He had to retreat, to pull his foot out of his mouth and save this blossoming relationship. Without pausing a beat, he said, “So what do singing stones sound like?”
Leaning her head back, she laughed with hearty enjoyment.
He liked that about her. She didn’t cover her mouth like some women. She didn’t disguise her merriment. It pealed forth to brighten the heart . . . and it did brighten his.
“Occasionally I get uneasy. I wonder if you work for the demons, and if all this”—she waved a hand toward the ceiling far over their heads—“is an elaborate ruse to trap me into betraying my friends and all that we fight for. Then you show me that sly sense of humor, and I believe in you again.”
He looked around at the massive cave. “This would be a very elaborate ruse. Are you worth so much trouble?”
She answered easily, “I don’t know my place in the bigger scheme of things, but I do know I’m here on this earth for a reason, and I never make the mistake of thinking that what I do is trivial. I trust in myself. I am important.”
Somewhere, deep in his soul, her words and her confidence resonated. It was as if at some time in his life he, too, had been precious, loved, important.
He closed his eyes.
Faces crowded into his mind: men and women, boys and girls, smiling at him. Voices rang in his ears: scolding him, praising him, teaching him, laughing with him. A vision filled his brain: of a bonfire that lit the night, mountains that protected a narrow, fertile valley, and stars that studded a sky so vivid he could have reached out and cupped each twinkling light in his palm. In this fantasy, love held him close, protecting him from harm.
But it wasn’t a fantasy. He knew these people, those voices, this place. Revelation was so close. . . .
He stopped breathing as he hovered on the precipice of a memory.
Then, before he could grasp it, a woman laughed mockingly, and her voice, husky and low, jeered at him. You are nothing. Nobody. A fool. In your heart you knew the truth, but you delivered yourself into my hands . . . and now you pay the price.
You should have listened to your grandfather.
You should never have trusted me.
He groaned, deeply, mournfully.
Charisma watched in horror as his lips peeled back from his teeth. His eyes opened wide, and deep within a dull red glowed. He rose slowly, stretching himself to his full height, and in a guttural voice he roared, “No!”
Madness possessed him. Or fury. Or pain. Something far beyond her experience transformed Guardian from half man to all beast.
She leaped out of her chair, ready to defend herself.
He didn’t seem to know she was there.
Picking up his stool, he flung it against the stone wall.
Charisma lifted her arm to guard her face.
Too late. The polished wood shattered and, like hail, splinters pelted her skin.
No time to worry about that. She couldn’t take her gaze away from Guardian.
She had never seen evidence that he was, as he claimed, insane.
Now . . . now she believed it.
His neck thrust forward. His shoulders hunched. His head swung back and forth, looking for something else to attack.
His eyes fixed on her, gleaming, violent, ferocious.
She shoved her chair toward him, like bait to distract a predator, and backed up, putting distance between them, never looking away.
Lifting the heavy straight-backed chair over his head, he slammed it into the coffee table. The thick glass top exploded, a million shards blowing across the cave on the winds of rage.
Blood started from tiny cuts on his face and arms, and his bellow sounded like anguish.
He was a savage. A lunatic. In the grip of emotions she didn’t understand.
She crouched into a defensive posture.
He noted that. Gave a derisive laugh. He gripped the edges of his tunic. . . .
And she saw his hands change.
He changed.
His fingers grew longer; the joints enlarged; the nails sharpened into claws that could slash her skin to ribbons.
With a mighty heave of his shoulders, he tore the cotton from top to bottom. He shrugged out of it, dropped onto all fours, hands and feet on the ground. With another feral roar, he raced from the cave.
Charisma straightened, adrenaline rushing through her veins. Her head swam, and a cold sweat covered her forehead.
The silence in the cave was deafening.
Her wobbly legs demanded she find somewhere to sit—now. She groped her way to a chair, sank down, and panted as if she’d run miles. Closing her eyes, she listened to the rushing of blood in her head and prayed for her heart to calm.
And jumped when a woman said harshly, “I’ve never seen him like that. What did you say to him?”
Charisma’s eyes flew open.
Amber. It was Amber.
“I didn’t say anything. I don’t know.” Charisma tried to remember. “Something about . . . being relieved that this wasn’t all a ruse. Something about . . . me being valuable.”
“You made him change!” Amber pointed a finger at her. She accused Charisma in her posture and voice . . . did Buddhists make accusations?
“I didn’t mean to.” Charisma remembered her question: Are you sure you’re not a werewolf?
He had denied it. He had said the moon didn’t influence his form.
But he did change. “I said that I never make the mistake of thinking that what I do is trivial. I told him I was important. That couldn’t be it. Why would that set him off?”
Amber folded her arms forbiddingly across her chest. “Dr. King says he has memories at war in his head.”
“But he didn’t hurt me.”
“He has never hurt any of us. He only hurts the demons . . . and the bad people.” Amber stared out the door where Guardian had disappeared. “I hope he doesn’t get killed this time.”
“Me, too.” Something about this woman drove Charisma to confession. “I like him. You know?”
Amber smiled and bowed her head, her serenity returned. “I am happy to hear that. I would hate to think he frightened you enough to make you run away.”
