Demon Touch

by Doranna Durgin

  Instead of a baton, Alex now held out a knife. A little hand knife, antler for the hilt and a shimmery temper line along the spine—the details more visible from here than they ought to be. And though the guy stiffened, Alex only laid the blade of the knife flat against the spattered blood, even as more of it trickled down the tough's face and soaked into his shirt.

  Deb frowned, baffled.

  But when Alex lifted the knife, the blood was gone.

  Gone.

  "It wants more," Alex said, his voice gone soft and deadly. "If you catch my drift. So you go back to your guys and decide if this is really something you want to do—or if maybe it's time to get out of the prescription street drug business."

  The tough gathered himself. "That knife," he said, spitting blood in a defiant gesture, "won't stop a bullet."

  "Not if there's anyone left who can still fire a gun," Alex agreed. He stood up—stood back, while the tough guy straightened and, glancing warily behind at every step, found the exit. Took it.

  Alex tucked the knife away at the small of his back, leaving only a diminutive curve of antler above his waistband. He straightened the chairs, pushing them against the wall to make the toppled vending machines more accessible—paying no apparent attention to Deb as she stood outside the door, stiffly clenching her fists at her sides.

  When he turned to her, it was with an expression both resigned and rueful. He didn't say anything, coming up to the door—just stood there, his gaze roaming her face—hesitating at the scar in her brow, the barely crooked path of her nose, the faint misalignment of her jaw that made her lower lip faintly more prominent than her upper.

  She couldn't begin to hide her response to him…or her apprehension.

  The look on his face said he knew what she'd seen, and how she'd reacted to it. He reached out, slowly enough to make it all right, resting his knuckles against her chin and his thumb against the soft fullness of her lower lip, there where the misalignment was just barely evident. "I understand," he told her—standing taller than she'd expected, leaning just close enough so she thought—her body thought—he might just kiss her. And her body, ever so slightly, shifted up to meet him.

  But he only said it again—somehow both apology and promise. "I understand."

  And his thumb trailed away, and his touch disappeared to leave her chin bereft, and he left.

  Deb touched the tingling spot on her lip. For the first time in a long time, she understood nothing of herself at all.

  On the checkout counter, she found a business card. Just a number. Not even a name. On the back, it said If you need me.

  She intended no such thing.

  Too late.

  The next day, she came back from the stock room with a box of fancy new super-chamois to shelve, and she found a daisy on the counter.

  Sharp dark eyes, sharp jaw and lean, mean bad-boy carriage…

  She tried not to think of the memories that couldn't possibly be hers, the lingering sensations and the yearning for more.

  The day after that, she found a small cluster of delicate purple-blue snapdragons sitting on a local newspaper. It lay folded to a police blotter page, which held a description of a bust from the day before. A big one for this family farm town: a local cluster of young men caught dealing prescription drugs to farm town high-schoolers. They'd been caught on an anonymous tip—almost as if they'd been set up, said an unnamed source from within the police station. Except for several of the toughest members, who had simply disappeared.

  Deb pondered that for a few moments—and pondered the message. You're safe.

  But…

  Violence written in his eye; violence written on his body…

  The sight of a knife that drank blood.

  She shivered. And she didn't think those missing men would be found.

  And then she touched the flower. Gently. Absorbing the contrasts of the man…trying to reconcile them.

  As if her body didn't already know.

  Except when she flipped the weekly paper out to lie flat, she forgot about the flower. She simply stared in dismay.

  For there she was, in living black-and-white—a picture she hadn't even known had been taken. In it, her manager stood before the checkout counter with arms crossed in a proud defiance, the chaos of the vandalism scattered in the background…and Deb, perfectly placed amongst it, a slender figure in profile reaching to straighten a display.

  She recalled the reporter's interest, coming in after the cops who’d taken the report had left. She'd still been dazed—and she'd had no idea the reporter had included her in the token defiant victim shots, small-town vandalism making the front page.

