Not that he wanted her to take that kind of interest. He was done with relationships until he cleared his name. They were too dangerous, and not only for him. He had other plans for her, if she would listen to him.
The ceiling fan stirred the heavy air but didn’t cool it. He shoved his sweaty bangs out of his face.
Dark-haired and lean, Stefan pointed with his bottle. “You should knock her out, deposit her on some ER doorstep, and run like hell.”
“Which helps me how?” Griff stalked across the plank flooring to the bar. He wrapped his hand around the cold, sweating beer Stefan had set out for him.
“It gets her out of here,” Stefan said. “They’ll come looking, you know.”
“They won’t find her unless I allow it. You know both this place and I are warded against scrying.” Griff tapped his chest where the lapis lazuli Eye of Horus pendant, symbol of the Egyptian god of justice, lay under his shirt. The warded pendant hid him and everything close by. “Her being here changes nothing.”
“Except for bringing your chief pursuer inside your home and maybe upping the bounty on your life.” Stefan studied him, his brown eyes hard. “You’re planning something. Damn it, if she finds out who you are, she’ll kill you.”
Best not to admit she seemed to have her suspicions already. “Keep your voice down,” Griff said. “It’ll go through the bedroom ward. You’ve risked enough by coming here last night and again today.”
Stefan shrugged. “She’s my patient. Besides, no one suspects me. The risk was yours in contacting me. Hell, I don’t see how you’ve lived this long taking the chances you do.”
“She was hurt too badly for my healing abilities. Needed the best, and that’s you.” Griff took a long swallow of the bitter brew. “You take chances, too, Stefan. In that, we’re pot and kettle.”
Stefan grunted and shook his head. After a moment, he asked, “How’s your blood venom level today?”
“It’s down, staying in the low teens.” Any prolonged exertion, such as yesterday’s battle, ramped it up. Rest and recharging pushed it down. If the venom hit fifty-six milligrams per deciliter, it would warp his physiology, and magic, permanently. He would become a ghoul.
In theory.
In fact, he would never allow the venom in his blood to turn him, even if he had to slit his own throat to prevent it.
Griff held the cool bottle against his brow. Bringing Valeria Banning here was lunacy, as Stefan said, but a slim hope beat none.
“Once we had her blood cleansed and her wounds bandaged,” Stefan said, “we could’ve taken her to the ER at County General. I still don’t see why you balked at that.”
I wanted her here.
Unbidden and extremely unwelcome, the truth popped into Griff’s head. She’d been the mage most likely to come after him, so he’d followed her career. Knowing the woman who hunted him could save his life someday. She’d justified her rep for guts, using her dwindling power to cover his back by stabbing that last ghoul. Besides…
“She could be a valuable ally,” he said.
“You think she’ll listen to you?”
“She’s smart. As a cadet, she wasn’t always first off the mark, but she got to the right answer faster than most.”
Her parents’ deaths at ghoul hands had shattered her world. She’d gone from cheerful and relaxed to driven and resolute, determined to keep others from suffering as she had.
Griff added, “She cared fiercely about justice. Apparently, she still does.”
“Yeah, and one of our prime suspects is her ex-guardian.”
Griff met Stefan’s dour look with one of his own. “We’re losing, Stefan. Despite everything we do, our numbers dwindle with each generation while the ghouls’ grow. They take more Mundanes every year. More of us, too.”
Stefan grimaced. “It’s worse than you know. Records from that breeding nest Banning destroyed a couple of weeks ago show the ghouls have managed to bump the rate of ghoul births to captured Mundanes above sixty percent.”
“Hellfire.” Griff’s fingers tightened on his beer in frustration. “Meanwhile, the mage gene is recessive. There’re mageborn who don’t even know they have powers, and the ghouls are seducing our kids with dark magic.”
“All unfortunately true.” Stefan shook his head. “My staff counsels the kids against it, but it’s hard to resist the orgasmic kick, and tougher to believe it’ll corrupt your blood until you turn ghoul. And it doesn’t help that young ghouls aren’t as easy to spot as mature ones.”
