She heard Waleron’s shout in the distance, no doubt waking the entire house—okay, more like neighborhood. Waleron never raised his voice unless he was enraged, and that was rare considering he was the master of control over his emotions.
She cringed as she heard him shout her name.
She stopped dead in her tracks. No point running. He’d find her.
Shit, she was having an all-around crappy night.
****
Kilter liked last-minute kickass explosions, and he got just that. They made it out a fraction of a second before each building blew sky-high domino style. One by one, each explosive went off like clockwork thanks to Quill’s expertise with C4. It was a sweet sight considering the place was a Senses nightmare. Shit, he thought—Rayne’s nightmare.
The research hadn’t turned up much on it. Mortgage paid in full. Anton married Rayne Thurston at age eighteen after being her legal guardian since the age of four. Sick bastard. One hitch, where had the money to build the compound come from? He had huge sums of money in his accounts, but no investments. No lottery wins. Nothing. Inheritance?
What they did know was that it was crawling with Center World Others. The question was what were they doing there? Why had CWOs hooked up with a human? CWOs ate humans for breakfast.
Kilter looked over at the tinsel-paper chick sitting as close to the car door and as far away from him as possible. She stared straight ahead with a blank expression. Catatonic—he’d seen a few in his days. She’d have the answers, but by the look of her, they’d get nothing out of her for a few weeks. He wondered if she was disappointed he’d killed her husband, or if she was just in shock. He hoped it was the latter considering her pompous husband deserved death for the way he treated her. By the looks of her scrawny body, the guy hadn’t even fed his own wife.
Quill beeped the horn at a sluggish Toyota then weaved around it. “Get off the bloody road if you can’t drive!” Quill was a Taster, meaning he had the remarkable gift of tasting emotions of those around him. In the compound, he would’ve tasted a putrid expulsion of milk a year after the expiry date if there were persons being tortured or were suffering. The only one he’d noticed was Rayne. Kilter wondered what he tasted right now with the girl so screwed up.
Quill was hell-bent on beating some kind of record as he drove like a maniac to the airport. Kilter didn’t know the guy very well as he was from the West Coast Talde in Vancouver, but from what he’d seen so far, intense when need be, expert in explosives, could even detonate them using his mind—the reason he’d contacted him—and otherwise easygoing. Obviously, he had a pet peeve for slow drivers.
The woman finally fell asleep while leaning her head against the window. He watched her shivering body huddled against the door. She looked like a beat-up kitten starved for months. Shit, the woman looked worse than she had four weeks ago.
Guilt crept into his consciousness for taking so long to get her out of there. Fuck that. She was damn lucky he came back at all. He had nothing to feel guilty about goddamn it. It wasn’t his fault she’d married a jackass.
Unfortunately, whatever self-talk he gave himself, whenever he looked at the woman, his expression softened and his heartbeat sped up. It had been a long time since he felt compassion, one hundred and thirty-two years to be exact. Maybe it was because she was so helpless and alone. It would pass, he thought. Soon she’d give them the info they needed about what was going on at that compound, then Waleron would wash her memory clean of anything that had to do with the Senses.
Quill made record time as he careened into the airport, bringing the SUV to a skidding halt beside the jet.
Shit, Kilter swore under his breath as he fumbled with Rayne’s seatbelt, trying to be gentle to avoid waking her. He was weakening from the bullet wound and had to use one hand to open the car door instead of his telekinesis.
The woman had haunted his every moment since that day he’d jumped off the roof and left her behind. It seemed like eons ago when it was only thirty-one days, five hours and—he glanced at his watch—twenty-two minutes.
He ran his hand through his short-cropped hair again, grunting with displeasure as he picked up the frail frame of what was supposedly a woman. Too goddamn thin. Her face looked pasty with black half-moons under her eyes, smudges of dirt on her cheeks and a scratch above her thin arched brow. Looking at the severe bruises around her neck made his pulse rise and brought his anger to surface—dangerous considering he had little control over his rage.
