by Brenda Huber
He turned to survey the rest of the apartment. Anywhere but the woman. The walls were a dull brown, the carpet worn and stained from decades of traffic. The room was Spartan at best, located in a rundown dive in the only seedy neighborhood in town. He could have altered the dimensions of the room, conjured anything he wanted, made the inside of this pitiful apartment as large and as opulent as the Taj Mahal. He could have taken her to his flat in Paris, but why bother? It wasn’t as if he were contemplating keeping her. Even if she was the most entrancing creature he’d ever come across. He didn’t care what she thought of him. He had a single, all-encompassing purpose.
Absolution of his sins.
Redemption.
And no room for a woman.
Finally glancing down at the fragile female he’d saved, steeling himself against the unwanted desire she kindled without effort, he realized bringing her there, trapping himself inside the tiny apartment with her, was a disaster of epic proportions. Even now, the scent of her crept inside him, stealing into the deepest, darkest corners of his tarnished soul. Disconcerted, he pushed to his feet and strode across the room. He draped the towel over the back of the chair and made his way to the dingy window.
After prying the pane open, he pushed it up and braced his palms on the peeling windowsill. Niklas leaned out into the night, dragging in a gulp of stale air in a vain attempt to clear his head. And still, the fog of lust lingered. He caught himself peering at her over his shoulder.
It was no use.
He couldn’t not watch her.
It had been so long since he’d been with a woman, so long since he’d touched one or lost himself in soft, feminine flesh. So long since he’d simply sat and just watched one, with her fluid grace and delicate mannerisms. His fingers itched to caress her. Was the rest of her skin as soft as he’d imagined, or had his mind played cruel tricks on him after all these years of abstinence?
Fearing his unexpected weakness, Niklas stood there, digging his fingers into splintering wood, praying his feet might grow roots so he wouldn’t go to her, seduce her.
Get rid of her—that was what he should be doing. Ditch her somewhere and put her from his mind, never think of her again. But he couldn’t do that now, thanks to that bastard Ronové. Now he had to question her, pump her for whatever information he could get from her. There was too much at stake to let a valuable opportunity like this slip through their fingers. Dragging in a great breath of humid night air, he weighed his options. Much as he disliked admitting it, she presented him with too much temptation. He was going to need help on this one. But who to call?
Mikhail? Hmm.
No, that might not be wise. Witnessing Ronové and himself had, no doubt, been traumatic enough for the female. More than likely, Mikhail would send her right over the edge, screaming the entire way. No matter which form he chose, demonic or human.
Sebastian?
With his immeasurable patience, Sebastian would probably be the best candidate. But last Niklas had heard, Sebastian was off the grid somewhere in South America tracking a horde of demons that was devastating small villages, leaving behind nothing more than rubble and desecrated bodies in its wake.
Gideon then?
No!
Much as he considered Gideon his brother-in-arms, unwarranted jealousy fisted deep in his gut and twisted. Granted, Gideon could no longer physically touch—or be touched—by human hands. But these odd stirrings inside Niklas didn’t bode well. What if Gideon held too much appeal for the woman to resist?
The last thing he needed was to have to worry about some unexpected, treacherous thing like jealousy rearing its ugly head. Not that he had any right to be jealous where she was concerned. He’d willingly accepted abstinence as part of his penance. Penance wasn’t meant to be comfortable, or something you could shrug on and off when it was convenient.
Niklas reached down and readjusted the bulge behind the straining zipper on his jeans.
Heaven knew this wasn’t comfortable. Not one damned bit.
Besides, lately Gideon had been…unpredictable at best. No, he wouldn’t call Gideon.
Since Niklas had clapped eyes on the woman—since the moment he’d caught her scent—he’d been experiencing the strangest urges to protect her. To possess her. To lay her down and thrust himself inside her, fast and hard, slow and deep, and every measure in between. To fill her body and her mind with nothing but him. Brand himself upon her very soul.
Until he got those baffling urges out of his system—or, at the very least, got a leash on them—it would be best not to test his limits.
Relations between his small legion of fallen demons had withstood much. But none of them had great quantities of patience—except for Sebastian, of course—and Niklas didn’t want to strain the bond they shared any more than necessary. They provided a support system of sorts, a network of aid in times of temptation, and were useful allies in their ongoing war against their former compatriots—demons of hellfire and damnation, Lucifer’s soldiers. That didn’t, however, mean they always played well together.
With the right provocation, things could get nasty. Real quick.
Xander it is.
At one time the right hand of Lucifer, feared by all in Hell and beyond, Xander had hunted down and slain any demon that rebelled against Lucifer’s rule. No matter how powerful, no matter how cunning or resourceful, there wasn’t a demon alive that could evade the Slayer for long.
Right now, it looked as if Xander was his only hope.
Biting back a curse, Niklas reached into his hip pocket and drew out his phone. Having to admit to weakness was galling. Revealing that weakness to another demon went against the grain. After thumbing in a quick sequence of numbers, he waited impatiently for the call to connect.
“Speak,” Xander rasped.
