When we arrived, Karson pointed out that we hadn’t eaten since the fast food lunch we’d both picked at, and even if I wasn’t hungry, he was. I was too good a host to ignore his hint, so I warmed up some of the leftover pizza. I nibbled at mine while he devoured his.
I guessed that when you hunted demons for a living, you couldn’t be finicky about eating when you were stressed.
Three hours before I had to be at Thomas’s. Three hours before I had to put on the show of my life. Three hours and I would be the only thing standing between Miriam and death.
We were so screwed.
“You got a washcloth?” Karson asked, startling me from my reverie.
“Linen closet, by the bathroom,” I answered, automatically.
Apparently, he didn’t have bathing on his mind, because he reappeared after a few moments, carrying a cream-colored washcloth. I’d busied myself with the dishes and was drying my hands. His body was hot as he sidled next to me at the sink. The water handle whined when he turned it, and he ran the washcloth beneath the flow for a few seconds before wringing it out.
“I need to mark you,” he said, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the wall behind the sink.
“Mark me?” I whispered.
His hand moved to his chest.
“You’re not tattooing me!” Damn. Maybe the demon’s blood in the tattoos did bother me. Just a little.
Something that might have been a grin touched his face, but disappeared before I could be certain I’d seen it. “Nothing so permanent, sweetheart.” The grin was gone, but definite mischief danced in his eyes.
I mentally flinched at the endearment. Like business associates, we’d gone about our plans through the day professionally after Caleb had interrupted our almost-kiss. No long glances. No awkward touches. Karson had made sure of it by maintaining his distance and his cold façade.
He’d been with me all day, yet I missed him.
The needle I’d worried would appear from his bag proved to be nothing more than a chunk of black chalk, maybe charcoal. Did he carry the stuff with him everywhere he went? Living the life he’d chosen, maybe he did.
He gestured toward the couch. “I can probably fit most of the symbols on your back. Might be easier to do if you lay on your stomach.”
Lying on that couch, turning my back to him, would make me feel even more vulnerable. I paused, staring at him. His eyes were hard, as if challenging me to argue. After a few seconds, his stare softened. “They will help protect you.”
It wasn’t his words so much as the softening of his eyes that convinced me. “Okay.”
My hands and knees were touching the couch when he cleared his throat. I glanced back at him. His arms were crossed, and he shifted his weight.
“Can’t really do this with your shirt on.”
Duh. Of course he couldn’t. My face burned, and when I stood up he turned away, giving me privacy. Maybe he had some manners after all, but somehow the gesture made me want to cry. After the passion we’d shared, undressing in front of him shouldn’t have bothered either of us. But it did.
I pulled the tank top over my head.
The couch fabric was soft under my skin as I stretched out across it. He hadn’t mentioned my bra, so I left it on. Not that I would have taken it off anyway. It couldn’t be that hard to work around the small bit of fabric.
He turned back once I’d settled, but I kept my face toward the back of the couch. Movement behind me made me want to peek at what he was doing, but I stayed put. Looking at him right now wasn’t a good idea.
So involved in trying to pretend that what was happening would in no way affect me, I couldn’t help a slight jump when he did finally touch me. It was the softest of touches, a bare hint of skin on skin. He didn’t comment on my reaction, so neither did I. When I forced myself to relax again, his hand was back on me, pressing between my shoulder blades, holding my skin tight and steady while using his other hand to draw with the charcoal.
When he made no move to touch me outside of the strokes of the charcoal, my muscles finally started to really relax. Tension melted from me, and my breathing grew even. My eyes slipped shut, and I settled into the experience. Not sleeping. No, I was still too wired for that— too worried about what the evening would bring. But comfortable.
He moved across my back slowly, always one hand touching me, while the other drew. Occasionally, the charcoal would disappear and the damp cloth would replace it. Removing any imperfect turns of the symbols, I guessed. And I imagined this was how a person getting a massage might feel, happy and relaxed under expert hands. Well, if the masseur was an extremely attractive man the client had recently been sleeping with, that is.
