by Michele Hauf
The man shrugged. “Not sure. But you’re not wearing a ring.”
She studied her hands. The fingers were long and slender. “I must not wear jewelry.” That seemed sad. One should never forego a chance to sparkle. “I should have a couple of rings. I like sparkly things. Why did you notice the absence of a ring?”
“It’s nothing,” he said again, taking great interest in the griddle.
“These pancakes are delicious,” she said. “I’m trying not to devour them, but it’s not working.”
“Devour all you want. Griddle is still hot. I can make up more fast.”
“No, I think five is more than enough. Though, I will take a refill on the coffee. I figure it’s the last good meal I’ll have for a while. Aren’t you going to eat?”
“I did when you were in the shower. So you’re sleeping in your truck and I’m going to assume you don’t have a lot of cash.”
“Twenty bucks.” She shrugged. “I’ll figure something out.”
“There’s an inn at the edge of town where you could stay. Family owned. I don’t think it’s expensive. It’s got a big red cock out front.”
Zenia sputtered on a sip of coffee. “A what?”
His smile was slow but genuine and it warmed her all over to finally see some levity from him. His eyes were all kinds of sexy now.
“The inn is called The Red Rooster. There’s a giant iron rooster sculpture on the front lawn.”
“I see.” But looking for an actual red cock may have proved more interesting. “How much you think they charge a night?”
Blade opened a drawer beside him, took out a roll of bills and set it on the counter before Zenia. “That should help you out a bit.”
A bit? Her jaw dropped open. The tightly wound block of greens looked as though it could bankroll an entire building project.
“Oh, no, I can’t.” But she couldn’t stop from grabbing it and testing the weight of the roll. They were hundred dollar bills. And there had to be a couple dozen of them rolled up. “This is... No. I don’t know how I’d ever pay that back. I’m good with sleeping in the truck and eating Doritos. I like the cool-ranch ones.”
“It’s a gift. I can afford it.”
“You don’t even know me.”
“That’s the best kind of gift. It makes me feel good to give. Maybe it will even tilt me out of the guilt column I’ve been stuck in. Will you let me have that good feeling?”
“I uh...” She set the roll beside the plate. It would certainly come in handy and definitely pay for a month or more at a cheap inn or hotel. And she could really use a hot shower every day. And maybe even new clothes. And some sparkly rings for her fingers.
The guilt column? What had the man to feel guilty about?
It was none of her business. If he was trying to buy some redemption or whatever, far be it from her to get judgmental, as he’d suggested earlier.
“Okay,” she said. “But what will I owe you? Besides all this cash?”
“You think I expect something from you for that money?”
“You’re a man. If I know anything about men it is that they generally do not give things to others without expecting something in return. And you, being handsome and single, and me being, well—whatever and whoever I am—maybe you want something from me.”
“Something.” He leaned forward onto the counter on his elbows and his hair fell over one eye. He rapped the counter. Considering what his terms would be?
“I don’t want to give you sex,” she suddenly felt the need to say. “I mean, I don’t know you very well. So if that’s the condition, then I’ll leave without this.” She pushed the roll toward him.
“If I’d wanted to have sex with you, Zen, it would have happened last night.”
“Oh.”
So that meant he wasn’t interested in having sex with her? Because the guy was ten kinds of handsome. And—didn’t he find her attractive?
Why that thought? She wasn’t curious about having sex with him.
Maybe a little. Oh, mercy, to imagine that blue hair falling over her face as he kissed her and those rigid abs brushing across her stomach...
“I want to help you out and make sure you’re safe.”
As he seemed to do with the locals. Helping nuns? Despite his dark-and-dangerous appearance, the man must be a pussycat at heart.
“Okay.” She clasped the money roll. “Can we be friends?”
Blade abruptly straightened and crossed his arms again. “I don’t do the friend thing with women very well.”