“Yeah. Desperate times, desperate measures.”
“Hell.” Stefan took a long drink of his beer. “You know she’s probably in there testing your wards right now. Tell me you covered that AC unit.”
“Of course I did.” Griff shrugged. “In her current condition, she couldn’t pop an unprotected windowpane.”
“That one would put her fist through the window. She’ll recover quickly, you know.”
“I have things under control.”
“We’ve controlled damned little since that godawful day you fought your way out of the Collegium.” Stefan’s lips tightened briefly. “If I hadn’t come to you about the Council—”
“More people would’ve died, you among them.” Griff shook his head. “We did what we had to. Now we have to keep hunting, be ready when the traitor on the Council makes a mistake.”
“Preferably before you get yourself killed.”
“I know what I’m doing.” He hoped. “Thanks for taking Will that amulet the ghouls used on Banning. He called earlier to say he hasn’t figured it out, so he’s asking his parents to test it in their archaeology lab. You could take him that packet on the bar and ask him to dig into the lore on dark forces, see if he can figure out the ghouls’ plan.”
Stefan’s grim look said the subject wasn’t closed, but he set his beer down and slid off the stool. “At least the blood samples I took from her may help with the antivenom.”
“How’s that going?” A vaccine that could render mages immune to venom would undercut the ghouls’ numerical superiority. Maybe it would even cleanse Griff’s blood, however unlikely that was.
“I have a crude formula I’m not ready to test.” Probing Griff’s face, Stefan’s eyes narrowed. “Watch yourself with her. That pretty face hides a will as determined as yours.”
Griff shrugged. Pretty didn’t begin to describe her. Now that he’d met her again, seen her courage and jousted verbally with her, intriguing also felt like an understatement.
“Be careful going back,” he said. “As you leave, take that pot on the stove to the downstairs crew. Dumpster diving hasn’t paid off lately.”
“They could get an actual meal at the shelter in town.”
“They want to be independent, I guess. They won’t take much from me if they can avoid it.” The eighteen or so homeless people living on the ground floor had created a community of sorts. He had to give them credit for trying to help each other.
Looking resigned, Stefan hoisted the pot. Griff walked him to the door and locked it behind him. The protective ward sparkled faint green for a heartbeat as Griff sealed it again.
A whisper of power, the barest hint, brushed his mind, and he smiled. She was testing the wards, as they suspected. Subtly but methodically testing. Valeria Banning had intelligence, skill, and integrity along with a lot of raw power. Even wearing only bandages and his shirt, she remained coolly self-possessed.
As for what the shirt concealed…
No. Not going there, even though the memory heated his blood. He had more important goals, and they depended on his convincing her of the truth about the traitor in the Collegium.
If he couldn’t, his best hope of security lay in wiping his info from her memory, a risky process that could leave her worse than dead if his control slipped at all.
She didn’t deserve that, and doing it would go against everything he believed. But if he couldn’t stomach that, telling her the truth would put his life and the l
ives of his friends directly in the Collegium’s sights.
Only an idiot, or maybe a Pollyanna, would trust her safety to the word of someone who was very likely a murderer. Sitting behind the door with one hand on the wall, attuned to the ward, Val waited for his return. She could break the window, escape through it, but she hadn’t been able to sense the ground. She might be too far up to jump, and in her weakened state, unable to translocate, she couldn’t outrun pursuit.
So her best chance to escape, maybe even capture the man, lay in ambushing him. Even though she still needed a few days to reach full fighting power. Magical healing could only speed recovery by so much, but she couldn’t risk waiting.
The more she thought about him, the more she believed he was Griffin Dare, no matter what name he gave her. The smart play was to proceed on that assumption until she knew otherwise.
His evasion about why he kept her here could only mean he had a purpose she wouldn’t like. Besides, if he was Dare, she had a duty to bring him in for execution. Even though he’d been condemned in his absence, without a trial. That went against her grain, but so did letting a man who’d killed mages roam free.
