Hunter of Shadows

by Nancy Gideon

  And what had been playfully erotic darkened into something very different, triggering deeply suppressed emotions of claustrophobic panic and helplessness.

  “Let me go.” His words were filled with intimidating menace, but Nica exerted even greater pressure to control him. When he moved his legs for some leverage, she twined hers about them, imprisoning him.

  Don’t move. Don’t react. Don’t show fear or hate or pain.

  He could smell his flesh burning, could hear screams ringing in his ears, could taste the bile in the back of his throat as horror upon horror surged up to choke him.

  He couldn’t catch his breath. Impotent fury raged, feeding extra adrenaline to muscles that bulged with effort. Thrashing beneath her, he roared, “Get off me! Damn it, Nica, let me go!”

  He flung her off him and rolled above her, assuming a dominant position.

  Nica stared up at his suddenly unfamiliar features, tight and dark. Fierce passion beat from him with every savage breath, blazed from eyes of laser blue. She’d woken something primal and shockingly dangerous.

  This was what he hid behind his cool confidence. This panting rage, this wild emotion that ripped his composure away and left him raw to the bone.

  Silas MacCreedy was a pressure cooker with no outlet for the steam, except through her.

  And it made her want him madly.

  Her body arched up to his in an undulating wave. Her eyes glowed, their sapphire brilliance lit by sparks of gold. “Take me, MacCreedy. Take me like I was yours.”

  Mine.

  Silas’s harsh breathing stilled, then exploded as his thrusting hips tore through the filmy barrier of her panties. He buried himself deep and hard inside her, immediately withdrawing and plunging again.

  Mine!

  That claim echoed with each frenzied thrust. He drove into her, over and over lost in the savage repetition, his actions fiercely possessive. The scent of her arousal, of her desire, was a drug. Her quick gasps in rhythm with their coupling urged him on. Faster. Harder. Mine. As he felt the tension gather in her body he redoubled his efforts, obsessed with the need to drive her into the same hot madness calling to him.

  Her guttural moans encouraged him. “Yes, Silas, yes. I want you, want you, want you. Now. Now! Please!”

  Her orgasm gripped him like a pumping fist, sucking his own climax from him along with a mighty roar.

  Afterward, only the rasp of their breathing broke the silence. Then MacCreedy withdrew, rolling away from her.

  It took Nica a while to become aware of the distance between them. He laid on his back, eyes closed, sweat glistening on his skin and dampening his hair. He looked like a pagan god.

  When she chuckled, he slid her a look out of the corner of his eye.

  “Think we made enough noise?” she asked.

  His lips twitched. “We’re not very considerate guests, are we?”

  She’d never wanted post-sex touching, never dared to explore that level of intimacy. Until now. She lightly placed her hand on his forearm. When he allowed it, she moved her palm slowly up to his shoulder then back, enjoying the texture of his skin, the muscles beneath it.

  Mine, he’d growled. Mine.

  “I’m sorry if things got a little strange there,” he said.

  As she watched him absently rub the mark on his wrist, she pieced it together. Time to let a little more of that blistering steam vent.

  “Don’t apologize, Si. I understand.”

  That earned a scowl. “How could you?”

  “Humility was never easy for me, either. I take it you didn’t go willingly to the House of Terriot for protection, any more than they took you in graciously?”

  He stared at her for a long moment before his gaze flickered away. “No.”

  Nica rose up on one elbow to study his profile. He was locked down tight. He wasn’t about to let her in if she took a direct approach, but there were stealthier ways to get where she wanted to go. “Tell me about her. What’s her name?”

  Again, the quick dart of his gaze to her face. “Who?”

  “Your ideal. Your love.”

  “Why would you want to know about her?”

  “Maybe I want to know what makes her worth the sacrifice of your life.”

  “Kendra. Kendra Terriot.”

  “Of the same Terriots who branded your skin?”