“I see.” A wad of cash and a don’t-let-the-door-hit-you-on-the-way-out. Never mind the guilt column, this guy was still occupying the weird column. “So this is it, then? I indulge in your tasty pancakes and then take the money and run?”
“Yep.”
Her heart fell, but she kept her shoulders straight and didn’t show her disappointment. “That’s cool. I’ve overstayed my welcome as it is. Got some memory tracking to do.” She grabbed her backpack and stuffed the money in it. Holding out her hand, she shook his. “Thanks for everything, Blade. Blessings to you.”
“Stay away from Brock Olafson,” he called as she headed down the stairs.
She would. But it was too bad Blade didn’t want to be friends. She could really use a friend right now. This being-on-her-own thing was for the birds. Whoever she was, she was probably a person who thrived on the connection with others.
Which was why it felt as if she was walking away from the best thing to ever happen to her as she took the stairs downward.
Chapter 5
“Uh, Blade?”
A wave of relief fell over Blade when he heard Zen calling from the bottom of the stairs. She hadn’t left.
And what was that about? He didn’t care if she left and never returned. He’d told her he didn’t want to be friends. Had given her enough cash to survive a few months on her own. Add another tally in his charity column. End of story.
“There’s a police car at the end of the driveway,” Zen called up. “The officer is looking over my truck.”
“Ah, hell. They must have gotten a stolen vehicle report. Get back up here. I’ll go out and talk to him.”
He passed her on the stairs. The skim of her hair across his biceps felt like silk on his skin. He wanted to feel it brush his lips, to draw in her scent and—
Blade forced his thoughts back to the dire situation. “What’s out in the truck that belongs to you?”
“Nothing. All I own is in my backpack,” she said, patting the backpack she held before her. “Not as if any of this stuff is mine. Fingerprints?”
“Yeah, well, maybe that would be a good thing? If they traced your prints there could be a chance you’d know who you are.”
She shook her head and studied her fingertips. “Not sure about that. I don’t want to go to jail. I was just borrowing the truck. You think they’d believe that?”
“Nope. Stay. I’ll handle this.”
She nodded and he waited for her to reach the top step of the stairs before heading outside.
Earl Smith was a local cop who knew his family. Of course, Smith didn’t know the Saint-Pierres were werewolves, vampires and faeries. He thought they were just regular folk that tried to fit in, save when Trouble got rowdy and a bar owner called to have the police escort him home. Blade was sure Trouble knew all the officers and deputies within a thirty-mile range by first name and badge number.
“You’re at the wrong place, Earl,” Blade said to the lanky man who was probably twice his age and half his weight. “Trouble lives east of town.”
“You know where this truck came from, Saint-Pierre?”
Fortunately Zen hadn’t driven all the way up to the barn, and had parked near the end of the short drive.
“Wasn’t here last night when I got home. First time I’ve been outside today, Earl.” Blade rubbed his jaw and walked up to peer into the cab of the truck. As Zen had said, it didn’t appear as if any personal belongings had bee
n left inside. The key was in the ignition. “Hell, I didn’t even hear it drive up.” He laid a hand over the hood. “Engine’s not hot. Must have been here awhile. Who’s it belong to?”
“It was stolen from a parking lot in Fridley about a week ago. Got a tip from Brock Olafson—we have breakfast at the Panera every now and then—that I should probably check your place.”
“That’s odd. How would Brock know about a truck I’ve never seen before? Maybe he had something to do with it being here.”
“I, uh, hmm...”
While Earl gave that one a good think, Blade glanced up toward the kitchen window. Zen’s face ducked out of sight.
“I don’t know what to say, Earl. You know I wouldn’t do such a thing as steal a truck. I have enough of my own in the garage.”
The officer straightened and hooked his thumbs at his belt loops. “Mind if I take a look?”
“Inside the garage? Sure thing.”
Blade led him toward the barn where the entire ground floor had been converted into a garage for his fix-it projects. Best thing to do was play along. He’d not asked for this trouble, but for some reason, he was damned good at extricating himself from sticky situations.
