by Aliya DalRae
Raven knew this was important. Though his life and sanity were no longer in question, other lives were.
And yet he was having trouble concentrating. He couldn’t stop thinking about Jessica, the determination in her eyes when she told him she didn’t want to see him for a while. There was a clamp compressing his heart even now at the mere thought of being away from her, of her wanting to be away from him.
But she couldn’t possibly stay away for long. They were meant to be together, destiny and all that. She would come around. She just needed some space now. That’s what they called it, right? When a person was feeling overwhelmed with a relationship and needed to step away? Space? But she would come back to him, and they would be together for as long as fate would allow.
Raven closed his eyes, reliving the feel of her teeth embedded in his skin, her tongue pulling his blood from his wrist, her sensual response. He opened his eyes, trying to absorb the information being bandied about in the War Room, but the memory was distracting.
Blood was not something humans craved, and certainly not straight from the vein. As much as he wished he could turn her, keep her with him for the rest of eternity, it was against the laws of nature. Never mind that she would have to agree to it, which was less than likely based on how she left things with them.
The look on her face when she thought she was being turned— and she’d certainly made her feelings clear on that matter. Though it pained him, Raven respected her wishes. He would kill for her, yes. Die for her? In a heartbeat. But he would never ask her to give up her humanity.
Raven did a mental head shake. It was ridiculous to even think along these lines. It simply could not happen.
But it had felt so good, and he couldn’t help but think what if?
“I’m running a search on the Undernet. By using Raven’s description we can see if there have been any sightings of him that don’t coincide with his actual locations,” Merlin was saying when Raven tuned back in. The Warrior turned to Raven and continued. “Whoever’s behind this has to have been stalking you, watching your every move. It’s the only way he could have chosen victims from places you’d recently been.” It felt good to have the male looking him in the eye again.
“Chances are, he probably doesn’t know that Raven’s been cleared,” Merlin said to Mason, “so he’ll be planning his next murder. Question is, do we keep Raven off the streets and avert another death, or put him out there as bait and try to catch this guy?”
“I say bait,” Harrier said from the door. The Team had been assembled for over an hour, and he was only now making an appearance.
“Where’ve you been?” Raven growled, but tried to restrain himself. He and Tas had left Jessica’s ahead of Harrier, but he assumed the male was right behind them. What kept him?
“Don’t ask questions you don’t want to be answered,” Harrier said with an evil smile. Tas and Viper grabbed Raven before he could attack.
Mason shook his head, and looked back at Harrier. “When are you leaving?”
“Now. Just checking to see if there was anything I needed to know before takeoff.”
“No,” Mason said. “Locate the Seer and find out what she knows. With any luck, something she says will be useful.”
“I doubt it,” Harrier muttered and left, closing the door behind him.
Raven moved to follow him, demand to know where he’d been, and if it was with Jessica? Maybe torture him for a bit of sport. When Tas and Viper pulled him back again, he almost bit one of them, but a look from Mason had him relenting.
Sending Harrier to find information about Raven’s past was like throwing water at a drowning man.
Merlin had filled him in on why Harrier was going, but Raven didn’t like it. Especially, knowing he was going alone, with no one to keep an eye on him. Mason said he trusted Harrier to do what was right, but Raven wasn’t so sure. Harrier had absolutely no reason to help clear Raven’s name, and the thought of his future being dependent on that help? Raven might as well hang it up now.
Meanwhile, there was a feral running around with Raven’s face and former taste for violence. Raven did trust the males in this room to find the bastard and bring him to justice. Maybe having Harrier out of the way for a while would be a good thing.
Chapter Sixty-Seven
A fter being dumped unceremoniously back at his car, Malcolm drove himself home—to his house, not Jessica’s—and did something he hadn’t done since his wife’s passing. He slept in his own bed. The conversation with the wolves left him with a lot to think about, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to do that with Jessica there to distract him, so home it was. It felt small and cold without her there to wrap himself around, but it was oddly reassuring being in his own space, in his human form.
