Drum closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. She saw the way his nostrils flared and heard a low, satisfied hum pass between his lips.
“Your scent is … amazing.” His voice had taken on a purring quality that set off an unfamiliar fluttering sensation in Ash’s stomach. Was she hungry? Anxious? Ill? “Fascinating. Like stone left in the sun, but sweet. Like honey. And sharp, like clove. It makes me…”
His words drifted off into silence, and Ash felt the most unexpected flash of frustration. She wanted to shake him and force him to complete his thought. Her fingers actually curled around the fabric of his shirt before she realized what she was doing, but she held on as she trained her features into a scowl.
“The hour is late for humans,” she said, the brisk quality she was aiming for sounding gruff instead. “You should seek out your bed and sleep.”
His eyelids parted to slits, revealing a glint of blue that looked a lot more like a superheated flame than a cool autumn sky. “Don’t wanna sleep. But bed sounds brrrrrilliant.”
He caught her by surprise, an event that for her kind could have proven fatal. But the blow he struck was something worse, something she had never thought to defend against. Something none of her strategies, none of her training, none of her abilities as a Guardian could have protected her from.
He kissed her.
Drum leaned down and pressed his lips to hers in the most devastating attack Ash could ever have imagined. Not only did the maneuver seem to come out of nowhere, but it disarmed her more swiftly than a sharp blow to the wrist of her weapon hand. Against it, she had no defenses, no instinctive counterstrike to use to bring the battlefield back to even ground. It shamed her to admit it, but she froze.
Then, she melted.
Not completely, she could at least say that much, but all around the edges. She softened, enough so that instead of spinning away, she remained in place. Perhaps even leaned just the tiniest bit closer. Later, she could be ashamed, but in that moment her mind had gone blank. She could not think. All she could do was feel. The warmth of his skin, the softness of his lips. The gentle pressure of his mouth on hers, urging her further along the path of her own undoing.
That pressure scrambled her wits. It left her with nothing but the sharp burn of curiosity and something else entirely unfamiliar. In her belly she felt a strange, tight gnawing sensation and something else even more disturbing. Something almost like … a-a-a …
A tingle.
Ash’s head spun, a spark of horror weaving itself into the knot of other feelings flooding through her. At least the horror she understood. Guardians did not tingle. By rights, she should not even grasp the word, let alone experience its meaning. Yet this man, this human, had thrust it upon her.
Why did she not want to kill him?
Drum repeated that humming sound and parted his lips over hers. The tip of his tongue teased the tightly closed seam of her mouth, and against her own will, she felt it soften in instinctive surrender.
That was sufficient, finally, to drag Ash back to reality. A Guardian never surrendered. But more than that, Ash did not even know how. She would not learn here.
Shaking free of the strange spell holding her in place, she shoved against his chest and sent him spinning backward. She caught his expression of surprise and panic in the instant before the back of his shins caught on the edge of the coffee table and upset his balance. His already impaired body tipped backward and landed in an awkward heap of contorted limbs in the narrow space between table and sofa.
She stepped forward until she could see his face, but she was careful to remain well out of arm’s reach. Drum blinked up at her, his expression still startled and very confused.
“What the bloody hell was that for?” Despite his language, he sounded more baffled than upset.
Ash crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him. “Your thinking and your judgment are impaired by the alcohol you have consumed, human. Were it not so, I would beat you bloody for daring to assault me as you have done.”
“Assault? It was just a kiss, you fecking she-demon!”
She ignored his indignant tone and hardened her expression. “Were I a demon, human, you would not wake in the morning with no more than a pounding head and a bruised ego. You would not wake at all.”
Turning on her heel, Ash deafened her ears to the man’s continued protests and stalked back to the small room under the eaves. He could say whatever he liked; it would make no difference. Now Ash understood that in spite of his harmless human appearance, Michael Drummond posed just as big a threat to her as any of the Seven ever had. From now on, she would remain on her guard.
