Not Quite Dead (A NightHunter Novel)

by Stephanie Rowe

  Every instinct he had was telling him that David was bad news, and yet, Jordyn clearly felt the opposite. Did he trust Jordyn's instincts or not? Her life depended on him making the right call.

  He glanced out the window as Jordyn started the engine to his truck. She looked so tiny in the cab. Her ponytail made her look so young and innocent. This was the woman Cicatrice was planning to claim? And Eric was all that was standing in his way?

  No way was he entrusting her life to some crazed self-proclaimed NightHunter. David was not going to be a part of this. Swearing, he reached for the note and grabbed it. He crushed it in his hand and was just about to shove it in his pocket, when he noticed a picture taped to the fridge. The tape was old and yellowing, and the picture was faded, but there was no doubt that it was an image of a young Jordyn, with her arms around a thin, teenaged David. Jordyn had a bruise on her cheek, but she was laughing. David's arm was around her, and he was smiling too, but his gaze was on that bruise, and there was a lethal fire in his eyes, the same one Eric had seen when he'd been talking about vampires.

  David had never been innocent, even back then, but Jordyn was included in his sphere of protection. If David came to the mansion, he was most likely going to kill Eric and Tristan, because he'd realize pretty damn quickly that they were vampires, but Eric knew in his gut that the man would never hurt Jordyn. What if Eric failed her? What if he got killed or went over the line with the shadows? What if he lost his shit, and there was no one to step in and help her? David would help her. David, who would kill him and Tristan, would also defend Jordyn to the death.

  Which did he value more, his life and Tristan's, or Jordyn's?

  Silently, Eric unfolded the note and smoothed it out. He walked over to the open front door, held it up, and then jammed one of the stakes through the note, pinning it to the door where David would never miss it.

  He'd made his choice.

  ***

  "Tell me about Cicatrice." Eric was sitting forward in the passenger seat, a stake in each hand. His gaze was intent on the woods, carefully and methodically scanning every inch as Jordyn drove.

  She could see that his skin was glowing a faint green, as if he'd wrapped a protective coating around his flesh to protect him from the sun. He was wearing sunglasses, and the dark lenses hid his face, making him look even more dangerous than he already did. His muscles were taut, and energy was humming off him. Shadows were shifting beneath his skin, but they were in the background, not claiming him. He looked every bit the predator, and she had to admit she was glad to have him along.

  "Tell me about how he's been hunting you your whole life," Eric pressed, still not taking his gaze off the woods.

  She turned the car down a dirt road that would take them toward Skye's old house, the same path she'd ridden so many times on her bike. "The first time I heard him in my mind, I was five years old. He was whispering my name in my sleep, calling to me. I could see a long, dark tunnel, with something at the end of it. I wanted to see what it was, so I started walking toward it." She still remembered how the air had become colder and colder the further she walked, and the silence had grown in thickness until it hurt her ears, and yet, she'd kept going. "I couldn't stop. I had to know what was at the end of the tunnel. I had to know who was calling my name. I had almost reached the end of the passageway when my grandmother woke me up."

  Eric turned his head toward her, but his eyes were hidden behind the smoky lenses. "Had she struggled to awaken you?"

  Jordyn was surprised by his observation, and she nodded. "She said she'd been screaming at me for two hours. I was in very deep. Cicatrice had a strong hold on me." She shivered, recalling how ashen her grandmother's face had been, true fear visible in her eyes. "She'd actually climbed in my bedroom window to find me. She said she'd felt my distress and come to me."

  Eric rubbed his jaw. "Maybe she felt Cicatrice. She was connected to him." As he spoke, she felt the push of his energy in her mind. It wasn't even intentional, just an automatic brush to connect with her and check on her. The bond between them was very strong already. Why wouldn't her grandmother's and Cicatrice's been even more powerful, after such time together?

  For a brief moment, she wondered what it would be like to be so closely connected to a man that his love still touched her even through death. Would that have helped the aftermath of killing Walter, if she'd still been connected to his spirit? Or would it have been an unbearable hell to have his demon-infested mind filling hers?