  A day of violence. A day of flowers. A day of revelation and exposure.

  Flowers on the first day. Flowers and news on the second.

  And on the third, her ex-boyfriend found her.

  Chapter 3

  Alex woke with a start, rolling out of the old twin bed with a flip that landed him on all fours, the blade already in his hand—ready—ready—

  Nothing.

  Nothing except the deep burn of a blade-borne healing lingering in his chest, sending him into a hard spasm of coughing. "Son of a—" one last final cough, loosening up ribs that had tightened during sleep "—bitch!" and he glared at the blade, watching as it shimmered back to the Sgian Dubh. Subdued. Replete and smug with it.

  It could afford to be. It had eaten well this past night.

  Only then did he truly get his bearings. On the floor of the sparsely furnished bedroom…second story of the small rental duplex…going on evening. The day after.

  They shouldn't have taken him lightly, that crude ring of small-town drug dealers. They shouldn't have preyed on young people. And once the blade had tracked them down and put him on target, they shouldn't have upped the ante.

  Not that the first meeting had gone well. Not with that foolish teenager diving into the fray to make good with his dealers. Fighting around him had left Alex vulnerable—had gotten him hurt.

  But even the blade had no taste for a confused teen not yet gone truly bad.

  His cell phone burbled, startling him. It had been buried in his leather jacket—and now it had a message waiting.

  He fumbled with the jacket, groaning with the stretch—a fresh burn seeping through his torso as the blade went to work. Turning the healing hard, because it knew as well as he did that the phone call was likely to put him back out on the street. And because sated, it had the power to do so—and it didn't mind hurting him.

  It didn't mind it a bit.

  Demon blade.

  He stared stupidly at the unfamiliar phone number in his caller ID, then thumbed the button to reach his voice mail.

  At the first breath, the first syllable, he recognized the voice.

  Deb.

  And she was scared.

  "Please," she said. "You said…" She hesitated, then rushed onward as if realizing the voice mail would cut her off. "I need help. I really, really need help."

  Behind the bakery, she said, and he thanked his luck that there was only one bakery in this small town—because when he called back, she didn't pick up.

  "I don't get it," he muttered—to the blade as much as anything else, a habit he'd picked up quickly enough. "We took care of the town idiots already."

  He hadn't meant to move on them so fast. He'd have preferred to wear them down, disperse them…to stay away from the law, which was too often a temporary solution. But once they'd decided to threaten him through Deb…

  How they'd known it would matter so much, he had no idea.

  Unless it had been the simple, stunned and wistful look on his face as he'd grabbed up his bike, the cop evaded.

  She'd done that to him, all right. Months of glimpses, months of shared awareness and pretending it didn't exist—because she'd so clearly been hurt. Because he wasn't good for her anyway.

  And then came that one touch.

  What could be…maybe what should be. Thanks to
the blade.

  He jammed his legs into pants, his feet into motorcycle harness boots—simple, black, plain supportive straps fanning out from a steel ring at the ankle. He stuffed his phone back into the jacket, and ran down the stairs as he shrugged the jacket on, still grabbing for the snap on his jeans.

  The Magna waited, ready—always ready for speed, if not cornering—although upgraded shocks and brakes had stopped its squirming, and the blade-given night sight gave him all the advantage he needed. He pushed the bike hard in the abandoned night as the sound of her despair echoed in his mind. The realization, as she spoke, that she'd gotten only voice mail.

  A block from the bakery, he eased in beside the curb, flipped down the kickstand of the light cruiser, and jammed his helmet over the handlebar.

  The blade said nothing of danger, and Alex made it to the tiny employee parking spot behind the bakery in silence. He could have found her then, but he gave her the control—standing quietly; waiting.

  After a moment, he heard her voice—uncertain, wary…the fear trickling through. "Alex?"

