Midnight Crusader

by Nancy Gideon

  The kid looked up in alarm when she pulled back and began battling for possession of the handbag instead of doing the sensible, expected thing. His gaunt face was a pin cushion of metal piercings. A tattoo crawled up from beneath the neckband of his dirty tee shirt. He couldn't have been more than sixteen or seventeen. Just a child. Then his expression grew old and ugly.

  "Let go, bitch, before you get hurt."

  And a small blade appeared in his hand as if to prove that point.

  Tenaciously, she dug in her heels and looped the cheap imitation leather strap around her wrist. When he jerked her purse, she was pulled forward to fall hard upon her knees. Pain burned from that rough contact. Still, she wouldn't let go.

  The knife slashed in a motion too quick to follow, and she gasped as it severed the strap and her last hold upon her belongings.

  None of the passersby who glanced down at the woman on hands and knees offered assistance. They quickly walked on. As if she wasn't worth the involvement of a simple gesture. Until one hand extended down to her, palm up in expectation.

  Her gaze lifted. Through the shimmer of anguish, his blond head was haloed by an ethereal light, making her think for just a moment, Could this be my angel?

  He could have been. Easily, his was one of the most striking faces she'd ever seen, with its dramatic bone structure, strong jaw and sensitive mouth that played intriguingly against that fierce setting. And his eyes ... Set beneath the tousle of fair hair and unyielding horizontal slash of his brows, they were dark, piercing her with a brooding intensity. The kind of penetrating gaze one would feel in a crowd.

  Was he...? Was his the gaze following her each night?

  She should have been afraid once that thought surfaced. But there was no fear in the timid way her hand slipped across his palm.

  Rough and cool.

  His fingers closed about hers with a protective strength both confident and comforting. She rose to her feet with his firm guidance. Her knees wouldn't stop trembling.

  "Are you all right?"

  Such quiet power in his voice made his words resonate with a concern far outweighing the interest of one stranger in another's plight. The depth of emotion in that simple phrase brought a dampening of gratitude to her uplifted gaze. She tried to speak. Her lips moved but no sound issued. She was very aware that he hadn't released her hand. His thumb moved across her knuckles in slow, searching revolutions. She fought the need to tighten her grip, instead letting her fingers rest casually in his palm. As if they belonged there. Her whole body felt relaxed and comfortable in its familiarity with this man, this stranger, and she marveled at that, she who never experienced a lessening of her guard with a member of the opposite sex no matter how well she knew him.

  "You should not have resisted. You might have been hurt."

  His scolding was like his voice—gentle, persuasive and driven by regard for her safety.

  "I know.” Her own response quivered, not with apology but with acceptance of consequence. She gasped slightly when he extended her purse. Taking it in her free hand, she crushed it to her rapidly beating heart.

  "There is nothing in there worth the risk. Just things."

  Her chin came up a notch. Her tone firmed. “My things."

  He smiled then, just a small curve of his mouth that managed to convey his amused admiration as well as exasperation. “Nothing worth the risk,” he repeated softly.

  "Thank you...?” She let that linger, waiting for him to finish it.

  "Gabriel."

  Like the angel.

  He studied her with that consuming intensity. An urgent expectation steeped in his dark gaze as if he hoped to receive something in return. Was he waiting for some sort of reward? She had a five-dollar bill in her change purse. That seemed woefully inadequate.

  Slowly anticipation dimmed to disappointment. She'd failed him somehow, without intention or understanding, and she wished she knew how to make amends.

  "I will see you again, Gabriel.” Not a question for she felt it with a certainty.

  His expression lightened. His gaze dazzled with promise. However, his response was carefully tempered with restraint.

  "If you wish."

  And he brought her hand up, carrying it like something cherished to meet the soft, sweet touch of his lips. Her insides liquefied with heat and a giddy delight at that surprising, courtly gesture. He could have had her then with a word. She would have gone with him anywhere, walking away from her shell of a life without an instant of regret to chase the fleeting beauty of that moment. As if following him was the most natural thing in the world.