  I'd never do that to you.

  She glanced at him, and her heart tightened at the grim look on Eric's face. "With the right guy, it would be beautiful and romantic to be connected for all eternity." The words slipped out unintentionally, but when she said it, she knew it was true. As much as she'd been betrayed by men, she hadn't given up hope. "With the wrong one, hell, though."

  Eric said nothing, but his expression was moody. "Cicatrice," he reminded her. "What happened after that night? Did he keep coming after you?"

  "Yes." She turned right, the truck tires churning up the gravel road as they got closer to their destination. She wondered if David would find them in time to help. "My grandmother came to me every night after that. She'd sit on the end of my bed, sneaking in so quietly that my dad never heard her. She spent hours helping me weave protections in my mind, and she gave me a necklace with runes on it to wear at bedtime." She touched her neck, recalling the pendant she hadn't thought of for so long. "I lost it a long time ago." Huh. She was sort of wishing she hadn't now. "He came for me every night for a year, and she would merge her mind with mine and help fight him off. He enjoyed it. I could tell that he loved her involvement. It was a game to him, and he fed off it."

  She bit her lip, a sudden thought occurring to her. "If I'd been stronger, she wouldn't have had to exert so much energy protecting me. Maybe then he wouldn't have been able to drain her life force so quickly."

  "No." Eric was adamant. "Don't do that to yourself. You were a child, and your grandmother made her own choices. He would have taken her anyway, but at least she got to save you. That's what she would have wanted, right? And she did it, didn't she?"

  She nodded, her chest suddenly aching for the woman who had guided her through so much. "She loved him, you know. Even though he was draining her, she loved him and didn't want to stop him from reaching for her. She wanted to hold him alive as long as possible, but not at the cost of me. She gave herself to him, but wouldn't let him take me. He was a murderer, but she didn't care. She just saw him as a vampire following his instincts, and she knew he was more than simply a monster." As she spoke, she looked over at Eric.

  His face was shadows, and he was staring out the windshield again, his attention riveted on the woods around them. He was, in part, a monster, just as Walter had been, and yet, he was also a good man. A great man, actually. One who made her laugh, who kept her safe, and whose loyalty to both his brother and her would never cease. He was the worst of what a man could be, but at the same time, he was the pinnacle of what every man would aspire to.

  Her grandmother had fought for Cicatrice, but she'd failed to redeem him. But even in that last entry in her journal, when she knew she was dying, she'd held no regret, because love was never a mistake. Oba had believed that it was worth the sacrifice of her life to try to save the man she loved.

  "Jordyn?" Eric nudged her. "Finish the story."

  She swallowed, and nodded. "After a year, I finally developed the skills to keep him out better. He came less often, but when he did, it was unexpected. He'd come after me while I was napping in the afternoon sun, or dozing off during class, or the nights when I was so tired I didn't have shields."

  Eric turned to face her, and shoved his sunglasses up so he could see her more clearly. His eyes were pitch black and fermenting with lethal danger. "What did he do to you?"

  She bit her lip, surprised that Eric knew there was more to the story than what she'd told him. Or maybe she shouldn't be surprised that he'd loo
ked past the surface to the truth she'd tried to hide. She liked that about Eric, that he never let her put up walls between them.

  "Stop the truck," he commanded.

  She hit the brakes, and the truck stilled, the engine idling in the silent woods. Sunlight was filtering through the trees, but dusk was still several hours away. "What?"

  He turned to face her, weaving the stake rapidly between his long fingers. "What did he do to you?" His voice was lethal, like ice.

  She'd hidden it her entire life, but suddenly, she didn't want to hide anymore. She wanted Eric to know.

  She pulled the collar of her shirt down, revealing the top of her left breast. She carefully unwove the magical illusions that she'd held there for so long. It took a moment, because she was so used to holding it. And then, finally, it was gone, revealing a carving above her breast exactly like the one David had shown them, the symbol of the NightHunters. The scar was deep and precise, the skin still blackened and angry. That same sense of violation slithered down her spine as it had each time she'd woken up and seen another mark. It began to burn again, just like it had when he'd done it. "It took him two years to complete it." Two years of hell in which every night was a terror, and she fought not to sleep. "After my grandmother died, he came after me really aggressively."