Actual sleep, however, was long in coming. The ensuing hours were filled with some serious toss and turn action.
He had gone to the wolves for answers, but only ended up with more questions. Why were they so interested in Jessica? Why were his questions so threatening that they felt they had to fire him and warn him away from her altogether? Why did they threaten him with bodily harm if he didn’t stay away from her? And why the hell did they have a twenty year old picture of Jessica and her parents?
Malcolm hated the idea of someone else spying on Jessica. At least with him, his intentions were honorable. Now, anyway. But some stranger, prowling around her property? Sitting in his chair? Sleeping in her…?
Fuck.
And thus, the tossing and turning.
Malcolm would call his Overlord in the morning, fill him in on all that was going on. Maybe he could at least keep the cat Shifters out of this from now on, not that it would matter. If the wolves really wanted to keep tabs on the girl, they would manage it, with or without his Clowder. Yeah, they were dumber than the cats, but they weren’t completely stupid, and Malcolm knew that the wolves wouldn’t delay in getting eyes on her property.
Obviously, there was no way he was staying away from Jessica, though. She needed him there, now more than ever. The question was, how to make it happen?
Even if he managed to sneak back into the house as King Kat, leaving again would be risky. Not that being with Jessica twenty four/seven wouldn’t be nice, but facts were facts—Malcolm was not a kitty-litter kind of feline.
Besides, if he were stuck in the house, he wouldn’t be able to continue wooing her as Mac. It looked like King Kat had made his last appearance at the Sweet residence.
Malcolm needed to come clean with Jessica. She deserved to know she was being watched, and by whom, and she needed to know Malcolm for who he really was. Was she going to be mad at him? Understatement, for sure. But if she was the woman he knew her to be, she would at least hear him out. She would eventually forgive him, especially when she acknowledged how important it was for him to protect her.
So that was it, then. Tomorrow, Malcolm would walk into that house, on two feet instead of four, confess, and hope for the best. That’s all he could do. If he was going to be the man that Jessica deserved, he had to be the one to tell her, about the wolves, about himself. About everything.
The decision having been made, Malcolm closed his eyes at last to sleep. As his breathing evened out and his body relaxed, he thought of the picture of Jessica and the Sweets lying on Dane’s desk. Unconsciousness settled upon him, and a thought materialized, a vague realization, perhaps an answer to at least one question.
And on that thought, Malcolm, finally, was asleep.
Chapter Sixty-Eight
H arrier watched from his seat in a rather large leather chair, strategically placed next to an even larger stone hearth, as Victoria descended the grand staircase. Her gauzy gown flowed around her feet, and she looking perfectly coiffed for someone who had just risen for the night.
He had been waiting for nearly three hours, but the parlor they’d stashed him in was quite comfortable, with a fire dancing merrily in the fireplace. The furniture, however, was ancient and uncomfortab
le, and he was getting impatient. He had been travelling for the better part of a day, though, so the irritation could be jet lag.
Then again, being back here, back in Scotland, was all it took to set his nerves on edge.
When she entered the parlor, Victoria held her head high, in that regal manner only one born of noble blood could affect. Her auburn hair was pulled into a neat chignon that accented her delicate features, but her eyebrows were drawn together in a disapproving frown. When she saw Harrier, her thin lips pursed with displeasure.
A servant entered with a tray of drinks, what looked like bloody Marys, and Harrier wondered how accurate the moniker was. Victoria was Vampire, after all. The tray was proffered to Victoria first, a breech in etiquette if he wasn’t mistaken, and subsequently offered to Harrier.
Even the servant looked at Harrier with his mouth all puckered, as though the Warrior were something horrid on the bottom of his shoe.
Harrier took the remaining glass, and sniffed it. No, it wasn’t real blood, not that it mattered, but he set the glass down on the table next to his chair without drinking. Victoria took a long sip from her own glass and frowned.