  “She’s not like them. She’s quiet, refined, intellectual, delicate.”

  Everything Nica was not.

  “Her father and mine were distant cousins. Her mother died when she was very young and she came to live with us while her father traveled, taking care of clan business. Her father didn’t want her to grow up surrounded by the intrigues and danger of the Terriot court. He was afraid she was too fragile, too like her mother.”

  He was relaxing in spite of himself, so she cracked open his reserve a little further. “And where did you grow up?”

  “My father’s clan came up from the Irish Channel, rough, earthy stock. His mother worked for a fine household in the Garden District and took him with her sometimes. He’d amuse himself by reading the books in their library while she cleaned their grand staircases and fancy silver. He became friends with a spirited little lass, as he called her, named Therese. Thinking she was the daughter of one of the other servants, he let her tag along with him. Later he read sonnets to her in the garden arbor, and about the time he discovered he was in love with her, he also learned her name was Guedry—daughter of the house.”

  “Ah, so this is a romantic story.” Nica sighed. “The princess and the pauper.”

  Silas caught her hand between his. “It should have been. They bonded as mates and married to live free, shunning clan politics. My father taught at a college in Baton Rouge and my mother was a photographer. Brigit and I, and then Kendra were all homeschooled, living in the middle of the human world while separate from it. We were all each other had.”

  “And you fell in love with her the same way your father did your mother.”

  The gentling of his features was her answer. He was silent for a time, then gave a heavy sigh. “I had simple dreams, Nica. To be an honorable man like my father, to look for the good in others as my mother taught me, to be of service to my kind in the manner of our families, and to find the contentment I saw between my mother and father every day of their lives, until the Terriots tore that all away. My father had thought living apart from them would keep us safe, but what it did isolated us from those who would have given their protection.”

  MacCreedy sat up, his legs over the side of the bed and his back to her. His damp undershirt revealed the tenseness of his muscles as he scrubbed his hands over his face and hair. Nica knelt behind him, leaning against his rigid back, her arms going around his middle, pressing her cheek to his shoulder.

  “The Terriots came to our house,” he said. “I could hear them downstairs, my father, who never raised his voice, shouting for them to get out. The girls were scared and begged me not to go down, but I wouldn’t listen.

  “I watched my parents die from where I stood on the stairs. I did nothing to save them.” His voice thickened with self-loathing. “I ran, Nica. I left them in their own blood.”

  “How old were you?”

  “What difference—”

  “How old?”

  “Fourteen. Old enough. I could have done something, anything.”

  Her answer was a flat slap of logic. “You would have died with them. They would have killed you.”

  She could see Silas so clearly, on the cusp of manhood, confronted with horror and grief of a crippling magnitude. Yet he’d suppressed the shock and emotion to act, not on his own behalf, but for the sake of others.

  “Any fool could have thrown himself to his death in self-serving vengeance.” She felt his jerk of objection and hugged him tight. “A boy would have, without any thought of the consequences. And what good would that have done? But a man would control his fury, and think beyond it to the two still alive upstairs.


  “You didn’t run away, Silas. You ran to them, to see to their safety. You left a war you couldn’t possibly win, to fight a battle where there was something left to gain.”

  “By groveling to our enemies like a dog, begging for mercy while my parents’ blood was still on their hands,” he said bitterly.

  “Because if they’d considered you a threat, they would have killed you on the spot. So you had to make them believe you were harmless. You had to let them humiliate you, demoralize you, crush you. They wouldn’t have let you live otherwise.”

  “I was very convincing,” he spat out with contempt.

  “Did your sister and Kendra realize how difficult that was for you? Did they understand the strength it took to hide all that rage and hate and fierceness, to submit to the Terriots’ control?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It does matter. You saved them, Silas. None of you would have survived the night if you hadn’t surrendered.” She understood that kind of compromise with crystal clarity. The burn of it, the shame and self-contempt of it. The dire necessity of it. “What did you have to promise them?”