  Eric swore under his breath, and he placed his palm over the marking. His skin was warm, and his touch seemed to ease some of the pain. "You hid this from me when we made love. How did I not sense it?"

  "I hide it from myself." She wanted him to understand. "He claimed me, Eric, just the way Walter did, and Tristan. He can still reach me through this mark. I've tried everything to get it out of me, but it's there, forever, linking us. It's like a stain on my body. I hate it."

  Eric bent his head and pressed a kiss to the angry scar. His kiss was so gentle that tears sprang to her eyes. She leaned her head down, resting her cheek against his hair as he trailed soft kisses over every line. Her skin tingled and hummed, and she felt as if blood were rushing to that part of her body for the first time in years. "What are you doing?"

  "Offering you what I can." His voice was rough but tender, and he set his hand on her hip as he pulled back.

  She looked down and saw the scars were glowing with a faint green aura. As she watched, the verdant light sank into the dark, soiled flesh. When it faded, she realized the scars were smoother, and less dark. She brushed her finger over them, and they were no longer ice cold like they'd always been. They were warm, as if they were no longer dead tissue rotting away in her chest, but were beginning to repair. She looked at Eric, and saw that his face was more shadowed than it had been, with streaks of black sliding down his throat. "You took it into your body?"

  "Yeah. He was in spirit form when he did it, so it falls within my particular skill set." He ran his hand down her hair, his fingers tangling in the tendrils. "Better?"

  She stared at him, her throat tightening. "But you can't risk that. You're so close to the edge. You can't add to the darkness that you're already battling."

  He shrugged. "It's my gift to you, Jordyn. Freedom from all the bastards who have tried to trap you." He trailed his fingers over her forehead. "Did you ever get inside his head? Did you learn any weaknesses he has?"

  She shook her head. "I didn't break his hold on me until I moved to Boston. It was far enough away, I guess, and I was really pissed about the marking. I fought him off, and I hadn't heard from him since. Until today."

  "Well, I don't like him messing with my woman, so he's going to get his ass kicked today." He tugged lightly on her hair. "I might not be a NightHunter, but I have skills." His gaze went to her eyes, and his face softened. "And I have motivation," he said softly, just as he leaned forward to kiss her.

  His kiss was pure beauty. His lips were so soft and tender against hers, a caress that went right to her heart. She could feel his hunger for her coursing through him, urging him to take her body and blood, and yet his kiss was undemanding and his teeth never came near her lips, let alone her body. She could feel his iron-willed restraint, battling his need for her with every fiber of his being. His protectiveness wrapped around her like a fierce shield, drawing her tightly against him as his spirit enfolded her. She felt the intensity of his drive to protect her, but there was something else, something deeper. She sensed a vulnerability in his shields, a crack through which she had filtered, breaking through the walls he'd held around himself for so long.

  Her heart jumped, and she pulled back, staring into his eyes, shocked at the depth of his feelings for her. "You love me?"

  A muscle ticked in his cheek, and his hand tightened in her hair. The silence stretched between them, thick and rich, and she knew then that he did.

  And she also knew he would never admit it, not even to himself, which made her own heart swell with empathy. She pressed a kiss to his palm. "You're an arrogant, emotionally reserved loner," she said softly. "You make me laugh. You make me want to live again. So, it doesn't matter what you feel. I will always love you for all that you are to me." Before he could respond to the words she'd never thought she would utter again, she leaned forward and kissed him.

  She expected him to reject her, to throw up walls between them, but he didn't. He wrapped his hand around the back of her head, hauled her against him, and kissed her like his life depended on it. The kiss wasn't tender or sweet. It was a desperate joining of two souls, struggling toward a light that neither of them had believed in. She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him back, offering him everything she had. She poured a lifetime of anguish into the kiss, and a lifetime of love that had burned her. She gave it all to him, and with each kiss, he held her more tightly and kissed her more deeply, until their souls were so entwined that his darkness and her lightness were blurred together as a single unit.

