Nightwalker

by Connie Hall

  After following the signs to the back of the restaurant, Takala found the bathroom. She locked herself in a stall and had a good cry. Jet lag was really getting to her.

  Striker waited and grew impatient. The waiter had brought the food, and it was getting cold in the crisp air.

  Earlier, because of his sensitive hearing, he had heard her crying in the bathroom. Several times he started to go to her, but he thought better of it. Obviously, her mother was a touchy subject.

  He hated hearing Takala weep. There was a slim chance he had been too harsh on Takala, but she needed to stop looking at Culler with blinders on. She had to face the truth.

  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cared enough to involve himself in another person’s life or to consider another’s feelings. He thought he had lost the human ability to sympathize, but he couldn’t deny the guilt he felt right now, or this need to comfort her. It was dangerous, he knew, to feel anything for her. It was imperative he remain detached from all stimulus, particularly emotion. It had kept him from losing control, kept him from the bloodlust that could destroy him. He couldn’t let unbidden emotions get out of hand, but there was no harm in opening her eyes to the truth, was there?

  Takala’s outward appearance gave off an aura of invincibility and overconfidence, but he now knew she was utterly defenseless when it came to her heart. Yet he needed her to understand that she was better off leaving Culler out of her life. And if the truth hurt her, then so be it. Better he destroy these maternal ideals of hers than Culler taking Takala’s life.

  He was about to go and find her when she walked through the door and back out onto the patio. Her two-colored eyes were puffy and red. Remorse stabbed him again, and he wished she were more receptive to the truth about Culler.

  As she made her way across the restaurant, he noticed several male waiters stopped in their tracks and watched her. Jealousy flared. It was all he could do to stay in his seat and not teach the oglers a lesson. But he could forgive them their fascination, for Takala drew his own gaze like a moth to a flame. Her ginger hair fell around her shoulders in waves, the blond highlights glimmering in the café’s lights. Her black leather pants poured over her long, shapely legs, hugging them in an alluring way. The long boots that came to her knees. Her leather coat undulated around her slim hips. And in the front he could see her flat belly exposed by her short T-shirt. That confident stride of hers wasn’t feminine at all. Her hips didn’t sway with it, but her chin was high, her shoulders and back fencepost straight, which uplifted her sensual full breasts and showed them to advantage. It was the most alluring female walk he’d ever seen. Something about it made him want to cover her, dominate her, make her his.

  He hadn’t felt a need for a mate in hundreds of years. And he wouldn’t turn Takala into a slave whom he could command only to quench his thirst for blood and sexual pleasure. He thought he had conquered all physical desires. But no, he could feel an overwhelming craving erupting inside him just looking at her, burning through his body, pushing at him, tempting him to let go. His heart raced. A tremor shook his hands, and it took all of his willpower to force his gaze down and examine the iron scrollwork on the table until he gained control again.

  She sat, refusing to look at him, and began eating the ham and cheese crêpe first.

  She swallowed, then spoke. “This is really good,” she said, making small talk as if nothing had happened between them.

  Introduction of food seemed to have lifted her spirits more than anything he could have said or done. With some females it was roses. With Takala it was food. If he ever needed to bribe her, he’d have to exploit her weakness.

  “Yes.” He sat back and watched her cut the ham crêpe into three more pieces and bring an enormous bite to her full rosebud lips.

  She shoved in the mouthful, chewed and closed her eyes in delight.

  He didn’t think anything had fascinated him more than watching her eat. She licked the béchamel sauce from her lips, and his body drew up like a piano wire.

  “Let’s make a deal. We’ll start over. You don’t tell me how to live my life, and I won’t tell you.”

  He was glad she didn’t seem to hold grudges or was one of those females who pouted for days. “Fair enough. Tell me about your sisters,” he said.

  “They’re great.” She talked in between bites. Now that she was eating, she seemed animated and demonstrative. She lowered her voice to a whisper, leaned across the table and said, “Fala, she was always good at magic. Always had shaman powers. Becoming the Guardian just made her more powerful. Nina, my baby sister, she can talk to any kind of living or dead thing. She’s the quiet one, nothing like Fala and me.”

  “What about you? What talents do you possess?”

  “Me, just my strength. It’s only brute force, nothing life-altering or meaningful.” Takala shrugged, leaned back and started consuming the poulet à la diable.

  Striker, amazed at the speed with which she ate, said, “Strength is an admirable quality.” He felt his charismatic, confident mask slipping into place. Was he trying to charm her?

  “I don’t know.” She shrugged as if her strength were nothing.

  “But I do. We would be in the belly of that serpent shifter at this moment if you had not intervened. You truly amaze me.”

  She brightened at the compliment, and her eyes twinkled. “That makes us even. You saved my life at the airport, and I kept Snaky Jakey from eating you alive.” She gave him a winning smile. “Enough about me. What about you? You told me you were old, so spill your real age.” She looked bluntly at him.

  He ran a finger around the lip of his mug and said, “That is a prying question.”

  “Well, if talking about it bothers you…” Her voice trailed off as she finished the last piece of chicken.

  He frowned at her. “It doesn’t.”

