by N M Thorn
“It’s also a little uncomfortable, you know?” he objected gently, discomfort lingering around him. “You’re a young lady, and I’m a single man. I’m not sure it would be appropriate for me to live in the same house with you. It would ruin your reputation.”
Her jaw dropped as she stared at him, her eyebrows climbing up. “You’re kidding me, right?” she muttered, blinking furiously at him. “My reputation? When were you born exactly?”
Damian’s lips curved into a smile. “I was born in the year nine hundred sixty-two of our Lord Jesus Christ, my lady.” He touched his chest over his heart with his hand and gave her a ceremonial bow filled with mockery.
For a moment, she gaped at him, unable to form words, but then she clapped her hands and burst out laughing, tears of laughter glistening in her eyes.
“At least you have a sense of humor,” she managed to say, wiping her eyes. “So, what do you say, Damian? Do we have a deal?”
“That’s what you get for speaking the truth, Sasquatch,” purred Gypsy, amusement in her round eyes. “You’ll fit well in her antique collection.”
“River, before I make my decision, just one question... What if I kill your kitty? Accidentally, of course?” asked Damian, giving Gypsy a menacing stare. The cat hissed, arching her back.
“No problem,” replied River with a dismissive wave of her hand, an evil grin on her face. “I’ll just cut your balls off and shove them... well, you know where.”
Damian laughed, noticing Gypsy showing him a paw with a middle claw extended. He sobered up quickly, his fingers tracing the shape of the leather bracelet on his wrist.
“Okay, Detective,” he said quietly. “If your father agrees with this arrangement, I’ll move in to your house and keep an eye on things here. But if you try to boss me around again, I’ll be gone faster than you can pull your gun out. If you want to run a background check, go for it, but don’t ask me any personal questions.” He thought for a moment, his memory returning to that other woman who had died in his arms centuries ago. He couldn’t make the same mistake. Never again. He forced the painful memory to the back of his mind and added, “And if at some point, I tell you to do something, you do it. No questions, no objections. I will never ask you for anything unless your safety is at stake. You understand?”
“Yes, my lord.” She curtsied awkwardly, humorous twinkles in her eyes, and for the first time since he met her, he saw her face relaxed and the shadow of sadness gone from her gaze. “You know I’m almost thirty—a mature adult, so to speak? Does my father’s consent to this arrangement really make any difference?”
“It does for me,” replied Damian dryly. “I’m going to go back to my hotel, get at least a few hours of sleep, and then come back here to install a new door for you. What time do you come home from work usually?”
“I’m a detective.” She smirked. “My day doesn’t always start and end on schedule. But I’ll try to get home early today and help you settle in. Give me your phone number. If you’re not here by the time I’m home, I’ll call you.”
“I don’t have a phone.”
“Sometimes I don’t know when you’re serious and when you’re joking, Damian,” she muttered, staring at him with wide eyes.
“I’m serious. I don’t have a phone,” he repeated calmly.
“My father said you also don’t own a car,” she said, exploring his face with curiosity. “What cave did you crawl out from?” He threw a warning gaze at her, and she raised her hand in a peaceful gesture. “Never mind. No more questions. Your cave is your business.”
“Good,” he murmured under his breath and nodded to her. “I’ll see you later tonight.”
He turned around and walked out the door before she could stop him with more questions.
Chapter 9
~ Damian Blake ~
Once back in his hotel room, Damian dropped on the bed and pressed his hands to his face. He lay still for a moment, processing everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours. Then he sat up sharply, a deep vertical wrinkle showing between his eyebrows.
“Dammit,” he mumbled, staring out the window. “I shouldn’t have done it.”
He got up and stood in the middle of the room, feeling lost. Then he stripped his dirty clothes, put them inside a plastic bag and headed into the shower. He yanked the shower curtain closed and opened the faucet. Without waiting for it to warm up, he stepped into the bathtub under the cool jets and closed his eyes, bracing himself against the wall with his hands.
I couldn’t protect the woman I loved from the supernatural. She was a powerful witch, and I was in my full power, too, at the time... and I still failed, he thought as streams of water ran down the long strands of his hair on the front, washing over his shoulders and back. What the hell is wrong with me! What in the world made me think I can save this child—human without magic! I have no more than a quarter of my former power left. Goddamn idiot!
He slammed his hand against the wall and straightened, his chest rising and falling with angry breaths. He dropped his head, staring at the rivulets of water running down the drain in front of his feet, slowly getting his anger and desperation under control.
But if you refuse her your protection, whatever killed her husband and his family will kill her for sure, whispered a tiny voice in the back of his mind. She’s better off with you than on her own.
“I need to figure out what’s killing the members of the founding families and why.” He reached for a bar of soap and a bath sponge. “And I need to do it fast, before it’s too late for River.”
Making up his mind, he finished the shower quickly and dried himself with a towel before stepping out of the bathtub. He decided to skip sleep entirely and go back to the library, hoping to find Jamie there. He needed more information about the founding families and everything about their untimely demise. There was just too much mystery surrounding Paradise Manor and its inhabitants—weird deaths, a ghost, the strange obsession with gold which wasn’t there, and of course, the warded left wing of the house.