  “I vowed that if they took Brigit and Kendra into the House of Terriot and cared for them, I would serve them.”

  “For how long?”

  “Forever.”

  A monumental promise from a boy of fourteen. In effect, he had given his life to save them.

  She gripped his chin, turning him to face her. His expression was granite hard, his gaze cold steel—and she shuddered inside with admiration.

  “You did the right thing,” she told him.

  “You would have leapt right into the middle of—”

  Nica pressed her fingertips to his mouth. “No. I would have done exactly as you did. I would have controlled my emotions, studied my options, and chosen survival. I would have realized that my death would serve no purpose, but if I lived, I could find a better time to take my vengeance.”

  A wry smile twisted his lips. “You would have considered all that in an instant?”

  “Yes, just as you did. Because we’re survivors who know how to play the odds. That doesn’t make us weak. It makes us smart.” Her tone roughened. “And I like that about you.”

  She touched her lips to his, then gently guided his head down to rest on her shoulder for a while.

  After he finally sighed deeply, his muscles now relaxed, they settled into the big bed. Tucked into the curl of his arms, Nica drifted her palm across his chest, resting it over his steady heartbeat. She smiled as his big hand stroked her hair, and her eyes closed before she realized she was breaking a cardinal rule.

  She was trusting him.

  The fit of her lithe body against his stirred Silas’s desire, but the quiet closeness felt too good to disturb. He’d had so few peaceful moments lately, so few times when he was completely at rest. And right now it felt more satisfying than sex.

  Surrounded by her scent, her heat, by the sound of her even breaths, he sighed and relaxed. Her empathy sank deep like a healing balm, soothing his troubled mind, cradling his aching heart with a sense of comfort he hadn’t known since childhood.

  She understood him.

  He hadn’t realized how rare that was until now. Brigit would have expressed impatience with his failings. Kendra would have shown compassion with no comprehension. She would have been shocked by his confession, by the brutal force of such a wild, unrestrained mating. She would shrink away from the darkness, the violence, the passion, and knowing that, he never would have let himself go. Ever.

  There were no such limits with Nica. Nothing he could say or do would make her recoil. He hadn’t known how deeply gratifying that was. And when she’d said, You did the right thing, absolution had seeped into his anguished soul.

  Because they were two of a kind.

  And he didn’t know if that pleased him or scared the ever-loving hell out of him.

  Brigit MacCreedy lay in the darkness, waiting for the hotel air-conditioning to cool her flushed skin. Daniel Guedry was an inventive lover, but tonight he was becoming angry and tiresome. He’d been sweetly convincing and she’d been hot to have him, but now she’d listened to enough of his tirade.

  “Daniel, I’ve told you. It’s being taken care of.”

  “By your brother? He’s done nothing.”

  She watched him pace. He was glorious in high temper. He was glorious anytime, with his thick black hair, flashing eyes, and sleek body made for pleasure. But his endless complaints were getting on her nerves.

  “Silas is as coldly clever as you are impetuously ruthless. Both styles have their advantages.”

  “Saint Silas, the careful schemer,” Guedry snarled. “He’s not going to rise up against the Terriots. He’s been on his belly to them for too long. I say we just kill Savoie and the kid. Then I can take the throne from the Terriots, and you can sit on it beside me. My family would welcome the match and you into our compound as their queen.”

  “Memphis is no better than here. It stinks of the river, and I hate being soggy all the time.”

  Daniel scowled at her, clearly incensed that she’d tossed aside his offer so casually. “Then I’ll take the Terriot refuge in Tahoe over the bodies of their clan, and set you up on their mountaintop. Would you like that better?”

  She stretched leisurely, kindling a flare of lust in his eyes as she’d intended. “I would like that. I always enjoyed living there, though the company was lacking.”

  “Let me take it for you,” he growled, stalking toward her. “Let me give you the things you deserve.”

