James scoured his hand over his head. Great. A phantom talent. The ability allowed the vampire to turn to mist at will, which made them difficult as hell to fight. All vampires possessed various talents and they used them often, which made his job that much harder. He couldn't use his, it was too damn unpredictable in a densely populated area such as this.
Another male approached on foot from the other side of the park and once he entered the building, James leapt down from the tree. He went to grab his blade and realized he’d forgotten to strap on his sheaths—he’d been too distracted by Lilith.
He inspected the area and found a sapling supported by two stakes. He pulled his gloves on and yanked the stake out of the ground, tucked it between his belt and jeans, and walked around to the side of the building. Steeling himself for the confrontation, he swung open the door labeled Men and strode inside. The scents of urine and bleach assailed him. Three stalls lined the wall to his right. Dead ahead, plastic mirrors hung over three sinks. The vampires huddled in the far corner near the urinals, an attaché case laid out on the last sink.
“You've been tried and found guilty of trafficking humans. Surrender or die.”
Both vampires shared a glance before the Hispanic's eyes dropped to James' throat. No doubt he was searching for the Guardian pendant James wore. He handed his cohort a ring of keys. “Take these, Luis.” He shut the attaché case and picked it up. His gaze darted around, marking the small rectangular windows above each stall.
They were all shut tonight. The bastard meant to run, and he only needed a small opening, just enough to get the attaché case through and to keep from impaling himself should his body solidify partway through.
James shook his head. “I wouldn't try it.”
They acted like cornered animals—frightened and desperate. He blocked the one easy exit, and the Vampiric survival instinct wouldn't allow surrender.
The door swung open behind James. Mr. Civic strode into the middle of the tension wielding a small pistol. “Dude, I don't know what's going on. This is my territory—”
Oh, for Christ's sake. One minor detail changed and the whole damn night went to hell. James kicked the gun out of his hand, grabbed him under an arm and a leg, and hefted him up and over, throwing him toward the two vampires.
The Hispanic shoved Luis toward James and scrambled into a stall. Mr. Civic crashed into the wall where they had stood seconds ago and dropped in a heap on the dirty floor.
“Damn it, Carlos,” Luis turned ghostlike and staggered right through James.
James whirled around, his fist shooting out, connecting with Luis' back and slamming him into the wall head first. Stunned, Luis slid to the ground and stayed there.
Two down.
James strode toward the stall where Carlos fumbled with a window latch, frantic. He kicked the door in. It connected with Carlos, who grunted as he flew face first into the wall. James grabbed him by the back of his shirt and jerked him away from the window. He hauled his fist back, aiming for Carlos' face. Carlos shifted to mist and James' fist rammed into the tile wall behind him, the ceramic exploding under the force. The phantom dove under the stall door to retrieve the attaché case.
James grabbed his foot and started pulling him out of the stalls.
Carlos faded again. James' hand grasped nothing. “Goddamn it.”
The hair on James' neck prickled. He twisted around. Luis' fist slammed into his temple, the keys he clutched slashing into his skin. The force threw James off balance, pushing him back onto Carlos. James kicked his leg out, connecting with Luis' calves. Luis' feet came out from under him and he fell, cracking his skull against the sink as he went down.
James turned back to Carlos, struggling with his inconsistent form. Every time his grip tightened, Carlos turned into an apparition, slipping through his fingers. James grabbed the stake from his belt. He waited for Carlos' spectral form to take on substance, then drove the stake down hard into Carlos' chest. Carlos exploded into a shower of dark, sooty ash.
James stood and stretched, his gaze landing on Luis. The vampire struggled to stand. His hands shook so hard he couldn't get a grasp on the sink to pull himself up and his legs didn't look like they were much better off. A deep black gash slanted over his brow where the skin split. His body kept blinking in and out of focus. Teeth chattering, Luis' eyes widened and he took another weak swipe at James with the keys.
James kicked him in the head. Hard. “You're no good at this, Luis. You don't seem to be able to control your talent.” He squatted in front of the vampire, cocking his head to the side, narrowing his eyes. “You must be a neophyte.”
“Why are y-you d-doing this?” He sank back, trying to take shelter under the sink. “Who the hell are you?”
Questioning Luis would be useless—he was too new. He wouldn't know anything of value about the daemons who hired him. Hell, the neophyte didn't even know of the Guardians. “Good luck in the Eidolon Wastes.” James brought down the stake, ending Luis in a spray of ash.
He dumped the weapons in the garbage, grabbed the attaché case, and left.
Now he just needed to free the humans, pick up some groceries and go sort out his situation with Lilith. By now, she'd experienced a taste of life at Haven House. With a little luck, she'd be ready to talk.
From here on out, everything would be simple.
Chapter 8
Why the hell had he thought this would be simple?
Lilith must have unpacked and started making Haven House into her home and she must be very human.
The door shield was back.
James stood in the yard, staring at the green haze preventing him from entering the house. What if she didn't let him in? An anxiety he didn't want to acknowledge slithered under his flesh.
He strode up the porch steps, shifted the grocery bag to his other arm, and rapped his fist on the wall next to the door. When no one answered, he banged again. Harder.