Whoever placed the wards and protection spells there made them extremely powerful. There had to be a reason for that. Perhaps, if he could learn what was hidden behind the last door, he would figure out what kind of mighty power is after her. The memory of River’s eyes glowing with the sinister light of demonic infection surfaced in his mind, and he frowned, running his fingers over his chin. Whatever was haunting Paradise Manor wasn’t a joking matter, and he was positive the secret of the old mansion and the evil haunting it were connected someway, somehow.
And then there were Jesse and the group of shifters that attacked him last night. It was on a level of intuition, but Damian was positive River’s partner was somehow involved in all this mess. He just needed to figure out how and what his motives were.
As far as the shifters, he had no idea where to start. He had been in Blue Creek less than a week. Despite Sam’s words about the town being supernatural-free—he rolled his eyes at the thought—he had taken all the precautions to keep his supernatural identity hidden and had made sure to suppress his magical energy signature completely at all times except for when he needed to use his magic. So, why would anyone want him out of the state and how did they know he was there in the first place? Things just didn’t add up.
He glanced at his watch. It was ten past eight, and the library wouldn’t be open until nine. He had enough time to grab something to eat and be there at the opening. If Jamie was working today, he could spend a full hour with him before meeting with Sam at his shop to replace River’s front door. Deep in thoughts, Damian got dressed, putting his blue jeans and a simple black T-shirt on. He glanced at his bracelet, considering if it stood out attracting too much attention, but then decided to keep it as is.
A loud knock made him flinch and spin around. Wondering who that could be, he headed toward the door and opened it. The teenage daughter of the hotel owner stood in front of him. Her face was flushed, and her round eyes stared up
at him without blinking as she tried to catch her breath.
“Is everything okay?” he asked, wondering why she looked like she had just run a mile. “I thought I just paid for one more full week ahead.”
She shook her head and swallowed. “You’re fine, Mr. Blake,” she managed to say, panting. “My mom sent me to ask you for help.” She took another deep breath and exhaled through her mouth, the air coming out in a soft gasp. “She called Mr. Vetrov first, but he wasn't going to be in his shop for another hour, so he said to see if you were in your room. My mom said if you don’t have tools, you can use whatever she has. Can you come with me, please?”
“One moment, please.”
He walked back into the room, grabbed the key and walked back out. Locking the door, he put the key in his pocket and followed the girl to the other side of the building. She led him to a staircase and ran up to the second floor, skipping a step.
“Dammit,” he muttered, pursing his lips. “This day is just getting better and better.”
With a deep sigh, he headed upstairs, feeling how with each step he took, his connection with the elemental energy of Earth grew a tiny bit weaker. It was just the second floor, so it wasn’t bad, but he could still feel the distance between him and his element.
The hotel owner, Mrs. Davidson, waited for him by the very last door, a small tool bag standing next to her feet. As soon as she saw Damian, relief reflected on her tense face, and she smiled.
“Mr. Blake, thank you so much for coming,” she said, picking up the tool bag.
“What can I do for you, ma’am?” he asked, throwing a quick glance at the closed door with two joined hearts painted under the room number. The do-not-disturb sign hung on the handle, and even though the door was locked, he could hear the TV playing on the inside.
“This is our honeymoon suite. A young couple rented it a few days before you arrived. Very nice people and all. Paid for their stay in full,” she continued, picking up her bag from the floor. “Anyway, I haven’t heard from them since they moved in, but the people in the next room complained that their TV plays day and night. I came here yesterday and knocked on the door, but no one answered. So, I checked in the morning again with the same result. Now, I’m truly worried about them, and I was wondering if you could help me unlock this door, please.”
“Don’t you have something like a skeleton key?” asked Damian. He pushed on the door handle just to make sure, but just as Mrs. Davidson said—it was locked.
“I used to have a second set of keys for every room in the hotel, but I searched everywhere, and I couldn’t find the one for the honeymoon suite.” She shrugged apologetically.
Damian took the tool bag from her hands and quickly explored its contents. He didn’t really care what tools she had since he wasn’t planning to use them to open the lock, but he had to make it look legit. To his surprise, he found a hook and pick toolset and grabbed it, returning her the bag.
“Let’s give it a try,” he muttered. Taking a position so neither Mrs. Davidson nor her daughter could see what he was doing, he channeled a little bit of his magic, touched the lock and whispered, “Recludius.”
The lock clicked, and the door cracked open, but when Damian pushed it, it didn’t budge. A wave of sweet, sickening odor assailed his senses, and he pressed his hand over his nose and mouth, staggering back. Together with the reek of decay, he detected the slight smell of sulfur and the presence of vampiric essence.
Slowly, he turned toward Mrs. Davidson, thinking of what to do next. If the situation was normal, he would just call the police and let them handle it. But when vampires and demons were involved, the situation was nowhere near normal, and sending human police against even a single demon would be equivalent to killing them.
“Mrs. Davidson,” he said, trying to sound as kind and calm as he could muster, “the door is blocked from the inside, and...” He fell silent, trying to find better words to explain.