It was a talent he’d gladly surrender if only everyone would leave him in peace.
* * *
By the time Blade returned to the loft, Zen had watched a tow truck haul away the vehicle she had borrowed. Okay, stolen. The keys had been in the ignition. How else to get around while she was trying to figure herself out and had no cash whatsoever?
Was that it? Had she been a thief before losing her memory and the criminal act was so ingrained that stealing a truck hadn’t given her a moment of guilt?
Blade topped the stairs and veered toward the kitchen, where the coffee machine blinked in wait. He inserted a coffee pod and leaned over the machine, his back to her. Zen could sense his irritation. He was still barefoot. Her worry vanished as she studied his feet. They were sexy. Seriously. Those dark jeans slouched over his feet, the hems torn and worn from treading without shoes. It was so animal, in a sensual, easygoing kind of way.
And he had once again saved her butt, this time by diverting the police from her. Because there was just something about not going to the police that made sense. And she was going to call that intuition about the life she couldn’t remember.
“Sorry,” Zen offered. “Guess I’m not making a fast getaway now like I had planned. Are you in trouble?”
“No. But the local police will certainly be keeping an eye on me for a while. Earl left convinced it was a joyrider who had abandoned the truck here. Why they hadn’t driven it into the woods and trashed it was beyond Earl, but he’ll dust for prints. I told him to keep me in the loop if he gets an identification.”
“Thanks. I think. If they come up with my prints, will they arrest me?”
“Probably.” He removed the full mug and turned to face her, sipping slowly. “And why not go to the police?”
She shrugged. “Doesn’t feel right. Not part of the destiny.”
He raised an eyebrow.
Zen shrugged again. Because really, the words had just come out; she didn’t have a clear reason for them. “Don’t ask me to explain.”
“Uh-huh.” He tilted down a few sips of the hot brew. “If you say so.”
“So it’s as easy as that?” Zen asked. “I tell you not to ask questions and you don’t. Whew. You must have a heck of a closet filled with your own skeletons.”
He smirked and approached her, laying his hand over her heart. Zen flinched but didn’t want to pull away from the surprising touch of his big warm hand over her breast.
“What are you—” It didn’t matter what he was doing. She just didn’t want him to ever stop.
“Your heart is racing,” he said.
“Well, duh. A handsome man is touching my boob.”
He flinched away at that statement. Shook his head. “Sorry. Just wanted to know if you were for real.”
“I am real. I’m standing right here. What doesn’t look and feel real to you?”
“The whole not-knowing-things part. You can tell a lot about a person by measuring their heartbeats. Just thought I’d give it a try.”
With a nod he turned and pulled out another coffee pod and set it in the machine to brew.
“All righty, then.” Zen sat at the counter, more confused about the man than ever. So her heartbeats were fast. To be expected.
And what did she have to do to get him to touch her like that again?
* * *
There was something about this woman that was accepting and open, Blade thought. But also too damned curious. Dare he tell her what he’d encountered inside the house while she had been wandering about the field? That would then lead to a discussion on how he was familiar with demons, and...
Destiny?
There was certainly something other about her. But Blade wouldn’t necessarily label it destiny. Whatever that meant. When he’d laid his hand over her heart it had felt sure and strong—and fast. His sensory perception of other paranormal beings was excellent. Vampires he could tell by touch. Vamps gave off the shimmer, a knowing tingle. Werewolves were a scent thing. And faeries were a more difficult tell, even though faery blood ran through his veins, but some were just...bright. And that wasn’t a glow but rather a feeling he got.
As for witches, he felt a twinge in his spine when near them. Demons gave off a sulfurous scent and they generally had a difficult time hiding their red eyes.
He met Zen’s eyes as she sipped the coffee. Hers were blue.
“Yesterday they were green,” he said suddenly, leaning forward to closely inspect her irises.