The door swung open. “Gods, you scared the crap out of me.”
Something in him eased at seeing Lilith whole and healthy. Her damp hair suggested she'd just bathed, and she wore the most hideous, antacid-pink robe he'd ever seen. He had no doubt she wore nothing underneath, and she'd tied the belt in such a way he could remove the paltry barrier with a quick tug with one finger.
A brief vision flashed in his mind of advancing on her, hooking his finger in the belt, and spreading the homely garment to gaze at the beauty beneath. Burying himself in . . . . He mentally shook himself, raking his hand over his scalp as if he could reach in and rip such thoughts from his mind.
Focus. “What the hell are you doing answering the door at this hour like that? I could've been someone dangerous.”
Her expression suggested he'd lost his mind. Hell, he must have. If he kept on this track, she'd never invite him in.
“If you didn't want me to answer, you shouldn't have knocked.”
He sighed. “What's wrong? You looked scared when you opened the door.”
“You have the knock of a SWAT team. Of course I looked scared. Are you gonna yell at me every time I see you?”
“Probably.”
She harrumphed. “Well, at least you're honest. Did you forget your key?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, come on. I don't like keeping the door open.”
Right. Now what? That sure as hell didn't sound like an invitation. The door seal certainly hadn't accepted it as one. Christ.
James shifted the grocery bag to his other arm. “Look, we got off to a bad start earlier. I, uh . . . .” Jesus, this sucked. “I don't have any place else to go. I need to stay here. I'll, uh, pay you rent or whatever.”
A speculative glint entered her eyes. She folded her arms over her chest and her gaze shifted from him, to the door.
Fuck.
“You know, I realized after you left that we've met twice now.” Her gaze followed the entire outline of the doorway as if searching for the barrier. “You've saved my life and
fixed my car. We're going to be living together . . . And I have no idea what to call you.”
“James.”
She gave him her full attention. “Your whole name.”
He let out a rueful chuckle. Someone who knew about daemons could do a lot with a name. Summon them. Trap and torture them. Who the hell was she, some sort of daemon hunter? “I've got chocolate out here.” He put on his best smile. “And ice cream. It's probably starting to melt.”
She shrugged. “It's cool tonight. It'll keep.”
Ah, Christ. She was good. He felt certain she knew exactly his race and the rules of his existence. But the way she worded everything, the innocence in her expression . . . hell, she may have very human reasons for her questions. “Why do you need my full name?”
Her grin spread. “Why, that way, if you turn out to be a thief, I'll know who to report to the authorities.”
Yeah, she was good. He could walk away. He could . . . . No. He couldn't. His chance at humanity lay within those walls. His shot at redemption, the opportunity to find paradise was somehow linked to her. “Samael James Pasquino.” The name, not spoken in almost a thousand years, felt strange and awkward on his tongue. “I go by James.”
Her eyes widened and her jaw went slack. She cleared her throat. “Please come in, James. My home is your home.”
The door seal dematerialized.
“Jesus.” He stared at her for a long time, trying to determine if she understood what she'd done. She'd not only given him free access to this house, but any other she ever chose to inhabit.
“Hurry up, I want to close the door.” Her focus shifted past him to scrutinize the night.
His gaze raked over her as he entered and shut the door, a sense of possessive pride filling him to near bursting. She may as well have claimed him as her own.
She backed up a step for each he advanced until her back pressed against the wooden banister. He caught himself reaching for her and lowered his hand. “Why'd you do that?”
“Do what?” She inhaled a shaky breath, but her gaze met his with a steady defiance he admired.
She had no idea what she’d done. It hadn’t meant anything to her.
He forced himself to back up a step, to look away from her.
The floors shined, prompting him to glance around. Everything looked fresh and clean. She must have spent the entire night scrubbing the place down. “You've been busy.”
“I see you have, too.”
He arched his brow.
“Do you always come home looking like this?”
Lord, she sounded vexed. Home. He rolled the foreign sounding word around in his mind. He'd never thought of this place as home. But she'd offered him that. My home is your home. She'd claimed him. And you can't touch her. Period.
Remembering her question, he glanced down at himself. He still wore the same clothes from earlier—jeans, a sleeveless tee and a jacket. “Yeah. Pretty much.”
“I meant your face.”
Shit. He'd fed earlier tonight before taking on those two phantoms. He must have bruised.
“Come with me.” She towed him into the kitchen and waved him to a seat at the table.
“Anyone ever tell you you're kind of bossy?” He set the bag of groceries on the table and sat.
She snorted, pulling a clean towel out of a drawer and filling it with ice. She returned with her makeshift ice pack and held it out to him.
He folded his arms across his chest. “What do you think you're going to do with that?”
“Humor me.” When he didn't move, she placed the ice pack on his forehead and his hand over the pack to hold it in place. She went back to the counter. “Is this a fluke, or a regular occurrence?”
He ignored her question. “You don't need to make a fuss.” He set the ice pack on the table. No one ever fussed over him before, and he liked being left alone, damn it. Still, he lounged there and watched her.
“You look like hell.” She opened another drawer and removed a couple of tiny brown bottles.