“Why have you come,” she said at last, dabbing delicately at her lips with a small lace handkerchief. “You’ve interrupted my rest.”
“I have questions,” Harrier said, rising. “I’m told you may be able to answer them.”
“I have nothing to say to you, Halfling.” Harrier smirked at this. He should have known—did know, really—that he wouldn’t be welcome here. His neck of the woods. Riiiight.
What the hell was he doing? That question had been set on a repeating loop in his brain since takeoff, and he couldn’t find the stop button, or the answer. He left this rock seven centuries ago for a reason, and a damn good one. But Mason asked, so what was he supposed to do, say no to his Warlord?
Abso-fuckin’-lutely!
This had nothing to do with him. So what if someone was setting Raven up? His crimes were well documented, for chrissakes, and he would always be the same murdering bastard. As far as Harrier was concerned the male hadn’t begun to pay for the pain he caused. He deserved whatever misery found him, so why should he, Harrier, put himself through seven kinds of hell to help clear the name of a psychopath?
You know why, his thoughts countered.
Harrier shook the question from his head and took a step toward the ancient Vampire before him. She looked amazing, for an old bitch.
“The questions aren’t mine,” he replied, noting Victoria’s retreating step wryly. “I’ve been sent by the Legion. You wouldn’t refuse the Legion, would you?” he sneered.
Victoria’s face clouded, and something near panic flashed in her eyes. Harrier stepped toward her again almost as a dare, and nearly laughed when she again backed away. The Seer remained silent.
“Roughly five hundred seventy-three years ago, you made a prediction to the London Primeval concerning an unborn child.”
“I’ve made many predictions,” Victoria scoffed, regaining her composure as she turned to pace the room, putting more distance between them. “I can hardly recollect them all.”
“This one, in particular, was regarding the child that would grow up to be the Rapist,” Harrier said. Victoria blanched, her pacing halted. “Thought that one might ring a bell.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The Legion is asking that you relate that warning to me, and any other information you might have regarding this child. To deny me is to deny the Legion, and in effect the Primeval itself.”
After a long moment, Victoria squared her shoulders and slowly turned to face Harrier, her golden brown eyes meeting his for the first time.
“If I answer your questions, tell you what you wish to know, will you leave?”
“Of course,” Harrier agreed.
“And you will never return?”
Harrier closed his eyes, took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He expected no less, but still it stung. Only now did he admit that a small place deep inside of him had dared to hope for something more. Some things simply did not change, could not change.
With resignation, Harrier squared his shoulders and opened his eyes. Staring coldly at the female before him he said, “As you wish, Mother.”
Chapter Sixty-Nine
I woke up the next day a little sore, but otherwise completely healed from my feral dealings the night before. Physically healed, anyway. My mind was still spinning from the whole I-vant to-suck your-blood scenario. After a night of tossing, turning and too much thinking, I was no closer to understanding what was happening to me. It seemed that if I wanted answers, I was going to have to wait for the Vampires to bring them to me.
Great.
I spent most of the day in the shop working on the furniture I’d been neglecting for far too long. Feeling like I’d accomplished something, I cleaned up and headed back inside to grab a bite to eat and relax in front of the boob tube. There was still some autumnal sunshine peeking through the leaves, and I sighed a weary sigh as I walked up the sidewalk. I spared a glance at my poor yard, which remarkably looked none the worse for wear.
After a quick shower, I was in the kitchen searching for the chipped ham and all that goes with it, when I heard someone knocking. I pulled my head out of the fridge and was surprised to see Mac standing on my porch.
I looked down with horror at the ratty grey sweat pants and oversized red sweatshirt that comprised my evening’s ensemble. He was already smiling at me through the glass, though, that slow, beautiful smile, and there was no escape.
Plastering on a big ol’ smile of my own, I patted down my hair (had I even run a comb through it?) and opened the door.