He placed her weightless body in one of the seats on the plane, then grabbed a blanket from the bulkhead and laid it over her. Had her husband starved her? Maybe she’d been trying to kill herself? A bullet would’ve been much easier. Even a knife would’ve done a damn fine job.
He raised his head as footsteps came up the airstairs. His hand instinctively went to the hilt of his knife even though he scented it was human, most likely their pilot. Never could be too cautious, especially when so-called friends weren’t always friends.
“How is she?” Quill asked, walking down the aisle.
“How the fuck do you think? A walking corpse,” Kilter retorted, voice wary as the instinct rose to protect what was his.
“I’m not here to hurt her, buddy,” Quill said. “And she needs help.”
Bastard was reading his thoughts. Fuck, he had no ability to block Quill from his mind when he was weak and the guy bloody well knew it. Christ, he needed a woman to look after like he needed a Long Neck’s blade eviscerating his stomach; maybe his brain too because it was definitely needing some eviscerating action right about now.
For some reason, everything inside him said defend, and he had no idea why. He’d kept his bloody promise. She was out of her husband’s clutches. Job well done. But for some insane reason he didn’t feel right walking away. Maybe it was because she was helpless? No, he’d go with being selfish and wanting to get answers from her before the others did.
“I’ll look after her,” Kilter said, surprising even himself.
“Kilter, the woman is sick. She’s been through hell and back and the only person you’ve looked after in your life is yourself.”
“Yeah, well, no point in looking out for anyone else when all they do is piss on you,” Kilter snapped. Quill was too politically correct to bring up old trust issues. Shit, all the Senses knew he didn’t trust a single one of them. Torture spoke volumes and he knew it all too well. Never again would he put faith in anyone. Period.
The doors of the plane shut, and the pilot announced takeoff.
Quill nodded to him “Bandage your shoulder before you bleed to death. I’d offer my services, but I know you’d never take it.”
Damn right, he wouldn’t. No one took better care of himself than he did.
He glanced at Rayne before moving to the back of the plane for the first-aid kit as they taxied down the runway. Saving Rayne from a psychotic husband was his last debt paid for breaking his promise to her. He owed her nothing. He’d leave her at the Toronto House and walk away with a clear conscience. Why not let the others deal with her?
Because you can’t, you bloody idiot. Because somehow you need to make certain this woman is protected. Maybe he needed a boost to the ego. Yeah, he’d go with that.
He walked back to Rayne and noticed goose bumps on her neck and quickly pulled the blanket up further. His knuckle grazed her skin and his heart skipped a beat.
“Goddamn it,” he groaned, turning away. She was sick, abused, and here he was feeling . . . well, he couldn’t decipher it. Something. What was wrong with him? She was all bones. He hated women like that. He liked muscle, something to grab, a healthy body he could feel beneath his own. A real woman, not a stick with a pulse.
Why was he acting like this? Because you need her, his mind rebutted. She makes you feel worthy of yourself. She is helpless, and you have the ability to protect her when she has no one else. And probably because he was feeling guilty about leaving her in that place when he should’ve jumped
off the roof with her.
Kilter turned away. The woman flinched at the slightest sound. She hadn’t even fought when he took her as his hostage. Spineless, lifeless and numb to the world. He respected those who were brave and bold, who fought for what they desired. He remembered when she pushed the knife to her throat, wanting him to end her life. Yeah, okay, he had to admit he could sympathize. He had seen her will to die, the desperation in those big almond eyes. Ignoring her plea for help had been a mistake, one he’d paid for big time.
He felt sick to his stomach and slammed his fist into the back of an empty seat. This was bull. Why the devil did he need to protect her? Why couldn’t he walk away?
Because she is alone and hurt, just like you.
****
Waleron waited. And waited. Arms crossed. Stance erect.
He stood in Keir’s living room with Jedrik sitting on the leather couch looking as if he was going to throw up. Keir leaned up against the bookcase, Anstice beside him and Galen, who was fiddling with his iPhone, hovered next to the stone mantel.