  She opened to him, welcoming him atop her, then within her.

  “Now. No more waiting,” he said insistently.

  She shoved him away, barring his return with the brace of her hand.

  “It takes patience as well as willingness for a coup of this magnitude, Daniel. Give Silas time to take care of things. He wants this as badly as I do, for his own reasons. Let him clear the way so that you can be king without spilling any blood. I’ve already seen too much of it. Promise me you’ll wait, Daniel, that you’ll do nothing foolish. I’ll have your word—on your love for me.”

  He pouted deliciously for a moment, then his gaze roved over her nude body with ravenous intention, quickening her own appetite. “All right. I’ll wait. But not forever. Not for my crown. And not another second for you.”

  And he lunged.

  Even as he toiled to ignite a fire in her, Brigit found her thoughts drifting. Her brother had never failed her. So why did she feel this sudden uneasiness? Was it because of the human contamination? Or that brash female who claimed his bed?

  It was time to call Silas on his loyalties, and she knew just which screw of guilt to tighten—after she rode out her approaching climax to its spectacular end.

  Having a vigorous, if somewhat dim, lover rule beside her would have its advantages.

  Twelve

  Nica’s “dreams” always began the same way, with a wild free fall through time and space.

  First came the cold of a sudden void, an emptiness like the grave as she felt the pull on her psychic self. She struggled, even knowing she couldn’t fight it. She could see MacCreedy asleep beside her, could feel the heat of his body fading as the chill seeped into her soul. She flung out her hands to reach him, screaming his name, but he and the room were gone in an instant.

  Then there was only chaos, cold, dizzying, disorienting. The mad scramble of sight and sound always ended in the same place: a blindingly white chamber surrounded by a collage of her thoughts, her dreams, her past. All the flickering, distorted images were of MacCreedy, which alarmed her, as if an intensely private corner of her heart had just been turned inside out.

  He’d been watching, spying. He’d seen . . . everything.

  The montage flashed across her consciousness. MacCreedy sprawled in the pool with the water darkening around him. Striding through Cheveux du Chien, where the brief touch of his gaze sizzled across her skin. H
is sudden grin as he stood at the elevator when she asked his name.

  “Hero.”

  Conversations they’d shared began to whisper atop one another at varying speeds, the sound buzzing like an angry rattlesnake.

  Her voice echoing, raw with desperate yearning as he loomed over her, eyes like hot blue flames.

  Take me, MacCreedy. Take me like I was yours.

  Pain lanced through her head, dropping her to her knees in the searingly bright space.

  The swirl of images now became one looping over and over again, soaring above her as if played in panoramic IMAX. One image. One scene. Over and over until she was screaming.

  “Si!”

  Nica’s eyes flew open. She was back in her bed. MacCreedy was staring at her in startled concern. She was gripping his arm, her claws breaking the skin.

  “Nica, what is it?”

  She released him and scooted away to the far edge of the bed. Her heart pounded. Her body dissolved into fitful shivering.

  “Nica?”

  He sat up, reaching for her. She could barely see him through the juxtaposition of another image. Of him turned toward her, and eyebrow raised in question.

  Nica slapped away his hand, hissing, “Don’t touch me.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “You have to go. Now. Just go.”

  MacCreedy frowned, alert now.

  “You can’t be here. Go! This was a mistake. I don’t want you here. Get out!”

  He responded slowly to her frenzied demand, his eyes darkening with worry. He got up and gathered his clothes, his gaze never leaving her as he pulled on his jeans.

  She was up on her knees, panting like a wild thing, her hair in tangled snarls about her shoulders, her face pale. “Just go. Please!”

  He finally took a few backward steps, then turned and left the room.

  When the door closed Nica slumped to the mattress, burying her face in the sheets saturated with his heat and scent. Tears scorched down her cheeks as she replayed the vision.

  Silas, his strong, squared shoulders in a dark suit coat, walking ahead of her.