“I need your help,” Niklas stated dispassionately. “I’m in Ridgefield, Iowa. There’s some weird stuff going down here, and I’ve got an added”—Niklas peered over his shoulder at the sleeping woman—“complication.”
“Friday. Noon.” Short, sweet and to the point. Well, maybe not so sweet, but definitely short and to the point. That was Xander. Not one to waste words.
Not anymore. Not since the Great Fall when Gabriel and the others had not only torn his wings from him, but desecrated his voice as well.
Niklas ran a splayed hand through his hair. Three days. Heaven help him. He shot a nervous glance at the woman on his sofa. What was he going to do with her until then?
“Can’t you make it any sooner than that?” Hell’s bells, he sounded desperate.
He turned to the woman again, his focus dipping to her exposed, lacy bra.
Damn it, he was desperate.
“Miss me?” Xander’s dry sarcasm crackled over the phone line.
Not even the fact that he’d recently found his own shining piece of Heaven right here on Earth in the form of a leggy blonde beauty had softened Xander one bit. Asshole.
Normally, Niklas would have fired back with some snide remark, but his hunger for the woman on his couch was growing by the moment. Every second he spent alone with her was one second closer to another fall. And, damn it, he’d kept his nose clean for too long to slip up now.
She moaned, shifted, drawing his attention. Her creamy breasts, plump against that thin scrap of lace, literally made his mouth water.
Sweet Christ, he could all but taste her.
“Ronové gathered an earthbound legion.” Desperate to turn his focus to something—anything—else, he tore his attention from her alluring flesh. Niklas scrunched his eyes closed, scrubbed a hand over his face and prayed Xander would change his mind and agree to come directly to the apartment in the next five seconds.
Dead silence met this pronouncement. Niklas pulled the phone from his ear and glanced at the display, just long enough to ascertain the call hadn’t dro
pped. Gripping the back of his neck with one hand, he pressed the phone to his ear once more.
“They’re performing ritual sacrifices in the middle of the frickin’ city park. Ritus Niger Noctis.” Sweet Mary! That reminder succeeded in dampening some of the heat coursing through his veins. He got chills just thinking about it. “A woman was killed tonight. And another woman saw the whole thing, Slayer.”
“Who organized the summoning?” That single-word demand was as dark and as vehement as any curse Niklas had ever heard.
“Ronové is a warlord, and a powerful one at that. With the number of minions he was using…and the blood sacrifice…he has to be summoning one powerful SOB.” He didn’t even want to speak the consequences aloud.
Xander was silent for a moment, and then, in a voice gone deadly cold, said, “Stolas?”
Niklas weighed his response. The mastermind behind the plot to overthrow Lucifer was the only demon he could come up with. “Gut instinct tells me yes. If Ronové is working for—or with—Stolas, then we have an even bigger rebellion on our hands than we first thought. I took out most of Ronové’s minions without breaking a sweat. A couple fled, but I doubt he’d rely on them anymore. My guess is he’ll hunt them down himself and fry them for abandoning their master in the middle of a fight. Either way, it’ll slow him down considerably. But that doesn’t mean we’re off the hook.”
An aggravated growl rolled through the phone line, Xander’s elegant way of voicing his opinion. If Ronové actually was trying to summon Stolas…if he eventually succeeded, well, it wasn’t gonna be pretty.
“The witness?”
“Currently, she’s passed out on my sofa.”
“And?” Impatience dripped from the solitary word.
Over the course of the last few centuries, Xander had achieved a great respect for free will. He probably figured if this woman wanted to leave Niklas’s protection, she should be allowed to waltz right out the door the moment she woke up. No matter the risk.
Niklas glanced at the woman again. Those cursed protective instincts stirred deep in his gut once more.
She’s not going anywhere, that dark voice deep in the pit of his black soul snarled.
He wouldn’t let himself consider the logic behind his determination to keep her. Wouldn’t let himself examine the fierce need to possess her. He’d chalk it up to keeping an innocent safe and leave it at that.
That was logical.
That he could deal with.
Huchtaé ma’k, locti’vars, Niklas had once told Xander. Choose your battles wisely, my brother.
This was one battle he had a feeling he should avoid at all costs.
Niklas dragged his hand down the side of his face and around to the back of his neck once more, kneading the stiff muscles there. “Ronové has tasted her blood. She’s in danger. You know how he is. To make things worse, I was that one that took her away from him. He won’t just let it go. He won’t stop until he gets her back, if for no other reason than to get back at me.”
“And?” How could Xander infuse one word with such a wealth of accusation?
Leave it to Xander to slap the cold, hard facts directly in your face with the smooth finesse of a fist to the nose. Niklas had assumed Xander would be the most understanding of all of them, all things considered. He himself had a woman he’d die to protect. Not that this was the same kind of situation. Because this was so not the same. Xander’s mate was special—hell, they’d all developed a soft spot for Kyanna. This woman was just another innocent. Totally not the same thing at all.
Was he protesting too much?
Yes. Yes he was.
And he’d never been good at lying to himself.
“She’s probably in more danger from me than she is from Ronové,” he grudgingly admitted. “Or I’m in more danger from her. Either way, this whole situation is screwed beyond all hope.”