His shout had woken them. Within seconds, Galen and Keir came running down the stairs, joining him and Jedrik in the living room. Anstice, Keir’s wife, arrived seconds later, her faithful Newfoundland dog, Grim, trailing behind with slow lumbering strides.
“We going?” Anstice asked.
He had contacted her moments before he arrived in order to take her to heal a human who had a run-in with a few Worms. Wraith of Air, Urtzi had been the one to sense the cop lying paralyzed in an alley. No surgeon could ever make him walk again, but Anstice’s healing could and he was a good cop. He’d erase the cop’s memories of the Worms and of them after he was healed.
“There’s been a delay,” Waleron said.
Silence.
Keir wrapped his arm around Anstice’s waist, drawing her close.
The kitchen door slammed and every muscle in his body twitched. Her footsteps were slow and even as she walked across the ceramic tiles into the living room.
Delara stopped, her eyes meeting his own.
He waited. Needing a few seconds to calm the fury that was running hell-bent through his body. She was first to look away. Guilt, he thought.
“Why did I detect Liam, as soon as I entered this house?” Waleron asked, eyes focused on Delara, watching for shifts in movements, the obvious gestures that would tell him she was lying. Her thoughts were blocked, as were Jedrik’s, meaning they were hiding something. Definitely, uneasy, but the only time Delara wasn’t uneasy around him was that night twenty-one years ago. A night he regretted. And yet a night he couldn’t forget.
“I went to see him,” Jedrik said, getting up off the couch while avoiding everyone’s eyes.
Lying big time. Typical. Jedrik would cover for Delara even if it meant his own demise.
Waleron raised his brows. “Is that so?”
“Yeah, you see Liam is up on all the gossip and—”
“I was with him,” Delara interrupted.
Anstice paled, and from the corner of his eye, he saw Keir’s arm tighten protectively around her. His own emotions were ready to turn this place into a tornado. He reached in his back pocket and took out his Pez, popping the duck head open and taking out a white pill.
He needed a minute to control his voice. Delara refused to look at him, and she fiddled with the pockets on her cargo pants. What had she done this time? “And?” One word at a time. That’s all he could manage.
“I asked her to go,” Jedrik said. “I, uh . . . I heard…” He paused, eyes shifting side to side. “Well, there is a rumor a witch is hanging around the club.” He sat, then quickly changed his mind and stood again.
Lying again. The rumor was true, however, but it was no matter to them if a witch chooses to dance with danger.
He knew Delara was struggling with their relationship, or rather lack of. It was his fault. He should never have caved into his desire, yet on occasion all self-control faltered. He knew how she felt—damn, he knew how he felt—and it magnified their problems tenfold.
“He’s lying,” Delara announced. Jedrik went to open his mouth, but one look from Keir had him sitting back down on the couch with his head between his hands. “I went on my own accord.”
“Why?” Waleron asked, every muscle in his body waiting for the hurt that would shatter his already obliterated heart.
And then it came, slamming into him like a meteor. “I’m sleeping with him.”
He wanted to throw up. Words were lost. His Delara. The woman he couldn’t have but wanted. The only woman who could touch him without him freaking out. The woman he didn’t deserve and would destroy if they were ever together again.
He’d known as soon as he smelled the scent of Liam mixed with Delara and sex, but until she said it, he’d ignored what his senses had plastered on his forehead.
He wasn’t the only one looking to toss his cookies. Jedrik was pale and Galen had stopped playing with his iPhone, mouth agape.
Anstice dislodged Keir’s arm and walked over to Delara, standing next to her as if she was going to shield her from his wraith.
“Are we done?” Delara asked. “Cause I’m beat and need a shower.”
“Christ, Delara.” Jedrik said, shaking his head and moaning.
“Waleron, maybe this conversation should be done in—” Keir began, but was cut off by Galen.
“The vamp Liam?”
Keir gave him a shut-the-fuck-up-or-I’ll-plow-your-face-to-kingdom-come glare.