  But he stepped back, releasing her hand to break the spell.

  Someone jostled her arm. She glanced away for only an instant. But it took only that instant for him to disappear, leaving her oddly bereft and so alone on that crowded walk.

  He hadn't asked her name.

  He knew it, she was sure, believing the moment their gazes met for an acquainting union that he knew everything about her. But how was that possible? How could she feel such kinship, such a compelling closeness, to a man she'd never seen before? But would see again.

  * * * *

  He sank back into the shadows, watching her confusion as she scanned the sidewalks for him. He stayed out of sight with an anguished purpose. He hadn't meant to reveal himself to her, not so soon, not so spontaneously without planning the result.

  But he had, and he had his answer.

  He passed his hand across his eyes, covering the tender torment that came with beholding her image. The sound that escaped him was half strangled sob, half moan of longing.

  She didn't know him.

  No recognition sparked her gaze. No awareness leapt at the sound of his name.

  He meant nothing to her.

  How could that be when she was the very breath in his body, the very reason for his heart to continue beating in its unnatural rhythm somewhere between heaven and hell?

  The scent of her lingered. The perfume she wore had passed from her tender skin to his hand, and he inhaled deeply until intoxicated by fragrant memory. Violets. Her favorite. The delicate bouquet had teased him through centuries, quickening his hopes, his desires, his dreams.

  She was here. And she would be his at last.

  And he would never, ever let her go again.

  * * * *

  The elevator doors closed upon the construction noise from the game floor. Silence rode up with her to the very top of the sprawling hotel, opening upon a brilliant vista of the city at play that never failed to steal away her breath.

  Quickly, she went to her desk, shutting her damaged handbag in the bottom drawer before flicking on her computer screen to the serene field of aquarium fish.

  "It's not like you to be late."

  She jumped slightly even though she should be used to not hearing his approach.

  "I'm sorry. I had a bit of an adventure on the Strip."

  "Oh?” A question with real interest in her answer.

  "Someone tried to steal my purse."

  "How alarming. Are you all right?"

  Again, sincerity rang in his response, warming the chill that seeped through her.

  "Yes, of course."

  "Good. Step into my office, Miss Bright. You've made me late for my appointment."

  Again, she murmured her apology. She rose from her work space and went briskly, efficiently into his massive office, where the chill of the air conditioner woke gooseflesh upon her arms once more.

  Or maybe it was the way he moved up so silently behind her after closing the door.

  Automatically, she removed the decorative scarf she wore about her neck, baring her throat to the sudden cool brush of his lips.

  To the sudden sharp sting of his teeth.

  She closed her eyes and let herself drift and dream.

  Dreaming of the Angel Gabriel while caught in a demon's embrace.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Three

  "I
've found her."

  "Gabriel, that's wonderful,” gushed the voice on the other end of the connection. Then a pause. “Isn't it?"

  "She doesn't know me, Rae."

  He didn't have to say more than that. His friend and former partner read between the lines even with the width of the continent separating them. That's why he'd called. Words weren't necessary.

  "After what she's been through, it's to be expected. Gabriel, she suffered a tremendous trauma.” Another pause then a quiet, “Is Zanlos with her?"

  Right to business. That was Rae Borden, too. “I haven't seen him, but I know he's here. I know he still controls her, even more so now than before."

  Rae's voice toughened. “Are you in over your head out there? Do you need me to watch your back?"

  He laughed, and much of his tension drained away with that simple act of lightness. It was good to have friends. “And just when is that baby due, Sugar Rae? Your husband would never forgive me if you dropped it on the plane flying out here."

  "Well then you'd have the both of us there to support you.” She sighed in frustration. “I feel like I'm letting you down when you need me."