  The basement stairwell. He didn't shift to look at her—gave her that illusion of invisibility—for a bit longer. "Yup," he said.

  "Get over here," she told him, the desperation clear in her voice now. "He'll see you."

  "There's no one here." But he moved quietly toward her, taking the three steps down to where she huddled against the brick wall and painted metal handrail. Her light coat wasn't nearly enough for this brisk spring night; he pulled his jacket off and draped it over her shoulders, settling in beside her to take her cold hands between his own.

  The blade would keep him warm, if it came to that. Begrudgingly, and not without its price, but it would keep him warm enough to fight. Its images of could and should teased at him, pulling his mind to touch and glory. He took a breath and pulled it back.

  "It's 4:00 a.m.," he said, gently chafing her hands. She didn't even seem to notice; she looked shell-shocked. "What happened?"

  "My picture," she said. "I didn't realize—"

  high flush over a round breast

  "He—" She faltered, but pushed forward with determination, curling her hands into fists within his grasp. "Found me. He found me. From the paper. I didn't even finish closing the store. I just—"

  gasping breath and grasping hands

  She made a strangled noise. "I ran. I called Jeff to get the store and then I—"

  body arched and smooth and full of curves

  She sucked in a breath. "But I couldn't lose him. He just kept—"

  a desperate touch, an aching cry

  Alex found his hands closing around hers, his body tightening, his breath hard to catch in a way that never happened in a fight. "Stop that, dammit," he told the blade. "I can't think when you do that."

  Of course she recoiled. "Me?" she said. "You're the one who—"

  "You can hear that?" He couldn't hide his startled response—too far off-balance to hide anything right now. But he looked again and saw the brightness of her eye, the blush on her cheek…that she no longer shivered at all.

  And he counted himself lucky that she couldn't see him with anywhere near the same clarity.

  She said, "Of course I—what are you even doing? Don't you even think for a moment—" and started to pull her hands away.

  He didn't let her. He gentled his touch—not so needy—and he shoved the ongoing whisper of the blade to the back of his mind, letting his body burn with it—mingled pain and pleasure, thanks to blade's displeasure. "It's not me," he said. "I'm not—" But he stopped, because how did a man say I'm not the one shoving myself inside your head with images of what I'd like to do to you and with you and the sooner the better…

  He tried again. "It's complicated. Let's figure out what I can do for you and—" No, too much double entendre under the circumstances. "I mean, let's get you warm and—" Damn, like that was any better. He drew breath to try again, and suddenly realized she'd ducked her head, that her hands quivered slightly in his. "Are you laughing at me?"

  From the sound of her voice it was clear enough, even if she hadn't said the words. "Oh, yes. Yes. What else can I possibly do?"

  "Great," he said. "All part of the service."

  She snickered out loud. "Service," she repeated. "Oh my God, suddenly I'm twelve again."

  In that moment, he lost a little bit of his heart to her. Cold and frightened and hiding in the dark, handling an inner landscape she couldn't begin to understand…bouncing back to laugh at them both.

  Shaky as it was.

  He gave her hands a light squeeze and backed off, barely encasing them with the warmth he had to share. "Start again," he told her. "Your boyfriend found you."

  "Ex," she interrupted, her vehemence startling. "Ex-boyfriend."

  The tone of her voice brought things together for him. "He did this to you. It wasn't a car accident, it wasn't some childhood thing."

  "He changed my face," she said, bitter agreement.

  You ran from him," he guessed. "You've been hiding. And now he's found you."

  She sighed, a weary sound—shifting the coat around her shoulders, relaxing slightly beneath it. "I don't know if he wants to teach me a lesson or whether he wants to drag me home. It adds up to the same thing: No. And don't even talk to me about restraining orders or police or—"

  "Didn't even cross my mind."

  She looked at him through the darkness—what she'd be able to see of him, probably nothing more than the vague pale shape of his face, his clothes blending into the night. "No," she said. "I don't suppose it would." And then, after a moment during which he digested what this was supposed to mean, she said, "Thank you for the flowers."