Anstice stepped closer to Delara so their shoulders were touching.
Grim moaned and lowered his hairy butt to the floor.
Waleron was so hurt, flabbergasted and pissed off that he couldn’t even find his voice. Edan and now Liam. What was she doing? A vamp? Their enemy. If the Wraiths got hold of . . . okay, he could deal with this. He had no choice.
“Your blood?” he asked, praying that he wouldn’t have to send her to Rest. That would be the last straw to his existence.
“Of course not,” she replied, and the vise on his heart—if you could call it a heart— eased a minute amount.
He gave a curt nod. How could he stop her from self-destructing? He could see it every time he looked into her eyes, the pain, the hurt. If he could, he’d keep away from her, but that was an impossibility. She was a Senses and needed his protection and guidance.
Then he lied. He had no choice. “Then it is not my concern.” He looked at Anstice. “Let us go.”
Anstice gave Delara’s hand a quick squeeze, then went and grabbed her bag at the bottom of the stairs. Keir followed her to the front door, and he could see them whispering.
Jedrik said nothing as he got up, brushed past Delara and went downstairs to the Tomb where his bedroom was located. Galen trailed back upstairs, most likely to his computer in the attic.
Delara remained frozen, watching him with her exotic eyes. Scared? Damn right she was. But not that he’d hurt her, no, he’d already done that, but scared of what was becoming of herself.
And he couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t no matter how much he wanted to because he’d only make it worse. How could he end this for both their sakes?
“I’m . . . sorry,” Delara said and he knew she was sincere by the way her teeth bit her lower lip.
“You have to stop, Delara. Get help. Talk to Zurina.” He knew what she was doing, and it would only make it worse. He had self-destructed eons ago. “I have to go.”
He turned and took two, then three strides before hearing words that sent a sharp jagged spear through the top of his head to his feet, nailing him to the floor for seconds.
“I want him back. The man who fell in love with me. The man I love with all my heart and soul.”
Without turning, he said, “He’s dead, Delara. That man is dead.”
****
“You love her, don’t you?” Anstice said it like a question, but she already knew. She’d witnessed that day when Waleron stood beside Trinity, Delara standing at the f
ront door, wounded and bleeding after the fight with Ryszard, vamp extraordinaire. Delara’s devastation evident in her watchful eyes, the way she gripped the sides of her cargo pants, her fingernails no doubt ripping through the material.
And Waleron, stoic and cold, holding his emotions in check, like always, watching her, eyes ice cold driving into Delara with an intensity that she knew had to be undying love.
Waleron’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. “We are not discussing this, Anstice.”
Push and you shall receive one way or another. At least, it worked with Keir. “It needs discussing. Didn’t you listen to her? She slept with Liam? Vampire of the city. She could have taken his blood and she’d be lost to us. To you. Waleron, she’s screaming for help, and you just socked her in the mouth with that last comment.”
“I am not the one to help her, Anstice. And I repeat this is not up for discussion.” Waleron’s voice lowered in warning, but she ignored the flashing warning lights.
“You keep her on a leash. Always needing to know where she is, what she’s doing. You won’t love her— at least not admittingly—yet you keep tabs on her, and it’s not like the rest of us. You protect her. You were crazed when she took off after you decided to sleep with Trinity.”
“I had no choice,” he said, eyes narrowed, but staring straight ahead at the road.
“Baloney, and you know it. You slept with her for her stupid visions. The ever-sacrificial lamb for his Senses. Well, that day you sacrificed Delara’s heart. Put it on a spit and let it rotate for the last two and a half years. No wonder she’s sleeping with your enemies. She wants you to burn like she is.”
Waleron skidded to the side of the road and jammed the car into park, flicking on the hazards.
Maybe she’d pushed a little too far, but she’d kept her mouth shut for long enough. He needed to hear it.
He kept his eyes forward—thank God cause they scared the crap out of her—and put his head in his hands. Wow, a show of emotion besides anger.
STEP (The Senses) Page 3