  "I'm fine, Rae. Really. It's Naomi I'm worried about. I can't be there to protect her during the daylight hours. I can't get close enough to be a confidant to learn what I need to know about Zanlos."

  Rae was silent for a long moment. He could almost hear the gears turning. Affection for the street smart former Detroit cop warmed him like an embrace across the miles and states between them.

  "I know someone who might help. Let me call in a favor and get back to you. Until then, you be careful. I don't have that many friends that I can afford to lose them, especially when I plan to name them godfather to my son."

  Emotion crowded thick and achy in his chest, preventing a reply.

  "Unless you'd rather not."

  He flushed the clogging sentiment with a rough clearing of his throat, but his words still rumbled. “I'd be honored."

  "Then don't underestimate Zanlos. You're not expendable, Gabriel, no matter what allegiance you feel toward Marchand. You owe it to Naomi and to me and your godson to practice caution."

  He laughed again. “This, coming from you?"

  "Voice of experience."

  He put his cell phone away along with many of his worries, having no doubt that ex-detective Borden would come through for him. Naomi would be protected, and he could concentrate on his other reason for coming to Las Vegas.

  That meant getting into the personal and private business of one Kazmir Zanlos without him knowing it. Without the Vegas police knowing it. Without Naomi Bright knowing it.

  Marchand LaValois, who controlled the elite group he worked for, would call it justice.

  Gabriel called it revenge.

  A punch to the shoulder snapped his musings.

  "Ready to meet your match on the field of honor?"

  He looked up at Rolland with a cocky grin. “Have you seen one?"

  Slow to respond to his humor, Rolland finally allowed a thin smile. “Were this a contest in truth, we would see."

  "And perhaps I would not be the one on my back."

  The passage of time had lessened Rolland's insecurities. What Gabriel saw in his friend was no longer a lover but a fighter. How could their kind not be, considering what was necessary for them to survive? That had been Gabriel's gift to his best friend, and he felt a sharp gnawing of guilt because this change had been his fault, his responsibility. Like Naomi.

  He missed and mourned the loss of the gentle, poetic soul Rolland had been. He didn't know this narrow-eyed warrior, but he knew the events that had shaped him. The hunger. The stalking. The occasional killing. It hardened the heart. It took a savage toll on the spirit. And for Rolland, who had never known the horrors of war, it had been a tremendous shock. It forever changed the man he had been into the like creature who stood before him.

  And for that reason Gabriel had purposefully avoided him. It was just too hard being with him the way he was now when Gabriel remembered so clearly, so wistfully, who he had been. They'd lost touch with one another, going in different directions to make sense of what they'd become. Rolland's phone call had come as a complete surprise. But it hadn't been a misty-eyed homecoming of two old, dear friends. Rolland met him as an equal, as a comrade in arms. As a challenge. And though he could still see the old Rollie shadowed behind this new tough-edged being, Gabriel guessed that the gentle poet was more memory than habit.

  And so Gabriel should have known better than to bait him, but he wasn't without his own share of arrogance. Since they'd last jousted to sharpen their skills lifetimes ago, Gabriel had been honing his in both mind and body. He'd mastered disciplines of self-defense and martial arts from all around the globe. He'd studied self-control and inner harmony in mountaintop temples. He'd experienced war firsthand upon bloody fields both foreign and domestic with everything from flintlock to grenade launchers. But he'd never surrendered his love for the primitive one-on-one that came with the clashing of metal upon metal, with bone and muscle. He'd been bred to be a knight, a bold warrior soldier who believed in honor above all things. Even winning.

  A concept Rolland had obviously set aside.

  For the next three nights, Rolland proved what mattered most. It was the cheer of the crowd. After he bore down upon Gabriel in increasingly aggressive attacks until Gabriel was left bruised beyond necessity, Rolland was taken aside by the show's director for a talk on self-restraint. It was just a game, after all. Just pretend.