  That warmed him, too—in an entirely different way. Sweet and slow, and entirely his emotion. "You're welcome."

  "They weren't necessary. It wasn't your fault."

  He laughed, keeping it low. "Damned straight they were necessary. Did you think that was just apology? All the months I've been coming in there and seeing you, seeing you seeing me, trying to respect that you obviously didn't want to talk to me? Did you think I was going to pass up the chance?"

  Her mouth dropped open—she probably didn't realize he could see her so clearly, or she wouldn't have stared so openly, or bitten her lip, or let the truth of his words show through.

  sweet smile gone sultry, lips kiss-swollen, hands closing around him with greedy familiarity

  Alex made a strangled noise, exasperation and clenching need.

  Deb broke free from the blade's invasion with a gasp. "What is that?" she asked, startled into blunt demand. "Don't you dare say it's complicated!"

  Alex groaned again, biting off those very words and struggling for new ones. "It's what is," he said. "It's what will be. It's what should."

  She narrowed her eyes at him, not knowing he could see that, too. "Does that line work for you?"

  As if he could help himself. Or stop himself from lowering his voice to the rasp that waited to say, "You tell me."

  She closed her eyes, turning her face away—and she swallowed hard, her hands tightening ever so slightly on his. She was well aware when he slipped a hand from hers—she tipped her head ever so slightly to meet his fingers as he touched her lower lip, caressed it—slid his hand across her cheek to cup the side of her head.

  She knew it when he moved in to kiss her—with such care, such restraint—hunting the slightest sign that she wasn't sure, that she didn't want.

  Maybe she sensed that care. "Yes," she whispered, not opening her eyes.

  Yes.

  And there, in the darkness of the bakery basement stairs, he kissed her, and he kissed her well. He kissed her hard and gentle and sweet and long, and he damned near kissed himself senseless. Her hands curled into his shirt, around his sides—a plucking demand for more.

  Which, in the darkness of the bakery basement stairs, neither of them would get. He pulled away, lingering for one more barest touch of a kiss, and he leaned his
forehead on hers. "You tell me."

  This time, she didn't hesitate. This time, there was a faint, confusing touch of misery in her voice. "Yes," she said. "Since the first time I saw you. It's why I had to hide so hard."

  "From me?" He frowned. "You've always been safe from me. You always will be."

  She laughed shortly. "From me." She stroked his face, fingers brushing stubble. "From mistakes I can't afford to make again."

  His hand closed over hers, no longer quite as gentle—the meaning clear, the implications acknowledged. That he, too, would be a mistake. He slowly pulled his hand away. "Deb," he said. "Deb…"

  "Marchand."

  "Deb Marchand. What do you want from me, Deb? If you need me, I said. I meant it."

  "I don't—" She stopped in confusion, and pulled his jacket more tightly around herself.

  "Do you want me to get you out of here? Do you want me to take you somewhere? Do you want me to walk away? Whatever it is…just ask."

  When she still hesitated, he said, "I can make sure he doesn't bother you again."

  She stiffened at that. "You wouldn't—"

  "Not like that." He wouldn’t—but the blade might take advantage of the situation. Hard to explain in a dark stairwell.

  She let it go, accepting the reassurance. "For starters? I want to get warm, and I want some rest. I want to feel safe while I figure out how to leave town." Her voice took on a defiant note, as if she was prepared for him to say she couldn’t do any of these things.

  What he did was stand, and hold out his hand, and pull her to her feet. "Then you will."

  And she came with him.

  Too good to be real.

  Alex's warm hands…his warm jacket. His response to her phone call; his response to her kiss.

  A man with so much heart, and yet so much violence.

  In her experience, the two didn't go together. And the violence ended up directed her way.

  "Okay?" he asked, and his voice still held the rugged note it had taken after that kiss.