Closing her eyes again, Charisma thought about leaving while Guardian was gone, making for Irving’s house and safety. But she wasn’t well enough to fight yet. Obviously. So what good would she be to the Chosen Ones? And although Guardian had terrified her with the threat of violence and insanity, he had also reassured and comforted her.
Even in his frenzy, he hadn’t threatened her.
“He’s a puzzle I need to work out.” He was, despite his beastliness, very much a man, and in his torment he thrilled and attracted her. But she didn’t need to explain that to Amber. “I feel that if I could help him unravel the truth of his past, he would be free from so much anguish. And I feel I owe him that much.”
“That is a worthy goal indeed. It does you honor.” Amber bowed again. “Now, let me help you to bed. Moises and I will clean up the mess.”
“Who’s Moises?” Charisma let Amber help her to her feet.
“He’s . . . there.” Amber waved a vague hand toward the darkest part of the cave.
Charisma glanced, but saw nothing but shadow.
“Moises is one of us. He chooses to serve Guardian, as we all do. Like you, we are soldiers in the battle against evil.” Slowly they made their way back toward the pallet dug into the earth, Amber supporting Charisma all the way. “You’ve overreached your strength,” she scolded.
“Yes.” Talking with Amber had clarified Charisma’s thinking.
So Guardian provided her with a few challenges. He was hairy, had an unpredictable temper, and made unscheduled changes in body type.
But he had saved her life, and she would help him. Somehow they would figure out what had happened to him. Somehow they would discover what horrors lurked at the back of his mind, and somehow they would return his memories . . . whether he liked them or not.
As
they neared the pallet, Charisma viewed it disfavorably. Yes, she had needed to be close to the earth to heal, but she was better now. And she was clean. And the pallet was not. The sheets and blankets were as filthy as before.
Apparently, Guardian’s staff didn’t quite comprehend all the niceties of caring for guests.
“Is there a real bed?” Charisma asked. “With a mattress?”
“Only Guardian has a bed here.” Amber pointed up a steep stairway, where a dim alcove had been carved into the rock.
“That’ll work.” Charisma’s eyes were aching. She needed to sleep. “Could you help me to it?”
Amber so obviously worshiped Guardian that Charisma expected her to object. Instead, she inclined her head and did as Charisma asked.
Chapter 18
Charisma woke, nerves tingling, aware she was not alone.
Daylight seeped into the cave.
Her vision was better. She knew because her eyes didn’t ache and she could clearly see that Guardian stood over her.
But although her heart quickened, she refused to show fear, or even to feel it.
Because she remembered her resolve to help him retrieve his memories, but also . . . right now, he looked normal. He looked like the civilized yet powerful creature who had rescued her from a demon attack and tended to her injuries. Normal. For him.
Except for a slash that started at his throat and disappeared under the neckline of his white djellaba, and a patch of missing fur on his cheek. But his eyes were blue, with no infernal red glow, and a quick glance at his hands proved that they looked like a man’s hands—but still hairy. “Heck,” she said sleepily, “hairy’s not a big deal. I’ve seen grown men who have as much hair on their backs as you’ve got on your whole body.”
He half grinned, but exhaustion drew his face in austere lines. “You’re in my bed,” he said in a neutral tone.
She looked around the rocky alcove, at the massive antique bed, the curtains that protected it. “I didn’t feel like sleeping on the ground anymore, and this is the only bed here. Big, too. And comfortable.”
“They brought the mattress down for me.”
“Who?”
“The Belows.” He looked faintly damp, and smelled of soap. He had showered again. “You’re better?”
“I would be if someone didn’t keep interrupting my sleep.” She turned over with her back to him. “Come to bed. It’s big enough for the two of us. I hope you don’t snore.” She waited to see what he would do.
A few moments later, the covers shifted. The mattress compressed. He pulled the bed curtains shut. And he was next to her, their world reduced to the size of a mattress.
What was he thinking? What was he doing? Was he perturbed with her? Was he uncomfortable? Did he think she was coming on to him?
Because she wasn’t. No, no, no.
When she chose to sleep in his bed, her decision had been all about comfort and recuperation, and not about intimacy. If there’d been another good mattress available, she would have selected it. She might think Guardian attractive in an odd, primal way, but she planned to help the man, not dance the horizontal mambo with him. . . .
Possibly she was still scarred by her experience with the last guy. That jerk. Probably she had started to get over it, because ever since she’d been down here with Guardian, she hadn’t thought of the creep at all. Not once.
Part of the problem here was that sleeping with a man was intimate, whether or not that was what she intended.
His voice made her jump. “You’ve got my pillow.”
“Oh!” She pretended to be surprised.
Like she didn’t already know she had his pillow.
The whole bed was this giant phallic symbol, with tall, smooth, polished posts on each corner and heavy purple velvet bed curtains enclosing the California king mattress. The sheets were silky-smooth, latte colored, and she’d guess about a thousand thread count, and a dozen pillows were tossed against the tall mahogany headboard. More to the point, the whole contraption carried a faint hint of Guardian’s scent.