  “Then you won’t mind telling me.” She shot him an all-too-unyielding look.

  “I suppose you will not stop asking until I reveal it.”

  “You know me too well.” She batted her beautiful eyes at him, enjoying this excessively.

  “I was a gladiator in Rome.” He watched her face for a reaction.

  Her expressive eyes widened in disbelief. “You serious? Like BC serious?”

  He nodded.

  “Did you fight in the Coliseum?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you use a trident and a net, or a sword?”

  “Trident.”

  “Wow! That must have been a horrible existence.”

  He nodded, feeling his facial muscles hardening around his lips. “Most of the gladiators during my lifetime eventually ended up vampires.”

  “Why?”

  “It was their only way out, and Raithe was their keeper. He sent them from one hell to another.” Striker heard the hatred in his own voice.

  “How long did he do this?”

  “Centuries, until he got bored with it.”

  “So he turned you?” she asked, her expression softening with compassion.

  “Yes.” The warmth of the coffee cup drew him, and he cupped both hands around it, feeling the heat seeping through his fingers.

  “If he’s your maker, do you have to obey him?”

  He laughed bitterly. “Do not believe what you see on television.”

  “I don’t.”

  He let his gaze bore pointedly into her face.

  She amended her statement. “Okay, maybe a little. Other than popular culture and rarely running across them in my line of work, I don’t know much about vampires. They’re not in my quilting circle.” She grinned, her eyes twinkling, making her whole face glow with life and beauty.

  He smiled, and it warmed him all over—no, she warmed him all over. “Good. I would keep it that way.”

  “You don’t sound like you like your kind very much.”

  “I have lived too long and seen what they can be come. So I guess you are correct—some vampires disappoint me.” Flashes of humans, c
hained like animals, dead and dying flooded his mind. He felt almost self-conscious about her having seen the depravity of some vampires.

  They lapsed into silence, and the waiter paused and looked down his nose at her and asked if she wanted dessert.

  She ordered a cheese course, crème brûlée and tarte tatin. The waiter shook his head; she grinned at his back and said in a conspiratorial whisper, “I’m beginning to like French waiters.”

  Striker watched her dive into the bread, butter it and eat a large piece before she said, “Surely as your maker, Raithe must hold some power over you?”

  “None.” Striker’s lips lifted in a sardonic smirk. He guessed that wasn’t completely true. Raithe was the only person in the world who could rouse him to murder.

  “At first?”

  “Yes. I was his child.” He drew out the word through clenched teeth.

  “But now?”

  “He hasn’t been able to influence me for a thousand years. Other than enemies, we are nothing to each other.”

  “So, what was your human name?”

  “You mean the one I was born with?”

  “Yes.”

  He contemplated the question for a long moment, staring down into his cup. There was no reflection, only the watery image of the canopy flapping overhead. It was like his memory, thousands of faded pages. “It has been so long. I’ve had so many names since then.” He thought hard, then finally said, “I remember now. Domidicus.”

  “Nice Latin name.” As a way of explanation, she said, “I took Latin in high school. It actually comes in handy sometimes, but obviously not in Paris.” She waved to the customers around them speaking rapid-fire French.

  “True.” He nodded, unable to take his eyes off her.

  “What do you remember about your life as a human? How did you end up a gladiator?”

  He felt himself drifting back through those ancient memories. “I was a physician in Rome. A nobleman died under my care, and my penance was the ring.”

  “I’m really having a hard time picturing you as a healer.”

  “I wasn’t very good at it, obviously,” he said, his voice flat.

  “You look more like a dangerous and polished predator now. That should heal your ego.”

  “Tremendously.” He cocked a brow at her and sipped his espresso, eyeing her over the cup.

  “Were you married in Rome?”

  “No.”

  “Did you have a family?”

  He ignored her question and looked so hard into her eyes that she squirmed a little in her seat. Then it hit him. He knew why she looked familiar to him. “I have it.”

  “What?”

  “Who you remind me of.”

  “Who’s that?”

  He studied her face as if seeing it for the first time. He could not believe the resemblance. “You’re the spitting image of Calliope.”

  “Calliope?”

  “My sister.” Sadness crept into Striker. He hated remembering his past—especially the early years. It was the reason he had a hard time recalling his first name and why he had tried to wipe away those memories.

  “You loved her?” Her eyes held his.

  “Love?” He paused over the word, trying to give it meaning in the horrifying chronicles of his life. Love was something he had given up on long ago, but he felt it now, that sting when he thought of his sister and parents. The thoughts of them still poignant and painful, like having his mind dredged with a pitchfork. Striker’s fingers inadvertently tightened around the cup, and it shattered.

  He watched the dark liquid drain down his fingers and hand, not feeling the hot fluid. No, all he could envision was the bloody face of his sister. Raithe standing over her mutilated body, smiling his innocent yet wicked grin, an expression of an egotistical god who held the power of life and death, and he always chose death.

  “Oh, golly!” She reached across the table and dabbed at the spill with her napkin.

  Her touch brought Striker out of the memory trance, and he took the napkin from her, holding her hand a little longer than necessary. “Thank you,” he managed to say, his voice sounding distant even to his own ears.