At least she had surprise on her side. One failure was enough for this week.
A failure he’d saved her from.
Okay, so maybe she wouldn’t hurt him if she could avoid it.
Which was a crazy thought about a man holding her prisoner, a man already sentenced to death. Even if he had rescued her.
Dare had killed too many mages to deserve mercy, no matter what else he had or hadn’t done. Five had died at his hand, including the chief councilor, as he’d fled the Collegium, and he’d killed at least two more, maybe three, since.
She rolled her tight shoulders. As a cadet, she’d met him a couple of times, and he’d treated her, as he did all the cadets, with interest and tact, even when pointing out errors. She’d admired him, maybe even had a crush on him.
She hadn’t been the only one. With his clean-cut good looks, eyes the blue of a sunlit ocean, and tall, muscular body, he’d been a walking chick magnet. And the way he moved…Even then, his skill with a quarterstaff and his tactical abilities were legend.
Then they’d become notorious. Reviled.
Val shook her head. What a waste. But maybe this man wasn’t Dare. Maybe Griffin Dare was long dead, his shredded honor mere dust on a distant wind.
Yeah, and maybe she’d win the Nobel Peace Prize this year.
Once she had him secured, she could find his phone and call for backup.
A faint ripple in the warding warned of its creator approaching. She stood and hoisted the chair, grimacing at the pain in her injured arms and shoulders.
“You’ve been busy, if not smart,” he said through the door.
Did he know she was there, or was he guessing? Or scrying? The chair’s weight dragged at her sore arms.
“I know you’re standing by the door, beside the hinges.” Amusement warmed his voice. “Where I would.”
He was laughing at her? She would kill him.
“Holding that chair has to hurt your wounded arms.” He paused. “I can stand here until your strength fails. Or I walk in, you whack me, and I drop dinner to clock you with a knockout punch.”
He’d be the one knocked out.
He sighed. “I can outwait you, and I’m not blind or hurt. Give it up and eat.”
Her arms shook. The blasted chair felt as though it were made of granite. She couldn’t hold it much longer.
Now the crazy bastard was whistling! Furious, she smashed the chair against the door. It made a satisfying crash but no cracking sound, no hint of breaking.
She was weaker than she’d known. Hell, blast, and damnation! Her one chance, gone. Tears of frustration welled in her eyes, stinging like new venom, and she gasped.
“What’s wrong? Valeria, what is it?”
Stumbling away from the door, she choked on a sob. Hell with that. She would not let him hear her cry.
The salty liquid seared her injured eyes, and a whimper escaped. Her foot caught on the rug and she pitched forward. When her hands struck the braided fabric, it skidded. Val crashed onto her face.
Black agony rolled over her, obliterating the world. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move.
Hands closed gently on her shoulders. Power rolled into her, dialing back the agony. Strengthening her.
“Breathe,” he urged, gently turning her onto her back. “C’mon, honey, breathe.” His arm slid under her legs, warm, bare skin to her bare skin, and he cradled her against his solid, cotton-covered chest.
“I’m not—your—honey,” she choked. Yet she couldn’t help turning toward him, resting against his strength, until the pain ebbed.
“Glad to see your grit survived the fall.” He rose, lifting her easily.
She clutched his shoulders for balance and caught scents of bay leaf and sweat. His shoulders felt wide and solid—reliable, she might’ve said if he were any other man.
“Let’s put you to bed. You’ve had enough exercise for one day. Then you can eat, and we’ll put fresh salve on your eyes.”
He wasn’t even angry. What kind of weird game was he playing, being so kind?
Worse, she felt safe in his arms, as though he were the kind of man Griffin Dare once had been, the man who’d led the mage squad who’d avenged her parents.
But that was dangerous thinking. She mustn’t let him confuse her. If he hadn’t kept her here, she wouldn’t have fallen in the first place.
