Nightwing

by Lynn Michaels

  “I love you so much. I want you so much.” Tears jeweled his dark lashes when he raised his head. “But not here, not in this place.”

  A shiver ran through him, and Willie, recalling the long, awful night she’d spent here. She couldn’t begin to imagine what it had been like for him, wasn’t sure she wanted to know, or would ever have the courage to ask.

  “I’ll get your clothes.” She slipped away, hugging the chill she felt after the warmth of his arms, down the steps to his folded clothes. Both sets. “Which ones?”

  When she turned around he was sitting on the side of the altar, the shirt draped modestly over his lap. He was wincing and clutching his abdomen. Dread seized Willie. She flew in a panic up the steps, afraid to touch him, afraid not to, her hands fluttering around his face.

  “What’s wrong? Are you sick? Do you need a doctor? Oh, God. You are a doctor. Are you all right?”

  “Willie, hush.” He caught her hands and held them tightly, reassuringly. “I’m fine. I’m just hungry.”

  His stomach growled. Willie didn’t mean to cry, she meant to laugh, but she burst into tears as she wheeled off the dais, snatched up her pack and dashed back, digging out one of the apples he’d bought her in Nuoro.

  It was bruised and battered, but so was he. And so moved by the joy and relief glistening through her wet lashes that his throat ached. He took the apple, then captured her mouth with his, tasted the salt in her tears and wondered what he’d ever done to deserve such a woman.

  “Dearest Willie. My darling Willow.” He took her hands again, pressed and held them to his chest. “Will you be my wife? Will you marry me?”

  He felt the pulse in her wrist leap; she felt his heart pound. Yes, she wanted to shout, yes, yes! He saw it in her eyes and felt his heart begin to swell, then freeze when her smile curved downward.

  “Are you sure? I mean, really? This isn’t some post-vampire hormone rush?”

  “Oh, yes. Most definitely.” Her face fell and he laughed, folding her against him, pressing his cheek against her hair. How he loved her hair, every wind-snarled, salt-frizzled curl of it. “It’s also a proposal. I’d go down on one knee, but I’m not dressed for it.”

  “Then yes. Oh, yes.” She raised her face and her index finger, her eyes glistening with mischief. “Change your mind and I’ll put another stake through your heart.”

  “I won’t change my mind between here and the beach.” He kissed her nose. “That’s where Father Bertram is waiting to perform the ceremony.”

  “Here?” Her eyes widened with dismay. Her fingers plucked at her dirty jeans and his ruined shirt. “Now?”

  “Why do you think I asked him to come?”

  “I thought—” Willie stopped, swamped with tears and confusion. She thought he’d asked Father Bertram to come to help her clean up the mess, but she couldn’t say it.

  She didn’t have to; he read it in her face. “You thought Raven asked him to come, didn’t you?” She nodded, blinking and biting her lip. He said as gently as he could, “I did.”

  “But I thought Raven—I mean, I didn’t think he—” She stammered to a halt, her pulse thudding visibly, uncertainty flickering in her gaze. “Who are you?”

  “Who do you think I am?”

  “I thought you were Johnny.”

  “I am, Willie.”

  “Where’s Raven?”

  “Right here, Willow.” He tapped his chest.

  Panic leapt in her eyes. He thought she meant to bolt. He didn’t blame her, but he wouldn’t have let her. Instead she grabbed the stake out of her belt loop, gripped it like a knife and blinked at it. She looked—stunned.

  He didn’t know why. It was just a sliver of old wood to him now, worn smooth and dulled by time, the tip rounded and so blunt he couldn’t think how she’d managed to drive it through his chest. Nor did he want to.

  “I get it now. I think.” She let the stake fall and tipped her head at him. “Father Bertram was right. I did come here with Humpty and Dumpty, didn’t I?”

  “Humpty and Dumpty?” His eyebrows shot up and his shoulders went stiff with indignation.

  He looked so insulted Willie laughed. She laughed until she cried, until her knees buckled and dumped her, hard, on her tailbone on the floor of the dais. He shot off the altar to catch her, one-handed; the other hand still clutched the shirt to his loins.

  His knees were no steadier than hers. He fell on them in front of her, felt a slice of pain in the left one and cried, “Ow!” He rocked back and saw blood. A sharp-edged sliver of marble stuck to his knee.