Even knowing I had the fight of my life ahead of me, and even relaxed under his hands as I was, I was still acutely aware of him. The light smell of his soap drifted to my nose, pleasant and familiar. The way his body, so close to mine, radiated heat. The touch of his rough, agile fingers against my sensitive skin, making me aware of his every move.
And it felt like he was just as aware of me.
His hand moved just under my bra strap. He slipped it to the side, slightly off my shoulder. The touch of his fingers was so gentle, so slow. Where he’d only touched my skin to hold it in place before, now he caressed it. Had his hands moved so much earlier?
I took a deep breath, forcing air into my lungs. What was wrong with me? Was I so desperate for his touch that I was creating something greater than simple attraction between us in my mind?
If he noticed my blush at the thought, he didn’t show it. His hands never slowed. It seemed like he’d covered nearly every inch of my back with charcoal. Closing in on what was probably the last free inch of skin, he touched the small of my back. Fingers pressed into me, feeling rougher on the delicate area. He moved the damp cloth against me next, rubbing my skin softly.
Had he smudged a mark there with his fingers? He hadn’t drawn anything there yet. I would have noticed—would have felt it.
The charcoal came next, rougher than the cloth. A few sweeps of it and he was done.
My eyes fluttered open when he moved away from the couch. “Stay put,” he said, voice low and strangely gruff.
He returned to my side a few seconds later. “Hold your breath and close your eyes,” he said, mouth only inches from my ear.
It took me a moment to react, but I was glad I did. A hissing sound came from behind me, and suddenly the thick, chemical scent of hairspray filled the air. I held my breath, but the odor crawled into my nose, down my throat, and onto my tongue anyway. Coating my back, the spray cooled me where his hands had just warmed me. As soon as it stopped I felt him again, close to my back, then his breath touched me.
I almost asked what he was doing. Then it hit me that he was drying the hairspray. He’d coated it on me thick, and just the idea of it clinging to my skin made me want to run for the shower. But I couldn’t. I was stuck wearing the sticky, disgusting mess until the night was over. Until things had been decided. One way or another.
“You can sit up now, but try not to lean back.”
“Hairspray?” I sat up on the couch, sitting gingerly on the edge the seat. I teetered a bit as my head adjusted to being upright.
“Should keep the runes in place longer.” Still kneeling by the couch, he reached out and gripped my arm, steadying me. His hand was cool against my hot skin. When had it gotten so hot in here? His gaze met mine and my face started to burn, hotter than the skin covering the rest of my body. His eyes never left mine as his free hand moved up to my face.
I had half a second to imagine him touching me there, a brush of fingertips on my cheek. His lips on mine.
But instead of his hand, it was the washcloth that touched me. He rubbed it softly along my jaw, drawing a damp line from my ear to my chin. Of course. The charcoal. He’d only been trying to remove it. I was so involved in my own embarrassment that I almost missed the look on his face. Almost.
He watched me so inten
sely that he didn’t notice my gaze on him. His eyes moved down my face, my neck, and then slid slowly down my body. Only when his gaze moved down to my legs did he jerk his stare back up to my face. His mouth opened slightly ,then snapped shut.
I wanted him so much in that moment, I couldn’t breathe. Not just sex—God knew I wanted that in spades—but comfort. I wanted the almost-relationship we’d forged during our nights together. I wanted to feel like the man I’d fallen in love with was here in the room with me, instead of the hard-hearted demon hunter.
“You need a shirt.”
I looked away so he couldn’t see the tears burning my eyes.
I pulled a shirt out of my suitcase and set it next to the couch. Button up would be better, something dark to hide any hint of the charcoal on my skin. After he nodded, I slipped the shirt on, then sat perched on the edge of the couch and waited.
And waited.
Time passed, but despite my best efforts to keep my concentration on the night ahead, my eyes followed Karson until it was time for us to leave. It was dumb, but I wanted to see just a tiny bit of recognition from him. A hint at the man who’d touched me so tenderly.