A lengthy silence followed. “Had some new developments on this end as well. Had another visit from an old friend.”
“Who?”
“Samuel.”
That gave Niklas pause. Xander had one mission now—to protect the Arc Stone and its guardian. A simple enough task in theory, given the guardian was now his wife. But Xander’s mission was going to Hell in a handbasket if he was being visited by angels. Niklas didn’t envy Xander.
But the memory of big, brown eyes, staring trustingly up at him, flashed in his mind. He wasn’t all that fond of his own situation just now either. “Just don’t drag your feet, all right?”
Silence. Niklas very nearly checked his display again.
“Thursday,” Xander conceded with a deep, aggrieved sigh.
“Thursday,” Niklas echoed unhappily. Xander, after all, had his own demons to fight. And now, apparently, angels as well. “Don’t shimmer directly into the apartment. I don’t know how she’ll handle all this yet.”
A disparaging snort taunted him through the phone. He could well understand Xander’s cynicism. Since when had Niklas been overly concerned with human sensibilities?
The line went dead.
Niklas thrust the slim device back into the pocket of his ragged jeans. He closed the window and stared at his reflection for a moment, silent and pensive. Icy blue eyes—eyes once a brilliant, sapphire blue—stared back at him, a cold and pale ghost of their former glory. Flat and emotionless. Wary and piercing. He did not look upon beauty for the sake of beauty alone. Hadn’t for a long time, not the way he used to do.
Oh, he could still see.
He just saw things differently now.
The woman stirred again, moaning softly. He peered over his shoulder. The air around her slowly began to change from peaceful white to purple, an oppressive shade of fear. Streaks of grey, anguish and despair, started to snake their way through her aura.
She wasn’t going to wake up with a smile on her face.
The throbbing gray around her grew stronger, a churning, angry, storm cloud nearly muting the purple. At this rate, he’d be lucky if she didn’t wake up screaming. Niklas heaved a great, put-upon sigh. He hated the screaming.
Niklas went to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of water, wishing he had something stronger to offer her. But she was stuck with whatever he had on hand. No way was he tapping his energy conjuring anything else randomly, not with the migraine pounding through his head. He returned to the coffee table. How long would it take her to wake up? The sooner he got all the hysterics and the explanations out of the way, the sooner he could get on with tracking Ronové.
The sooner he could get rid of her.
As he sat there waiting, he studied her colors. Gray and purple weren’t the only colors swirling around her. The closer he looked, the more puzzled he became. He’d never seen someone wearing that much emotion before. She was like a rainbow to him. Complex. Compelling. But there was more. She was more. She was this canvas, a solid base of color that tinted all the other swirls of color.
A bright and sunny yellow-gold.
The purest glimpse of raw hope he’d ever seen.
Since his fall, his vision had become both blessing and curse. He saw humans, saw their physical being as others did, only he possessed an added perspective others did not. He saw vivid layers of color pulsing around every living individual—their anger and their joy, their despair and their hope, their fears and their love—all a kaleidoscope of emotional hues. Her colors swirled faster.
And three, two, one…
Between one heartbeat and the next, the woman gasped aloud, lurching into an upright sitting position. Arms swung up, tiny fists clenched like a boxer squaring off, she scooted down the length of the sofa, eyes wide and darting.
But she didn’t scream.
Brownie points for her.
When no attack was forthcoming, she let out a pent-up breath and lowered her fists. With her wild gaze still darti
ng around the room, returning over and over to him, she cautiously patted her neck, chest and stomach. Vivid color filled her cheeks as she jerked the edges of her blouse together.
“Where am I?” Her attention flew to the window, swept the room, landing on the door. She turned a scowl on him, suspicious. Ready to bolt. “Who are you? How did I get here?”
Calm. Well, relatively calm. Perfectly reasonable questions. Good. He could work with reasonable.
Then her palm skimmed her bruised jaw. Those beautiful eyes narrowed.
“How about we start with this,” he coaxed, offering her the water bottle.
She considered the bottle in his hand and her scowl deepened. For heaven’s sake, you’d think he’d offered her a snake. Then again, after what she’d been through tonight, he’d probably be apprehensive in her shoes as well.
Arching a brow, he held the bottle out between them and slowly opened it so she could hear the plastic safety strip crack. Then, just as slowly, he tipped the bottle to his lips and poured a healthy splash of water into his mouth. Swallowing, he held the bottle out to her once more.
“It’s safe. Go on.”
Still cautious, she accepted the water in silence.
Lowering her feet slowly to the floor, she took a long guzzle, but attention never left him. Confusion throbbed around her like an angry bruise on the air. “Where am I?”
“You’re still in Ridgefield.” He clenched his hands, fighting the urge to smooth his fingers over the length of her bare leg. Was it as smooth and soft as her cheek, as her neck? What would the tender inside of her thigh taste like? He forced a swallow. “Grove Street, just on the south end of town.”
She studied him from the top of his damp, black hair to the tips of his scuffed combat boots. But she kept returning, over and over, to his eyes. Had she made the connection yet?