  His hunger roared through him, and desire flushed through her, an answering need that was far deeper than simple lust. It was a primal bond that came from deep within her, from a place beyond her soul. Eric.

  He broke the kiss, wrenching his lips from hers. For a moment, neither of them moved, and the only sound in the truck was the sound of their heavy breathing. Eric rested his forehead against hers, one hand still in her hair, and his other arm around her waist, not releasing her. "I can't do this to you," he said. "This isn't your world."

  "I make my own choices. I thought we established that from the beginning." She closed her eyes, breathing in his scent, a mixture of earth, danger, and wildness.

  "Don't love me," he said, his lips brushing against hers as he spoke.

  She lifted her head to look at him, startled by the anguish in his eyes. She felt the depth of his guilt for those he'd killed, and for the fact that he'd drawn her into his world. Her heart tightened, and she knew that this man was the one she'd been waiting for. "It's too late for that," she said. "It's too late for both of us. We can't just disengage. We can only hold on with everything we have."

  "It's not too late." He stroked his hand through her hair. "It's never too late to walk away—"

  "Shut up." She pressed her finger to his lips. "Walter never truly committed to what was between us. He held back, knowing that he was going to snap. If you hold back, you're endangering us the same way. Don't you understand that the only way for us to win is to let this happen between us? If my grandmother's love for Cicatrice was so strong it could bind them across death for almost four hundred years, then we can be so tightly connected that Cicatrice can't break us apart. We have to do it. Don't you get it?"

  His hand stilled. "Cicatrice used your grandmother's love to kill her and assault her granddaughter." He gently extricated her hands from around his neck. "Love can be the greatest betrayal of all, Jordyn. We both know that." He reached behind him and produced his dagger. "It clouds the mind and muddies the vision." Her heart fell as he put it into her hand. "I have a feeling you'll need this, sweetheart."

  Frustration roared through her. "Dammit, no! Stop it, Eric! I'm so tired of thi
s—"

  His face suddenly paled, and he grunted, his hand going to his chest. She stared at him in horror as a thin trickle of dark blood spread across the front of his tee shirt.

  "Oh, God." She jerked his shirt up, and she saw claw marks across his chest, right over his heart. Just as Cicatrice had done to her in her sleep. "He's coming after you."

  "He's killing Tristan." Eric grabbed the stakes off the floor of the truck, bracing his forearms on his thighs as another shudder wracked his body. "Get driving, sweetheart. Time's up."

  Jordyn jammed the truck into gear, and hit the gas. The vehicle leapt forward, fishtailing across the dirt as she sped down road. "He knows we're coming," she said, her heart thundering as the truck hurtled toward the mansion. "He's luring us into a trap."

  "Yeah, I know." Sweat was trickling down Eric's brow, and she felt the shift in energy as he called his magic to protect him. "But he doesn't know exactly how pissed I am that he's hurting my brother and hunting my woman."

  Her fingers tightened around the steering wheel, anger rolling through her. Cicatrice had hurt too many people she loved. She was tired of running, not just from him, but from Walter, from her past, and from everything. No more running. It was time to fight.

  She looked over at Eric, and he nodded his agreement. "Together," she said.

  "Together," he agreed.

  Silently, he set down one stake and held out his hand. She took one hand off the steering wheel and clasped his. An unspoken promise of more than either of them could put into words.

  Minutes later, after breaking the speed limit and watching the bloodstain on Eric's shirt get bigger, Jordyn finally slowed the truck, coasting to a stop at the entrance of the long, dirt driveway. The bushes were overgrown, creeping across the abandoned driveway as if they'd decided it was their job to keep trespassers out.

  Through the trees, she glimpsed the mansion that Skye had lived in, the one Oba had lived in with Cicatrice. It was silent and dark, a mausoleum of terrible things that Skye had experienced there. A dark, lethal curtain seemed to coat it, and she shivered. "I can feel him."