“Where'd you get all that stuff from?” He reclined back in the chair, stretching his legs out in front of him.
“My bags.” She opened two bottles. “I'm a purchaser for an online store. They sell all-natural supplies, herbs, essential oils, that kind of thing.” Taking a measure of clear gel, she mixed it with a couple of drops of dark liquid while muttering under her breath.
A bitter, astringent odor filled the kitchen and he pulled a face. “It reeks.”
“It's the arnica.” She walked back to where he sat, her gaze dropping to the discarded ice. She shot him a disgusted look. “You could be more helpful.”
“I told you, this isn't necessary.” His paltry wounds would heal by tomorrow with or without her fussing.
“Hold still.”
After watching her angle for a comfortable position in which to treat him, he took hold of her waist and tugged her down onto his lap to keep her from leaning forward and unintentionally give him a view down the front of her robe.
She didn't look like she remembered what she meant to do.
He pointed to his head.
“Right.” She cleared her throat and began prodding at his temple with a gentle touch. “You're lucky. There doesn't seem to be any hidden injury under the cut, but I don't like the look of this lump.” She cupped his cheek with one warm, silken hand to hold him still while she applied her stinky gel.
He couldn't concentrate on the rest of what she said. Her full mouth, inches from his, shaped out each word, her pink tongue darting out to moisten her lips. How would she taste? Would her lips feel as soft as they appeared?
***
Finished with her task, Lilith moved her gaze to his. She still cupped his stubble-roughened jaw in her hand. He had fixed his stare on her mouth, making her skin tingle. Making her aware of her nakedness under her robe.
She had no idea why she'd given him free access to the house, to her. When she realized he needed her invitation to enter, she'd had the perfect opportunity to send him away. She asked for his name expecting him to tell her to go to hell. But for a moment, while he stood there coming up with excuses for why he needed to stay, he appeared lonely. A little lost. And when he'd given her his name, his trust, she refused to allow his risk to go unrewarded.
And now, for the first time, she started to wonder how his presence here might endanger her. Oh, she didn't fear he'd attack her . . . but she did fear her reaction to his presence.
She forced herself to say something. Anything that might break the tension. “You never answered my question. If this is going to be a regular event, I'll keep some salve prepared.”
He shook his head, his gaze never leaving her mouth.
Restless energy stirred in her belly.
He brought his face closer to hers until each burst of cool air he exhaled caressed her face. His lips parted.
Oh, gods, he meant to kiss her. She needed to tell him no.
But the tremor shimmying through her laid waste to all the shoulds and woulds racing through her head. It had been years since her last kiss. She'd forgotten the feel of a man's touch and she wanted to know the feel of her mate.
Abruptly, he slouched back against the chair, his lips pressing into a thin line. His gaze darted around, landing on everything but her. “I—” He stopped, took a deep breath and let it go. “You didn't need to do any of this, but thanks.”
Damn him. He'd given her the perfect out. She should stand up and go clean up the counter. She should go to bed and forget about this.
But now she wanted to kiss him.
She leaned forward and pressed her lips to his. He tightened his grip on her waist, his fingers sinking into her flesh and dragging her closer.
She let her hands wander up the bulge of his chest, over his shoulders, up to his neck. She parted her lips, catching a hint of his taste, just enough to want more.
He made a sound—half groan, half growl—and his hands circled her wrists like manacles. He thr
ust her back. “This can't happen.”
No, it couldn't. She released a shuddering breath. What the heck had she been thinking? She stood and turned away. She'd kissed a vampire. A freaking vampire. Gods knew what else he'd done with that mouth of his. She should be disgusted. Except he tasted . . . nice.
Maybe she just needed to hear him admit to being a vampire to make it real. She turned and leaned against the counter. “Why?”
He dragged his hand over his head. “What do you mean, why?”
Did he not plan on telling her? Her gaze narrowed. “Are you gay?”
“No.”
“Married?”
“No.”
He didn't plan on telling her. Her temper sparked. “Impotent?”
“Jesus, Lilith.”
She put on her most innocent expression. “What?”
“Of course I'm not impotent.” He turned to face her, holding his arms out to his sides. “Do I look impotent?”
She bit her lip to keep from laughing in the face of his outrage. Her gaze slid down from his broad shoulders to his narrow waist and lit on the impressive evidence of his arousal. Her humor vanished. “No.” He looked fit. Healthy. Lickable.
Furious. “No more questions.”
Eventually, he'd change his mind and want to talk. And when that time came, she'd make him suffer. “Fine. If that's what you want.” They wouldn't talk. But she had every intention of flirting. Now that she'd had a taste, she wanted more.
***
Christ, he needed to talk about something else. He needed to move around to wear off some of the restless energy he had. “Everything okay tonight? Any problems?”
Her right brow arched. “What happened to no more questions?”
Right. He grabbed the bag of groceries and started putting things away.
She snatched a yogurt out of his hand with a murmured thank you, retrieved a spoon and sat on the counter top. “There's a pile of toys upstairs in the closet—”
“Best to leave those alone.”
“Oh?”
The Beacon (The Original's Trilogy Book 1) Page 6