  He drew back, and the bleak hollowness that had kept him alive for eons settled back over him. He felt comfortable there, alone save for himself and his need for revenge. With methodical strokes, he wiped his hand and the cuffs of his jacket.

  “Are you okay?” She laid her fingers over the back of his hand.

  “Quite.” He absorbed her skin’s heat, allowed it to seep into his stone-cold body. It somehow anchored him to the moment, oddly soothing the savage part of him that wanted Raithe’s blood.

  Then her phone rang and spoiled the sensation.

  Chapter 12

  Takala felt his fingers grasping lightly at her own as she pulled her hand back and reached inside her coat pocket. She was glad for the interruption, because she wanted to haul Striker off somewhere private, hold him and kiss him and make the rawness and isolation she’d seen in his eyes go away.

  “Excuse, me,” she said, without looking at the number. “I need to take this.” She leaped up and walked out of the patio and onto the sidewalk. “Yes.” She watched the cars pass by as she spoke.

  “Takala.”

  She heard Akando’s voice, and her stomach dropped to her knees. She slapped the phone shut and was about to stuff it into her pocket when it rang again.

  “Don’t hang up.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’ve been thinking.”

  “Really? I thought the only way you could think was with your dumb stick.” A low blow, but he deserved it.

  “Takala, I mean it. I don’t want to lose you.”

  “Too late, bucko, you already have.”

  “No, Takala, I’m certain that was a fluke. I’d been drinking. I picked that chick up at a bar, and I couldn’t get rid of her.”

  “Ever heard of the words ‘Get out’? ‘Leave’! ‘Vamoose’! ‘Scram’!”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “No, I don’t. You would have kicked me out if you didn’t want me there.”

  “It’s not that. It’s just…”

  At his hesitation, she said, “What? Spit it out.”

  “Well, you’re never around much, always working on a case. I got lonely.”

  “I saw you when I could. You know I have to work.”

  “I know, but it wasn’t enough for me.”

  “For once, be honest. I thought it was my scaring you that turned you off. Now you’re saying I needed to spend more time with you. Which is it?”

  “You caught me at the wrong time when I last talked to you. I’d had too much to drink. Didn’t mean what I said at all.”

  “I don’t have time to listen to this.”

  “Please, Takala, I love you.”

  “For how long? Until the next bimbo comes along?”

  “I swear, I’ll be faithful.”

  Takala couldn’t stand the groveling tone in his voice. It caused her insides to churn. Just hearing his voice put her back in the car talking to him while another woman shared his bed. He was crushing her into pieces. “Don’t call back.”

  She slammed the phone closed and stared up into the bright sunlight. She felt like screaming at Maiden Bear, the bringer of white magic, to give her some insight into the male mind. A road map. Anything, so she wasn’t floundering around. When she got home, she was going to the prayer cave and wasn’t coming out until she felt enlightened when it came to men.

  She ground her teeth together and was about to turn, when hands touched her shoulders. She whipped around to look into a pair of fathomless purple eyes, inches from her.

  “He doesn’t love you.” There was an enraged look on his face she had never seen before.

  “You heard us?”

  “I couldn’t help it.”

  “I can’t deal with this right now. I’ll meet you at the car—and please tell them to put the rest of my meal in a to-go bag.�
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  Takala hurried to the car, not looking back. She felt Striker’s gaze boring into her back and didn’t care. She just wanted to curl up somewhere with her sisters and talk to them. But she couldn’t call them, because they’d ask why she was in Paris and she wouldn’t be able to lie to them. No, she had to endure this alone—no, not really alone. She had Striker to talk to. That was a joke. She couldn’t open her soul to a vampire she just met. Maybe she already had. She shook her head and jogged the rest of the way to the car.

  Takala watched as Striker pulled the car into the alleyway of the La Montague Hotel. A laundry truck and food-service vehicle sat in the delivery bay, and he parked behind them.

  They hadn’t spoken since the Akando incident, and she broke the quiet bond between them. “Why are we going in the back?”

  “Culler is staying in the penthouse, and I don’t want to ruin our cover. We’ll take the back stairs.”

  “Any activity from her?”

  “Hasn’t left her room.”

  On cue, a parking attendant in burgundy and gold livery came through a door and walked to the car. The guy looked human and unremarkable except for a pot belly that hung over his trousers. Takala wondered how Striker managed to coordinate the minions who took care of his needs.

  Striker exited and handed him the keys. He spoke to him in French.

  Takala got out and grabbed her overnight bag and her to-go bag from the backseat. She followed Striker through a door with an exit sign over it, hearing the parking attendant drive away.

  They walked up six flights of stairs in silence, Takala lagging five steps behind him. His movements seemed stiff, and she knew he was brooding. Well, she didn’t need advice on love from a vampire who couldn’t remember what it felt like.

  When they reached the next level, he held open a door and waited for her to go through first. His eyes were so dark purple and distant, she couldn’t stand it any longer. She said, “Okay, I’ll listen to what you have to say.”

  “No, I overstepped my bounds. I should not have eavesdropped on your conversation.”

  “It’s okay. Tell me what you want to tell me.” Now he was making her want to hear his advice.