  But that's where Jonathon, their meticulous scripter, was wrong. It wasn't a game, not to men who'd for centuries played to win.

  Gabriel should have suspected the problem. His friend coveted the favor of the audience, the flutter of pennants, the swooning glances of the ladies. Rollie the Poet hadn't had the heart for focused competition. But Rolland, the preternatural being, who was beyond the reach of harm and so far above the normal skills and abilities of the others in the ring, needed a challenge, an equal upon whom to test himself. And to him, victory was all. At any cost, by any means.

  As Gabriel ruefully discovered in the arena when an unscripted and forbidden strike to his head sent his helm flying and him tumbling to the dirt.

  From his back, he saw Rolland's jaunty salute.

  And with his keen senses, he heard above the cheers, above the roaring thunder in his ears, one frail voice, taut with fear and anguish.

  "Gabriel!"

  Naomi!

  He tried to sit up, but the world spun for long disorienting seconds. She was here. Her absence for the past three nights had had him in a fever of anxiety. But she was back. And she was calling to him by name. Not to the stranger who'd rescued her handbag but to the knight who still wore her token beneath his shirt, close to his heart. Calling as if she knew him. As if she feared for him.

  By the time his head cleared enough to distinguish faces in the crowd, hers was not among them.

  Had he imagined it, then?

  Had his own desperate longing placed the sound of her voice, the call of his name, within his frantic mind?

  Unable to walk away from the show with one more “contest of strength and skill” remaining, he dragged himself up from the arena floor as the spotlights sought the next challenger.

  Real or imagined?

  The momentary doubt joined centuries of unanswered questions. But he would have them settled to his satisfaction.

  And soon.

  * * * *

  For three days, she'd fought the compulsion. She could beat this addiction. But after three days of restless, near feverish agitation, after three nights of next to no sleep and shadowed dreams, she couldn't continue the battle.

  She didn't know why she couldn't stay away. All Naomi Bright knew was when she approached the gaudy white castle with its colorful spires, her heart beat with life and expectation. When she heard the music and breathed in the scent of horse and man and excitement, the huge, frightening void wi
thin her soul began to fill.

  She felt as though she was coming home. And that was more than enough reason for someone who couldn't remember where home was. Or even who she was. Within the impersonal tiers of revelers, with her finger food served up in faux medieval style, she indulged in a sense of déjà vu as comforting as it was confusing. And like her restless dreams, as tantalizing as it was terrifying.

  How normal is that, Naomi-girl? Isn't that more than just a little nuts?

  She sat in her reserved seat, in the Green Knight's section, her fingers clutching the edge of her chair, her pulse pounding like mad as a crazy thrill of anticipation swirled through her. As she looked down upon the arena, she couldn't be certain the images she saw were part of the evening's entertainment or an extension of the persistent nightmare through which she walked alone.

  It was coming.

  Asleep or awake, madness or make believe, it swept up and over her. A chill wave she couldn't escape, its undertow pulled her quickly down beneath the surface of sanity. She was drowning right there in her seat, surrounded by strangers. Couldn't they tell something was wrong? And as hard as she tried to grasp for a sense of place and time, it eluded her on the turbulent sea of uncertainty.

  Sensations swelled up inside her, so much more intense, so much bigger than the scene she witnessed. Where this combat was a sanitized version of days of old, she could see—transposed like a double exposure—another field of battle, another crowd of onlookers, these clad in gowns and garters instead of denim and tee shirts. Even the smells heightened as she drew in quick little breaths. The greasy odor of poorly cooked fowl, the sour stench of unwashed bodies pressed close, not in a climate-controlled hotel but beneath the chill drizzle of an overcast sky. The sounds became a cacophony of noise and music and voices, layering one atop the other into a discordant mix heard by her ears alone, as if she was watching one event while listening to another on a stereo headset. Trumpets blared, yet she knew there were no horns. Armor clanked and rattled while voices all around her spoke with an accent not native to either clime or country.