“I’m sorry to drop in on you like this,” he said, his voice as smooth as slick-sanded mahogany, “but I had to see you.”
“How did you find me?” I asked. I’m smooth too.
“I asked around town. Seems almost everyone knows where you live.”
Of course.
We stood there like that, neither of us moving, and it occurred to me that I should invite him in.
“I don’t have to stay,” he said, passing me as he crossed the threshold and looked around my kitchen with a strange sense of wonder. “I just…”
I hadn’t moved much from the doorway, so when he turned to face me we were merely a foot apart. He stared at me for a moment longer, that strange connection between us like an all-encompassing cloud.
I’m not sure when he moved. Or maybe I did, it’s hard to say. Somehow that foot of space became inches, then the inches disappeared altogether as our lips met. It was a replay of our first kiss, only now there were no interruptions. Only lips touching, tongues exploring. His hands were on my shoulders, then somehow I was in his arms, and God help me, he was in mine.
And the kiss was glorious.
After a minute (an hour?) our lips parted and we both stood there holding each other up, breathless. Mac pulled me closer, pressed our cheeks together. “It wasn’t just me” he whispered into my ear. “You feel it, too. Tell me you feel it, too.”
My head was spinning. If he let me go, I was sure I would melt into a puddle of goo that even the best Vampire Cleaners would have trouble removing. I took a couple of deep breaths and, tempting fate and my wobbly knees, I placed my hands on his face, slid them down to his chest, and gently pushed myself away from him.
I was fine until I looked up and our eyes locked. There it was again. That connection. That haven’t-we-met-someplace-before, do-I-know-you-from-a-past-life, where-have-you-been-all-my-life connection.
Damn.
This had to be a dream. No one could be this perfect. He was so handsome, and warm, and comfortable, and try as I might (and believe me, I did try) there were feelings going on inside me that I was in no way prepared to deal with. My heart was beating like a trapped hummingbird, and it occurred to me that not once in the entire kiss did I want to bite his neck or drink his blood.
I started to sway again and steadied myself on Mac’s shoulders. This was wrong. In spite of all my reservations and misgivings about this newfound blood thirst, I still felt that bond with Raven, like we were a part of each other. Didn’t I owe it to him, to us, to make a definitive choice before moving on to another man?
Didn’t I?
Of course I did. It wasn’t fair to anyone—Raven, Mac or even me.
I took a deep breath, preparing myself to ask Mac to leave, but instead I heard myself whisper, “I was just making a sandwich. Want one?”
Brilliant. I just offered the man cold cuts.
He smiled, though, and touched my hand, which was still resting on his shoulder, before he stepped away from me and said, “Sure. A sandwich sounds great.”
A torrent of mental rebukes flooded my mind, but I smiled as I slid past him and returned to my icebox exploration.
“Have a seat,” I said. “I have turkey or ham, both smoked, and co-jack cheese. Wheat bread only, sorry if that’s not your thing,” I apologized, hoping I sounded more relaxed than I felt.
“Turkey’s good,” he said, sitting at the table, “and wheat is perfect.”
“Mustard or Mayo?” I queried, my head still buried in the fridge.
“No, thanks.”
I laughed nervously and peeked around the refrigerator door. “I like mine dry too,” I said, as I placed my haul on the counter. I grabbed a loaf of bread from the bread box (a wooden jobby that Mom and I picked up at the Pork Festival the year before dad died) and commenced the assemblage of the sandwiches.
Mac watched me in silence, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable one. When I placed what amounted to a couple of two-fisted sandwiches, complete with lettuce and tomato, onto plates, and added a handful of chips to each, I found myself relaxing. I placed one of the plates and a napkin in front of Mac, grabbed two pops out of the fridge and set them on the table.
“Sorry about the unleaded,” I said. “It’s all I drink. Or I could get you a water if you’d prefer.”