her code and slapping the steering wheel, desperate to get in. The rush of relief tingled over and through her as she stomped the gas and raced up the driveway.
She carried him inside, his powerful body boneless. Once she had him settled onto the couch, she knelt beside him. His breathing was shallow. He looked pale in his suffering. His blood was too bright against his skin and shirt.
She assumed his health would bounce back when she drove through the gates. Instead, he continued fading before her. Horrible, wrenching helplessness strangled her.
Her whole life she lived with the threat she would be killed if she came here. She realized now that fearing the death of someone she cared about was a worse fate. She would gladly trade places with Christopher and suffer for him.
She took his unresponsive hand. Where there had been a storm of energy and emotion shared between them before, only a whisper remained. But she felt him there, pulsing with her heartbeat.
Frankie used her hand to push up the blood-soaked shirt, exposing the gash on his stomach. She covered the cut with her fingers and his body twitched. His head tossed, handsome features contorting in agony.
The physical wound felt cold to the touch. The bleeding had stopped but the supernatural element continued crippling him. He balanced at the edge, about to tumble into the void before she even really got to know him.
Tears burned her eyes when she remembered how she’d rejected his explanation about their marks. She wanted his eyes to open so she could tell him she understood now. His secrets were safe with her.
She never got to apologize.
“Don’t go,” she demanded his slack features. He didn’t look proud or noble or handsome, he looked young, vulnerable and tortured.
Christopher groaned and gripped her. Not physically but on to the failing connection between them. It made her double over in pain but she held on to him.
She felt awkward, untrained and clumsy.
Their connecting threads were a faded green and blue, rippling as though drawn by a cold wind toward the burned hole. The cut. It was spreading.
Desperately she twined her golden connection around his weakening grasp, ensnaring and drawing him away from the hungry black and toward her. When she did, the darkness redirected and pulled greedily at her.
Like pouring water into dry sand, the darkness consumed everything she fed it. It sucked up the precious threads of energy she stuffed into the wound. That slowed the spreading, but swiftly drained her. She only had meager resources but she would throw everything she was into the attempt to save him.
Before she could gather herself to do just that, Intuition was there, loud and strong. This is your seat of power. You need only draw from it.
That sounded easy. But she didn’t know how to find it, let alone tap into it. No one taught her. Anger choked her, making it hard to focus. If they had trained her, she would be able to save him. Tears trickled down her cheeks.
Regret is fruitless, sweet mouse. You needed to hide and grow strong. You had to be ready. Now, be ready. A command and warning. Be ready!
She fumbled outward, stretching unfamiliar senses, fanning until—there. She felt the external energy distantly, like tiny coals under ash. With a mental scream, she threw herself against it. She battered herself, clawing and raking but could not touch the warmth.
Intuition waited in watchful silence, an eagerness vibrating like a held breath. She must break through this chrysalis on her own.
The words whispered into her from the wake echoed back. This and more is yours by blood and birthright. You need only take it.
Take it.
She was suspended by an ankle. Dangling. Bleeding. Burning.
Take it.
A memory bloomed in her bruised mind. She held a branch in her hands, victory blazing in her chest as golden fire budded and opened all along the stalk. Flame-flowers blooming. This was so easy. Frank’s voice had yelled, “No. You can’t do that!” His hands cupped her face and icy flakes filled her head like a snow globe. The cold flurries obscured the knowledge. It numbed her. It blinded her.
But no. It had only bound her.
She tasted burned sage under her tongue. Clinging to the memory, she tried to recreate the sensation.
The little ember flickered as she cut the knots obscuring her vision. There. That was so—
White-fire roared through her as the energies woke to her unhindered sight. The inferno drove into her with exultant delight and filled her until she felt swollen with the energy of a sun. The scream of war horns greeted her, leaving her bruised and burning, ears ringing and mouth filled with flames.
I said, be ready! Intuition rumbled, amused and proud.
She didn’t trust herself. What if she couldn’t control this? The power felt huge and unwieldy in her unskilled grasp. She might not be able to harness this energy. But when she reached with it, the flames responded like an eager, faithful hound.
It surged along the threads, turning them into incandescent sunlight. Plunging into the darkness, it displaced the inky black rips with a golden glow. It burned away the poison.
Hers. Hers. This too…Hers. The energy thrilled as it drove out the dark with radiance. Her radiance.
As the other threads warmed to strands of gold, her world faded to a steady keening of pain. Under her fingers, Christopher’s body slumped with a long, shuddering sigh.
Terror filled her. Were her efforts too late? Had she hurt him? Did the energies overwhelm him and consume him? She felt shaken, swollen and burned inside.
A hand touched her face and she opened her eyes to find his wild green gaze staring at her. Pink warmed his awed expression. It was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.
She sobbed with relief and joy until her body shook and rattled, fractured breaths torn from her. He was alive. His touch brushed her cheek, sweeping away the tears. The other hand held hers with more strength now, fingers lacing with hers, holding onto her.
There was so much she wanted to say. Her apology and understanding and the flood of emotions she didn’t have the vocabulary to name. Weak as a newborn, she struggled just to stay upright.
Rest, Intuition suggested and the energy around her swirled and wrapped her like the white fur cloak.