How did a man manage to smell like long, lazy days on a sandy white beach? Like blue skies and carefree memories? Like callused hands smoothing lotion over her skin?
Charisma was a smart girl. She knew the scent was pure testosterone. But knowing the facts didn’t make any difference, because she had sought out his pillow, buried her face in it, taken long, deep breaths, and fallen asleep holding it crushed in her arms.
Then she dreamed of him. And her. And them.
Now he insinuated that he wanted his pillow back.
He didn’t know about her dreams.
She should be grateful.
She flipped over to face him.
He rested on his back, close to the edge of the mattress, staring straight at the ceiling.
Wow. He looked uncomfortable. “Here.” She thrust the pillow at him. “I didn’t realize it was yours.”
“Thank you.” He took it without looking at her. “I’m sorry I frightened you,” he said.
“When? Oh, you mean earlier, when you got upset?” She was faking her way through all kinds of stuff today. “I wasn’t frightened.”
He turned his head to look at her.
“I was terrified.” She used a joking tone, but she wanted to see what he had to say. “When you throw a tantrum, you get right with it.”
He looked back at the ceiling. “That was a little more rage than I’ve experienced before.”
“Why is that?”
He stuck the pillow under his neck and sort of mashed it around. “I heard a woman’s voice in my head, mocking me for being a fool.”
“Who?” Charisma sat up. “What woman?”
“I don’t recall who she is. I only know I felt such an upwelling of hatred. . . .”
Charisma slithered back down onto her non-Guardian-scented pillow. “Bummer.”
“Not that that should have made me become more of a monster. I usually have better control. I simply think that the memory of her cruelty, combined with what I felt when I saw you . . . and you were still here, and, well, beautiful . . . That woman’s voice stripped me of something I don’t ever recall experiencing down here.” He moved restlessly beneath those really great sheets.
“What’s that?”
“For the first time in my memory, I experienced a moment of . . . hope.”
She liked that. Very much. Because he made her spirits lift, too. Was this hope? It had been so long, she wasn’t sure. But it felt like it.
Play it lightly, Charisma. He’s a little stressed. “Yeah, seeing me naked will do that.”
Startled, he looked back at her and grinned. “Absolutely true.”
“Good answer.” She tucked her hand under her cheek and scrutinized him. “That’s quite a couple of wounds you’ve collected. I suppose the cut is more dangerous, but that one on your face looks like it really hurts.”
Lightly he touched the raw spot on his cheek. “I raced out of here without putting on my superhero tough-guy uniform, and it’s never a good idea for me to fight demons unless I’m wearing it.”
“Okay.” Now he was playing it lightly. “I’ll bite.” She snapped her teeth. “What’s your superhero tough-guy uniform?”
“It’s sort of like a skin-diving suit, durable and slick. It fits me tightly, and it stops most of the trouble with the demons. They like to rip off my fur.”
“Ouch.”
His blue eyes grew gray-blue and stormy. “This time I hardly noticed.”
His ears grew a little more pointed.
She told herself it made him look elfish, like an unshaven Orlando Bloom. “What a good way to work out a shit-ton of rage. You got your exercise and killed a bunch of demons. Has one ever bitten you?” She waited anxiously for the answer; although she felt so much better, sometimes a wave of fatigue and depression passed over her. . . .
“They don’t bite me.”
“What? Really? Why not?”
“Beca
use I would taste nasty.”
“Which means you would be tasty to me.” Probably not the smartest thing to say, Charisma. Hastily, she added, “About those wounds—you don’t want an infection. Those demons are filthy. Did you put antibiotic ointment on your cuts?”
“Yes, Mom.” He studied her, and something about the way she lay, totally at ease with him, seemed to ease his tension. “I always enjoy watching the demons when I sing to them.”
“Why? What happens?”
“They don’t like it.”
“Do you have a good voice?”
“Nothing operatic, but pleasant, yes.”
“That’s fine for you. When I sing to the demons, they applaud.”
Guardian gave a crack of laughter. “Not true.”
“I’d prove it by singing a few bars, but you look so tired, I don’t know if you’re up to fleeing.”
“But the earth sings to you.”
“The earth doesn’t require that I sing back.” Whimsically, she added, “In fact, I’m sure the earth prefers I don’t.”
The smile that played around his mouth made his blue eyes crinkle and his face look so . . . human. He said, “You never told me—what does the earth sound like when it sings?”
Chapter 19
When Charisma remembered the days and months and years of hearing the earth crooning to her, when she remembered those times that she believed the support would always be there for her, her eyes half closed, and she caressed the quiet stones at her wrist. “Like a welcome home. Or a promise made with love.” Her eyes snapped open, and she glared. “Or the rumble of oncoming trouble.”
“When you first heard the earth sing, was it home and love, or was it trouble?” Guardian’s voice was a low, tired growl.
“Home and love. I thought everyone heard the earth, and I went prancing off to tell my mother about my wonderful new gift.” Charisma tried hard not to judge the foolish child she had been. “I was always trying to please my mom, one way or another. The stones warned me not to share our secret, but I didn’t understand. Yet.”
“Your mother saw in you the potential to make money?”
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