“What?” She met his gaze, and then shook her head. “Listen, after your emphatic statement that we could never be friends, I find your gazing longingly into my eyes a little befuddling, not to mention the free feel you just took.”
“They’ve changed color.”
“What? My eyes? No, they’re still—” She touched her cheek below her eye. “I guess I’ve never given them a good look in the mirror.”
“Yesterday the color resembled emeralds. Today they are azure. Not red.”
“You’re hanging on to that theory, eh? Demons have red eyes. Or so the mythology states as much.”
“Zen.” Blade set his coffee mug on the counter and leaned forward. “That old lady back at the house where I met you? She wasn’t old or even a lady.”
“Sure she was. I spoke to her. Told her I was there to find myself. Though she did say something odd about finding herself. If she wasn’t an old woman, then what was she?”
“What you saw and spoke to was her human facade. I saw her shift into three demons. And then I slayed them.”
Tapping her fingernails against her mug, Zen surprised him in that she didn’t protest or stand up and dash off. The woman was reading him, delving into his words to glean their integrity. Trustworthy? Always. Upstanding? Rarely.
“What kind of demons?” she finally asked.
“I don’t know.” He narrowed his gaze on her. She wasn’t running. And asking questions was a good thing. Right? “The standard nasty-assed terrors that disperse into black dust when I draw my blade down their sternums.”
Zen clutched her chest and made a gagging face. “And you think I’m one of them?”
“No. Maybe.”
She gaped at him.
“I don’t know. But I do believe they were after you. When I was in the house, one of them said something like ‘she’s ours.’ You’re really cool with this conversation? Because most humans would not be.”
“I haven’t decided yet. I know demons exist. In mythology. As do bazillions of other breeds and species. But they are fiction, Blade. You do know that, right?”
He sighed. The conversation about paranormals was never easy, and he didn’t have it with humans unless it was absolutely necessary. Something about Zen made him believe this was a necessary conversation, so he deci
ded to jump in with both feet and hope she didn’t freak.
“Demons are real, Zen. As are all other creatures of myth you believe are fiction. If you don’t have your memory, what makes you think your beliefs are real? That they have merit? Maybe you only think you don’t believe in mythological beings?”
She opened her mouth to say something, then paused. He had even confused himself with that question.
“I know some things,” she insisted. “As you seem to believe you know things. So I’ll play along. Say demons do exist. And you, apparently, are aware they exist. What does that make you? Are you some kind of creature, Blade?”
The million-dollar question. And she couldn’t hide the smirk of laughter that niggled at the corner of her mouth. But he wasn’t going to lie to her. Because to shuffle around the truth wouldn’t get him anywhere. And after slaying three demons he felt as though he’d become involved in something. A something that demanded he pay attention for Zen’s sake.
“Vampire.” He sipped the coffee and set it down. He ran his fingers through his hair and offered a tiny smile. He wouldn’t mention his faery half. That would only complicate matters.
He waited for Zen to digest his confession, and expected a calm reaction, as she’d displayed thus far. So when she stood abruptly and grabbed her backpack, nearly knocking the coffee cup off the counter in the process, he knew he’d gone too far.
“Quit playing with me,” she said. “I need help and I need answers. Not some idiot who thinks he can one-up the town asshole. Brock may have been the better choice last night.”
And she marched away from him and down the stairs.
Blade leaned over the sink and watched through the small window as she stopped halfway down his gravel driveway. She realized she no longer had a vehicle. The town was ten miles south. Would she make the walk? In a long dress?
Or would she come back inside and ask for his help? She hadn’t asked for his help thus far. And yet, he had willingly offered, and had gone above and beyond by giving her the roll of cash.
What was with that?
Normally Blade Saint-Pierre stood off and to the side, in the shadows. He didn’t call attention to himself. He didn’t like confrontations. Nor did he engage in small talk and friendships. It was easier that way. The unseen were not challenged, or tortured.