If only she could turn off her memory. She had a feeling that would really help.
Chapter Six
Sororicide remained illegal in the Republic of Ireland, but Drum was willing to throw his support behind any political party who put it on their platform. He’d slap a bloody sign over the door of his pub and stage a rally, and the good Lord himself couldn’t hold it against him.
His current reasoning—it changed daily, sometimes hourly—included the fact that she had nagged and harangued him until he had given in and arranged for his employees to cover today’s shift at the Bone. So, instead of spending his day doing his books, building pints, and enjoying his life, Drum sat at his kitchen table with a pounding head, a sister he wanted to murder, and a woman he’d rather forget who was quite literally made of stone. Well, at least some of the time.
“I don’t think today is the day for this, Mae,” he grumbled. “I’m not up for it. Why don’t we try tomorrow?”
“That’s what you said yesterday. Last night, it made sense. Today, you’re just being a dosser.”
His fingers tightened around his mug of tea, and he supposed he should be grateful for the sturdy quality of old stoneware. “Sod off.”
“Just as soon as you finish having a look.” Maeve flashed him a smile full of teeth and empty of sincerity.
Drum cursed. He knew his sister well enough to read the determination behind her flippant words. Either he could give in and do what she demanded, or she would continue to pester him until he really did reach for a weapon.
Or even worse, she would drag their mother into it.
He swallowed a mouthful of tea and set his mug aside before he could use it as a bludgeon. “Fine. But I make no promises, and an aching head isn’t likely to do anything for my concentration. I doubt I’ll manage anything useful.”
The woman—the gargoyle—called Ash had remained silent all morning. She hadn’t even offered a greeting when she and his sister had emerged from the room where they’d slept. But she had certainly watched him closely enough. Her dark eyes kept him steadily in focus, and Drum wasn’t sure whether their expression contained more wariness or spite. Nothing like waking up the morning after and wondering whether the woman from last night wanted to kill you. Especially not when you had absolute confidence that she could do it blindfolded. And with one hand tied behind her back.
It wasn’t like he had done anything so terrible, Drum reminded himself. He had kissed her, just a kiss. He hadn’t laid so much as a finger on her, let alone copped a cheap feel. And she had enjoyed it, anyway. He knew she had. Her lips had softened, her mouth heated, her breath caught in her throat. She had responded to him. Right before she sent him sprawling ass over teakettle on his sitting room floor. If anything, he was the one who deserved a temper tantrum.
And now he was working himself up all over again, which did nothing to help the whiskey-induced throbbing beneath his skull. Grimacing, he pushed aside thoughts of last night and focused on the now. Sufficient unto each day the miseries thereof.
He focused on his sister, because she, he knew, he could take. “What is it exactly that you want me looking for?”
Of course Maeve deferred to Ash. “What do you think?”
“You say he finds things?”
Maeve nodded.
“Then he should find my Warden,
” Ash said. “The Warden should know precisely why I was summoned, and why present circumstances do not adhere to tradition.”
His sister turned toward him and waved a gracious hand. “You heard the lady.”
Drum clenched his teeth. “Well, your majesties, it doesn’t quite work that way. You know this, Maeve. I have to be able to picture what it is I’m looking for. If I haven’t seen it for myself, I at least need a photograph.” He looked at Ash. “Do you have a photograph?”
Her expression remained blank. Stony, even. “The Guardian I have replaced had slept for the last three hundred years. Photographs did not exist the last time he saw his Warden, who in any event is most certainly dead. I have never met mine, let alone seen his image. All I have is his name. O’Riordan.”
Drum tried not to let his triumph show. “Then I don’t see how I can help you, love. I can’t look for it if I can’t look at it.”
“Michael.” Maeve’s tone held a warning. “There has to be a way you can help her. I know there is. You just have to try.”
Frustration made him cranky, not to mention the pain. The pain didn’t help his disposition.