Her eyelids went heavy, pulled down and down until she found her head against Christopher’s chest, his heartbeat in her ear as she collapsed with weariness.
Chapter 17
Knowledge
“Laurel.” The voice of Intuition sounded amused. “Are you even listening to me, little mouse?”
Frankie couldn’t focus, distracted with thoughts of handling the energy. Her new skin felt sensitive after being bathed by fire. The sensation sent a delightful, electric shiver through her spirit.
Where am I?
Earlier they had been overlooking a bright vista. He’d been teaching her how to fly. That’s right. Because she could, but she needed practice in the wind. They had come inside to eat.
They.
She and that paternal Intuition.
She sat in a tall-backed chair. The room around her looked too bright. The table stretched out forever into the brilliant void. When she tried to bring things into focus, the light intensified until her eyes watered and her lids closed.
“Just drink your juice,” her father said, laughing quietly.
“I’m not sure why I can’t see you,” she said, lifting the glass, trying not to get distracted by the thrall of fire crawling along the inside of the crystal.
“Limitations, my daughter. Limitations.”
Pear juice tingled over her tongue, so cold and tart. “Where am I?” she asked, “I’m not dead, am I?”
“We tiptoe the threshold, you on your side, I on mine. You are safe, Laurel,” his deep voice rumbled.
I’m not Laurel, she was going to say. The thought unraveled, and with a quick tug vanished. Like pulling a weed from a garden.
She was Laurel.
Father murmured in agreement.
Shit.
A small plate sat before her, the indigo boarder coiled with golden flora and fauna, Amy’s china. A huge slice of white cake, with whipped cream frosting and layers of fruit inside, filled the dish. “It’s not my birthday.”
“This is to celebrate coming into your talent, mouse. Please indulge me. I have missed all your birthdays. Eat your cake.”
She hesitated. “Whose fault is that?” Honestly, she wasn’t quite sure. “I haven’t had a lot of birthday cakes.”
“The Adversary. Fate. Responsibilities. Duties,” he rumbled quietly. “Daughter, you could have come here anytime. I, on the other hand, have obligations and thus limitations. This is the extent I might venture forth.” The words were spoken without heat. It was just the way it worked.
“Oh. Why didn’t anyone tell me?” Except she knew it had to do with secrets and hiding.
“Eat, daughter. Know you are loved.”
This is what Ellen had warned her about? She squinted into the radiance down the end of the table, feeling her nose crinkle. There wasn’t anything dangerous about this. Unless the swell of emotion was going to choke her to death.
A deep purr agreed with her thoughts. She savored the first bite of cake. It tasted like the one Amy always made for her. Tears blurred her vision.
They sat in comfortable silence. The golden warmth and love feathered over her. It was probably the sweetest moment in her life. “Do I need to keep hiding?”
Father laughed, low and fierce. “Daughter, there is much to be said for maintaining the element of surprise. It is almost time, little mouse.” The whisper was closer, a kiss pressed between her eyes. “Your mother and I are so proud of you.”
Chapter 18
Don’t Cook Bacon Naked
The ringing telephone jarred Frankie to wakefulness. Her head screamed in pain as she forced her body to stand. The world felt light and her skin tingled as she moved toward the sound.
“Hello?” she rasped into the receiver.
“Frankie! Have you seen Christopher?” Barbara Harris-Wallace sounded
stricken.
Frankie leaned over and squinted at the lump on the couch under piles of blankets. The sound of his snoring was a fierce, bestial thing. “Yes. He’s here. He’s safe.”
“Oh, thank Gods. Kenneth went in early and found bloody linens at the Hideout. We saw your car still at the Salamander and got worried.” Her voice took on a brighter tone. “All right then, I will see you later today, honey.”
“Sounds good. We’ll be down after breakfast.” She smiled and said her goodbyes and hovered by the phone, palms singing with a cheerful pulse.
When she turned her hands over she was surprised to find her mark didn’t look as bright and irritated. It certainly felt better. Soothed.
She checked on Christopher to make sure he was resting comfortably and then went to the kitchen and set about cooking breakfast. Though she didn’t have mythical waffle skills, she had her own secret weapon.
As she prepped and cooked, she reflected on the dream. Any other dream she would write off but her whole world had stepped beyond normal. She was in the land of spirit-beasts and cursed knives. Energies and links and tokens.
Going to breakfast with Dad seemed relatively sane in comparison. So, if Dream-dad was right, Frank was not her father.
But, without question there was a bond between them through blood.
Right?
Honestly, she wasn’t sure just what the blood connection should feel like. She felt it with Amy. Didn’t she?
She did not with Ellen.
Intuition nudged with wordless approval for her reasoning.
Relief nearly choked her.
So, if she wasn’t related to Ellen, she didn’t have to worry about inheriting her crazy.
Your mother and I are so proud of you, Dream-dad had said. She could still feel the kiss between her eyes.
It did not open her third eye and allow her foreshadow and insight, unfortunately.
“Mmm, what are you doing?” Christopher’s voice croaked from the doorway and she looked up to see him holding on to the door frame, smiling at her. He wore a blanket over his shoulders and his slacks.
Lies That Blind Page 13