If she felt safe with him, it was only because he’d rescued her, then taken care of her. Like patient-doctor dependence, a weird head game. Like Stockholm syndrome, captive attraction to captor. She had to shake it off.
“What happened?” he asked.
“I tripped.” Duh.
He eased her onto the bed. “Before that. When you gasped and stumbled.”
“I had a flash of eye pain.” She wasn’t about to admit she’d teared up in frustration.
He drew his arms away, straightening. For an instant, she wanted them back. Stupid, stupid.
He propped pillows behind her. When he drew the covers over her bare legs, the bay scent teased her nose again.
“This is your bed.” Val tensed. Sleeping in his bed felt far too intimate. Too trusting.
“It’s the only bed I’ve got. Sorry I didn’t have a chance to change the linens. They’ve had only a couple of nights’ use.” After a moment, he added, “I’m taking the couch. I told you, you’re safe here.”
Her heart beat faster with nerves, but she had to push him, had to know if he meant her harm. “Safe? Like a prisoner on death row?”
His frustration spiked in the magic between them, a punch that echoed in her own chest. It must be intense, or she wouldn’t have felt it with her power so low and no physical contact.
“More like a witness in a safe house,” he said.
“Then give me your hand so I can probe.”
“No. I carry secrets other than my own.” Before she could argue, he said, “Straighten out your legs. I have a bed tray to set over them.”
The aromas of baked chicken and warm bread made her mouth water. Her stomach growled, but she ignored it. Chicken. Meat. A knife to cut it. She could work wonders with a knife.
“Napkin and spoon on the left,” he said lightly. “You have chicken at nine o’clock, broccoli at noon, and a buttered roll at three. Lemonade at one o’clock beside the plate.”
“It smells good.” A little courtesy couldn’t hurt, so she added, “Thank you.” The way he’d described the food on her plate—that was a clue.
“I hope you like it. I cut everything up already, and I’m sorry, but you’ll have to make do with a spoon. I’m not giving anything sharp to someone who fights with a blade.”
Damn. She groped for the spoon. Could she transmute it into a blade? Rubbing her finger along the spoon as she heard him walk away, she summoned power. A bit came. Not nearly enough for a transmutation
.
She sipped lemonade, and the answer hit her, the reason his description of the food mattered. Carefully she set the glass down.
The sound of his footsteps approached. A thump, then a creak, as though he’d put the chair down and sat in it. “All right?”
“Fine.” Better to know what he intended than to let him toy with her any longer. “Your sister served me lemonade when I interviewed her, not long after I became reeve three years ago.”
For a beat, a telltale moment, he hesitated. “I don’t have a sister.” His voice sounded a hair too controlled.
“You described the food locations for me easily. As though you’d dealt with someone blind before, like Caroline Dare.”
“Just common sense.”
“Common sense says if it walks like a duck, quacks like a duck…Few mages train with quarterstaves anymore, but you wield one as though you’d been born using it. You’ve expert knowledge of mage lore but don’t trust the Collegium. And you know how to describe a plate of food to a blind person. Those three factors add up to only one man.
“Cut the bullshit, Dare, and tell me what you want.”
Danger is nothing new to mage firefighter Edie Lang, but she’d run cheerfully into a blazing forest rather than face Josh Campbell, the hot-as-hell flyboy who once pushed her away .
See the next page for an excerpt from Protector.
1
Okefenokee Swamp, Georgia
Present Day
Of all the helicopter pilots who could’ve flown this medevac run, why did Josh Campbell have to be the one who showed up? Edie Lang snatched a sidelong look at him. His tall, broad-shouldered form seemed to take up more than his share of the cockpit space. Or maybe her unwelcome awareness of him caused that crowded sensation.
His headset and tan ball cap hid most of his sun-kissed, light brown hair but emphasized his profile. Josh’s straight nose and strong chin might’ve graced a classical statue. Intently tracking the burning landscape, his eyes were green today, like his flight suit, but an intriguing mix of green and brown when he wore street clothes.
Guardian (The Protectors Series) Page 34