But he was telling the truth. He didn’t know where Maeve had gotten this idea of him as some great and powerful psychic phenomenon. Compared to hers, his “gift” could barely be called anything more than a tendency toward lucky guesses. Sure, he could find car keys, misplaced books, and even the occasional cat that wandered out of his mother’s barn and up the neighbor’s tree. Finding a person constituted a whole different kettle of chips.
Maeve continue to watch him, her lips pursed as she appeared to debate whether or not another smack on the head might rattle an agreement from his lips. “What if you had something to focus on?”
“What you mean?”
“Just what I said. What if you had an object associated with whoever you’re looking for? Would that help?”
Reluctantly, Drum considered it. He’d never tried anything like that before. Then again, he’d never tried anything like this, either.
“I mean, what you’re doing when you look for something is tuning in to its energy, right?” Maeve pressed. “That’s how it works.”
“Oh, is it? Why don’t you explain it to me, Maeve? I’ll sit here like a good boy and promise to raise my hand, all polite-like, if I have any questions.”
His sister reacted to his sarcasm about as he’d expected, which was to say she gathered herself up for a physical attack. Ash spoke up before Maeve could strike. “The assumption is logical, but it matters not, for I have no object to offer with associations to my Warden.”
“Of course you do.” Just when he’d thought he might have found a way out of this ridiculous farce, his sister had to go and be helpful. “You said it yourself. He’s your Warden. You’re associated with him, just like he is with you. What better focus could you possibly have?”
Ash’s gaze flew to his, and he saw mirrored there his own helpless dismay. Clearly, she was as horrified by Maeve’s suggestion as he was. He just didn’t know if she had the same reasons.
When no one said anything, Maeve pushed her advantage. “Come on. At least give it a try. What could it hurt?”
Drum looked around for a pencil before he caught himself. Did she need him to make her a list? Maybe he should show her the bruise on his hip from last night’s tumble. Ash had made it plain that touching was right off the menu.
Because of that, her next words shocked him. “Perhaps your sister is correct.”
He fought the urge to stick a finger in his ear and give it a wiggle. “Pardon? I don’t think I heard you just there. Could you repeat that?”
Maeve smiled wide enough that the sunshine glinting off her teeth flashed at the edge of his vision.
“She has made valid points. Magic is energy, and whatever your family has chosen to call their talents, a Guardian would recognize all of them as magic. Therefore, what you are able to do is use your magical energy to recognize the natural energy of the object you seek. Theoretically, locating a Warden should be easier for you than locating an everyday item, because the Warden possesses magical energy of his own. In this realm, magical energy naturally stands out from mundane energy, thus making it easy to find.”
Bollocks. He hated it when his opponent in an argument began to make sense. It was the kiss of death.
Through sheer force of will, Drum managed to channel his scream of frustrated annoyance into an ill-tempered grunt. He might have sprained something in the effort.
“All right, then. Let’s have it over with.”
And if Ash objected to his touch this time, the blame could fall on her head alone. Drum might even give it a little push.
Placing his hand on the table, he extended his arm toward the Guardian and raised an eyebrow in challenge. Without saying a word, Ash both acknowledged and accepted. She placed the tips of her fingers against his palm and let him not just hold them but hold her in place.
Electricity jolted through him. He tried not to jump, but knew the others had to at least see him stiffen. His whole body sat up, spine straightening and shoulders pulling back as his vision went gray.
Drum didn’t black out, and his eyes didn’t close so there was no darkness, but the world went out of focus. It was as if the thickest fog man had ever seen rolled in behind his eyes. He saw nothing, if nothingness could have a texture. Then, something new exploded in front of his mind’s eye, and he knew that what he saw now wasn’t happening at the kitchen table in his flat above the pub.