I never got it. His face remained as hard and dispassionate as I’d ever seen it.
An expression I would have to do my best to emulate when dealing with the demons.
…
Everything in Thomas’s apartment appeared expensive, if understated. Cold. The man could use some nice floral touches like my awesome couch. It was as if Thomas had visited the set of Star Trek and decided to use it for inspiration. Contemporary couches of an indeterminate dark material surrounded a television set that had to be at least sixty inches in diameter. Metal and glass covered or supported nearly every surface of furniture in the room. Abstract paintings of geometrical designs hung on the walls. The effect should have been tasteful and interesting, but it left me cold.
A butler had let me in—or a man dressed like a butler but who looked more like a professional weight lifter. He’d shown me the living room and then left me alone, with the weird feeling that the demon didn’t care if I was supervised in his home.
I almost wanted to break something pretty and expensive, but I stifled the urge.
I wondered what Karson thought of the place. How much time had he spent here? He was a hard man, but not cold. How had he stood it, working for Thomas? Had he found this condo as uncomfortable as I did?
A door opened and clicked shut somewhere down the hall. I jumped up, suddenly extremely nervous. I kept my hands at my sides instead of pulling at my sleeves. I could do this. If I didn’t, I would die. Miriam would die.
Thomas appeared from the hallway. His pressed, expensive-looking pinstripe suit hung perfectly on his body. Dressed for success, I thought idly. The hair I’d compared to that of a surfer when I’d first seen him was plastered down with some sort of goo that made it hard and unmoving. Light blue eyes I’d once thought attractive now only looked cold.
But I met them. Staring levelly back at him, I held myself steady. The muscles in my body begged me to run.
“Please, have a seat,” Thomas said.
“No, thank you.” If he could be polite, so could I. “I want to see Miriam.”
“Do you?” He raised an eyebrow at me but didn’t insist I sit. And the very human expression on his face made me suddenly aware that there might be a man still trapped beneath the demon. Was it possible the real Thomas dwelled just under the surface, unable to act?
What a nightmare.
“Yes. I need to see she’s okay before I agree to anything.” Unable to keep my hands flat and calm at my sides anymore, I clenched them into fists.
“You know what we want from you, then?” His eyes narrowed in suspicion.
Forcing my brows into a furrowed expression, I hoped I looked confused. Franklin had sworn this would work—or that it was our best chance. “You have to want something, right? Or you wouldn’t have taken my friend.”
Thomas just smiled.
“Look,” I said, adding a bit of the desperation I felt into my voice. “You know about my gift. I’m not sure what you want. A psychic on call? Whatever it is, you can have it. You don’t need to do this. Let Miriam go and I’ll help you however you want.”
“If you’re so eager to help us, why were you packing suitcases?”
I felt like something hit me in the gut. The curtains. I’d opened them last night to try to catch a glimpse of Karson walking away and hadn’t shut them again before I started packing. My fault. It was my fault. They’d kidnapped Miriam because I’d been stupid. My stupid, childish desire to watch Karson walk away had doomed us.
No. I couldn’t think like that. Odds were he was just saying that to mess with me. They’d probably decided to take Miriam to force my cooperation the moment they’d seen me with the Venators during the attack at Thomas’s country house. If not before.
Besides, I couldn’t focus on my mistakes. Not now. There would be plenty of time to berate myself later. After I got Miriam back.
“Let’s drop the bullshit. I know what you are. But honestly, I don’t care. What I do care about is Miriam. Leave me and mine alone, and I’ll do the same.”
Thomas, standing over a crystal decanter full of a light brown liquor, paused. He turned from it, short glass in one hand and the crystal bottle in the other, and stared at me. Face unreadable, he lifted the bottle, raising his eyebrows.
I shook my head. I wasn’t a drinker; while one shot might steady my nerves, it might also slow down my reflexes. Tonight was not the time to start drinking.
“Like you said, we are in need of the services of someone with your gift. Really, we only need one thing from you. A single vision and we’ll be happy to leave you and your friend alone to live out your lives.” He poured himself a drink. Light reflected off of the glass as he brought it to his lips and sipped.