“Are they all right?” she asked, and the way she sounded told him she already knew the answer to this question.
“I don’t know, but I don’t think so,” he replied, throwing a quick glance at the teenage girl who stood a few feet away, her face drained of all color. “I’ll have to break the door to get in. Why don’t you take your daughter downstairs? She shouldn’t be here, ma’am.”
He waited until they left and turned back to the door. “I hope the few minutes before the police arrive will be enough to deal with whatever supernatural assholes are hiding inside,” he muttered as he struck the door with a powerful push kick. With a loud bang, the door cracked and flew off its hinges. The nauseating reek of decay assailed his senses, and he grunted, hiding his face in the crook of his elbow. However, time was of the essence, so he stepped inside, ignoring the stench.
The room looked like a disaster area. The windows were tightly covered with shutters and the only light illuminating the area was coming through the doorway. All furniture except for a large king-size bed was destroyed, lying on the floor in heaps of broken wood. The TV was on the floor, playing loud enough to conceal any other sounds in the room. Two young people—a man and a woman—lay on the bed, tied up to it with thick ropes and gagged, their bodies malformed by decomposition.
There was no doubt they had been dead for at least twenty-four hours. However, there was something about the corpses that drew Damian’s attention. Fighting nausea, he approached the couple and quickly explored their bodies. From the outside, he didn’t notice any injuries that could have caused death. Their clothes were torn but relatively clean. He noticed a few bruises and scratches on the exposed skin of their arms and faces, but none of it could have killed them.
However, both young people had hypodermic needles inserted into their veins. Despite it, Damian was positive they hadn’t been using drugs. Glancing around the room, he noticed a few small glass jars coated with brown stains of dried out blood on the inside. Whoever killed this couple drained their blood all the way to the last drop.
He approached the jars and squatted next to them, making sure not to touch or move anything. A very slight presence of vampiric energy signature brushed his stretched senses again. If vampires were involved, the drained blood would make sense. But why would they use needles instead of just sinking their fangs into the necks of their victims?
He straightened, ready to leave, when he heard a constrained moan. It was so feeble that if not for his sharp hearing, he wouldn’t have noticed it. Damian froze in place, listening intently. Someone moaned again, the sound coming from behind the closed bathroom door. Moving soundlessly across the floor, he approached the door and pushed it carefully with his hand.
It opened up easily with a soft squeak. He stepped inside and stilled with his mouth open. At the other end of the spacious bathroom, a large metal cross was nailed to the wall. A man was strung up on the cross, his arms stretched wide apart as if someone had been trying to crucify him. But instead of nails, his arms and body were attached to the cross by thick silver chains.
He was completely naked, and in every place where silver touched his bare skin, it left angry red spots and bleeding welts. His head was bowed low to his chest, the dirty mop of his light, wavy hair obscuring his face. A weak presence of vampiric energy lingered around him, but even if Damian couldn’t feel it, the effect silver had on him left no doubt—the man on the cross was a vampire or some kind of representative of the undead supernatural community.
“What the hell,” mumbled Damian, heading toward him. Why would vampires torture one of their own?
The man moaned again and lifted his head slightly, which caused him visible effort. His eyes weren’t glowing scarlet as Damian expected from a thirsty vamp. Instead, they were pure, crystal-blue, a haunted expression slowly vanishing as his gaze lingered on Damian’s face. His full lips parted, a few drops of dark blood slipping from the cut on his lower lip. A weak, tortured smile lifted the corners of his mouth, exposing his straight, white teeth. But just like there w
as no scarlet glow in his eyes, his fangs weren’t expanded.
Damian froze, barely able to breathe as he recognized the man on the cross.
A single thick, red drop escaped the vampire’s eyes, leaving a shining path on his dirty cheek, and relief suffused his features.
“Hello, brother,” he whispered. His eyes rolled back, and he fainted, hanging limply in his restraints.
Chapter 10
~ Damian Blake ~
A strangled scream escaped Damian’s tightly pressed lips as he closed the distance between himself and the vampire in two long-legged strides. With shaking hands, he unraveled the silver chains, careful not to inflict more pain and damage on him. With a loud clatter, the chains dropped to the ceramic tiles one by one.
Holding the vampire in his arms, Damian lowered him gently to the floor. He placed his head on his lap and grabbed a towel lying next to him, wrapping it around the man’s hips.
“Nikolai,” he whispered, throwing the man’s matted hair off his face. “Kolya, malish... please open your eyes, my boy... please...”
Damian stared down at the motionless face of his brother, unable to believe his eyes, gathering tears making his image a shapeless blur. All these centuries, he had been sure his brother was dead. He had seen him fall in battle. He’d been told that he didn’t make it. Every day, he wished Nikolai was alive, and every day, he mourned his death. Every day, until today.
Gently caressing his brother’s cold cheek with his thumb, Damian smiled, an explosive concoction of emotions—happiness, pain, disbelief—brewing within him. He looked just the way he remembered him—the image of his brother the way he’d seen him the last time forever engraved in his memory. The same strong face with angled features framed by soft blond curls. The same bright blue eyes and full lips. A few centuries later, he still looked like the twenty-eight year old man he was then.