What he saw didn’t look like a Warden. Not that he knew what a Warden looked like, but he assumed it would be a person and not a single person appeared in his vision. Instead, the first thing he saw was fire, red and yellow flames licking up from the blackened ground. His mind blinked, and he saw the ground moving, like lava flowing across an open field. Nothing else survived. There was no grass, no trees, no vegetation of any kind. Not even a stone was left standing. He saw nothing but fire and molten earth, and the skies above were a dark, poisonous gray lit occasionally by flashes of unnatural crimson lightning. It looked like the deepest pit of hell.
He blinked again, and the nightmarish vision dissolved. In its place something infinitely cooler filled his sight. It looked familiar and comforting, the opposite of the last image. Rich Irish fields, outlined by ancient rock walls and dotted with sheep and cows lazily grazing, stretched out before his mind’s eye. In the center, the earth sloped gently higher into a flat-topped hill, and from the top of the hill rose an ancient round tower. The roof and at least two stories had long since collapsed, leaving rubble scattered about the earth nearby. Vegetation had come to occupy the space abandoned by man, with trees and shrubs growing beside and through the aging walls. It was a scene you could find a hundred times a day in a country with Ireland’s long and rich history.
Drum was ready to dismiss it as a dead end, was already tasting the sweet savor of “I told you so” on his lips when he realized something about the scene was more familiar than just another postcard picture. He realized that he recognized this particular tower ruin as one he and his sisters had explored throughout their childhood. Across the fields beyond it, just out of the range of his sight, his parents’ house sat near one of those limestone walls, less than a mile from the village of Clondrohitty. He knew exactly what he was looking at.
Drum shoved the vision away and snatched his hand from Ash’s. He shook his head to clear away the last of the fog. Maeve’s face hadn’t even come into focus before her voice started chittering at him.
“—see, then? Michael? Michael, answer me. Drum!”
As if his head hadn’t already been throbbing. Using his talent had turned the throb into sharp, rhythmic blows from an ice pick. Pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead, he squeezed his eyes shut and groaned. “Shut it, Mae.”
“But we need to know if it worked. What did you—”
Ash interrupted, an unexpected voice of reason. “Your brother appears unwe
ll, Maeve. Perhaps a glass of water would help him collect himself. If you would?”
Without opening his eyes, Drum heard Maeve rise and walk around to the kitchen behind him. The faucet squeaked and water tumbled into a glass before her soft footsteps returned to the table. The glass knocked softly against the wood. Drum reached out blindly and brought it to his lips, guzzling it down like a drunkard’s gin.
“Another?”
He set the glass down and shook his head. “I’m fine.”
“You do not look fine. Your skin looks very pale and moist. Your hands also appear to be shaking.”
“Gee, thanks, Tinkerbell,” he growled, wondering why his eyelids felt as if they’d been epoxied shut. “I appreciate your concern and am flattered by the assessment.”
“I’m sorry, Michael.” Maeve managed to sound contrite. “I let my excitement at the idea of finding something get ahead of me. But you’ve never looked like this before. You always made finding things look so easy, like you just pictured them in your mind and there they were.”
He managed to open one eye and saw genuine concern in her expression. As usual, he became an instant sucker. “Don’t worry yourself, love. I’ll be fine. It just took me off guard, is all.”
Maeve squeezed his hand. “I guess you were right about finding a person being different, eh?”
While his sister apologized, Ash took his empty glass into the kitchen and refilled it. She returned it to exactly where he’d left it and resumed her seat. “Now can you tell us what it is that you saw?”
He winced. “Well, I didn’t see a person at all. Just as I told you, it didn’t work that way.”
“But you did see something.”
A couple of things, Drum acknowledged to himself, but he had no intention of discussing the first half of his vision. Last night, Ash had stirred things up with her talk of demons and their servants, of evil and destruction, but it was a new day and the sun was shining. In the bright morning light, her words sounded like nothing more than ghost stories told around the fire after nightfall. None of it was real, and certainly his vision of fire and brimstone had been a figment of his overworked imagination.
Hard to Handle--A Beauty and Beast Novel Page 7