I glanced at the pretty glass, trying to keep my face expressionless. The conversation was going just how Franklin said it would, but jumping for joy would totally give me away. “That’s all I want.”
“Good.” His grin widened. “Because you’re not seeing your friend until we get what we want. No matter how long it takes to drag a vision out of you.”
Crap. I should have known he’d do something like this, but it wasn’t something Franklin and Karson mentioned when we went through scenarios. I had to think. Miriam had to be with us. It was the only way to be sure she was safe.
“Fine. I’ll give you as many visions as you like. You know you’ve got me, so let’s get on with it already,” I said through clenched teeth.
Thomas didn’t reply. Instead, he pulled a cell phone from his inside jacket pocket and hit a button on it. Gaze holding mine, he said, “We’re ready.” Then he ended the call and dropped the phone back into his jacket. “We have a few minutes to wait,” he said, gesturing toward a couch. “You might as well make yourself comfortable.”
I glared at him and then sat tentatively at the far end of the couch. The cushions barely moved under my weight. Who bought an uncomfortable couch when they could afford something plush and soft?
Demons, apparently.
Awkward silence filled the air before the doorbell rang. The man who’d showed me in answered it. And I didn’t have to look up from the coffee table to know who had come in. The goose bumps spreading over my arms did that.
Hugh.
Oddly enough, Hugh wasn’t wearing a suit, though he still struck me as the kind of man—or whatever—who lived in one. Instead, a maroon polo shirt was tucked into khaki pants, with a leather belt holding the look together. He appeared startlingly average.
Hugh watched me intently and I shifted my weight. A light sweat coated my skin and made me itchy, despite the icy chill coming off Hugh. Perspiration ran down my back, too, and I prayed silently that it wouldn’t mar the symbols.
After what felt like hours, Hugh’s stare shifted to Thomas. Knees shaky, I was suddenly happy to be seated on the un
comfortable couch.
The two demons stared at each other, silent but intent. Could they communicate telepathically? It certainly seemed likely. The way they looked at each other made me want to grind my teeth, and when they finally turned their attention back to me, I was almost relieved. Almost.
Two sets of eyes bored into me, and then before I could react, Hugh moved. In a split second, he advanced from the doorway to stand in front of me. My breath caught in my throat and I blinked up at him.
“Let’s get started, shall we?” He grinned down at me, and a chill ran over my spine.
Without waiting for a response, Hugh reached for my hands, taking them into his own while my brain was still processing that he was no longer across the room.
Bitter cold clawed its way up from his grip, snaking its way up my arms, and I tried to pull away. But the demon had a grip like a vise.
Then the vision hit.
Not fire this time, no. My—his—body moved, dancing so quickly, vertigo hit me. Then it hit him—power. But from where? Arms raised, the light of the room was blinding, though there was little of it. So quickly he swept across the room, but it felt slow to him. Something was wrong. He couldn’t breathe right. He couldn’t move right. Light flashed again and he ran, faster this time. Faster toward the noise, the chanting. Faster toward the sickly horrible sound of it. Rhythm found his steps again. Finally. Dark eyes stared at him from where he kneeled on the ground, sweat beading on the hated face.
Karson.
But he couldn’t touch Karson, no matter how much he needed to tear him limb from limb. Pain overwhelmed him and his muscles cried out at the effort it took to keep him on his feet. The other wasn’t helping—couldn’t rely on him. Couldn’t wait for him.
Then, moving his head, he saw her.
Miriam.
Rage and elation and desire flashed through him, intertwined in a way that made me cringe. Yes, she was the key. Hugh pushed with his mind in a way that was beyond my understanding. I could sense it, but not understand it. His blurred attention turned toward Thomas. The blond man grinned, and he turned from his pseudo-father to look at Miriam. Hope flushed the pain from Hugh’s body and he could breathe again. Miriam was the key.
Temptation by Fire Page 20