  “You’re bleeding.” She sprang up and flung her arms around his neck. “Oh, Johnny, you’re bleeding!”

  And flaming suddenly with lust as sweet and lush as the soft curves of her breasts. He swept her against him, under him and rolled over her, thrusting against her hard, twice, before he realized what he was doing and managed, somehow, to stop himself.

  “No. Not like this.” He pushed up on his elbows and sucked a breath before he dared look at her. “I won’t take you like an animal in this heathen place.”

  “You aren’t an animal. Or a monster. Not anymore.” She smiled, her face flushed, mischief flirting in the curve of her smile and love—love for him. God, what a miracle—glowing in her eyes. “I don’t mind. I love you.”

  “Willie, think.” He needed her to, because he couldn’t think beyond the need throbbing between them. “If I take you to my bed without vows, your father will never receive me.”

  “Oh, Johnny.” Willie laughed. She couldn’t help it.

  “You dear, darling, wonderful, sweet man.” She cupped his face and kissed his chin, felt the scrape of his whiskers and grinned. “Just wait till you meet my father.”

  He sat up, pulled her closer to him and said, “Close your eyes.” She did, and opened them when he said, “All right. Toss me my pants,” and saw him standing behind the altar.

  His modesty was a total one-eighty from the shamelessness of the brazenly naked man who’d laughed at her in his living room in Stonebridge. She went down the steps for the black trousers and pitched them to him. He caught them and asked, “Do you think your father will approve of me?”

  “He’ll adore you.”

  “Why?” She heard him zip up and watched him shrug into his shirt, his smile as smoky as his gray eyes. “Because you do?”

  “Hell, no.” Willie laughed. “He’ll love you because you’re rich and you’re a doctor. He’ll want to see your medical degree, though.”

  “All eight of them?” he asked, buttoning his shirt as he came around the altar.

  “You’ve got eight medical degrees?”

  “Not all in my name, but yes.” He tucked in his shirt and sat down to put on his shoes. “I had to appear to die every so often, if you’ll recall.”

  Willie doubted she’d ever forget, but it didn’t matter. Not when he stood, held out his hand to her and asked, “Ready?”

  “I’ve been ready my whole life.” She slipped her fingers into his and felt them close warm and solid around hers. “Since the starfish stung me and you kissed my nose.”

  A startled flicker lit his eyes. “You remember?”

  “Yes, I told you. In my office.” A tiny frown puckered his mouth. “In the mirror,” she prodded and he said, “Oh, yes. I remember now.”

  He didn’t, but it didn’t matter. She remembered and she knew—though she hadn’t a clue how—that she was meant for this, meant for him. And it was enough.

  He helped her tuck his boots and breeches in the pack, swung it on his back and carried the sleeping bag in his left hand, where the moonstone still flashed on his finger. With his right hand he held her hand and led her out of the temple.

  Neither one of them saw the black shadow that slipped out of a dark corner the sun had yet to reach. Neither of them sensed it slithering in their wake, slow and sinuous as a snake.

  Chapter 24

  They were married on the beach, the sand dazzling and alread
y hot, the sun bouncing off the glassy blue Mediterranean. The ceremony was in Latin, by Father Bertram, which took a while. Long enough to sunburn Johnny’s nose.

  Willie noticed the burn midway through their wedding breakfast, a picnic provided by Father Bertram. She waited until Johnny washed down a mouthful of chicken with a swallow of champagne and then kissed him, lightly, on the very tip.

  “Ouch!” He jerked away and rubbed his nose. “Ow!” He winced and then grinned at her. “I’m sunburned, aren’t I?”

  “Yep.” Willie kissed him again, gently. “Right there.”

  “Let me see.” Father Bertram leaned toward him, lifting one hand and peering through the spectacles he’d needed to read the marriage lines. “You have to be careful.”

  “Oh, Bertie, don’t fuss!” Johnny brushed him away, sprang off the blanket spread in the shade of the almond grove and ran barefoot down the beach.

  He’d taken off his shoes and rolled up his pants after the wedding. Willie watched him splash into the surf and lean forward to admire the reflection of his red nose. He was her husband, Jonathan William Edward Raven, and he’d promised to love, honor and cherish her. Willow Elizabeth Christine Evans.

  “How careful does he have to be?”

  “He should always use sunblock and wear a hat.”

  Father Bertram was watching Johnny and frowning, the brim of his padre hat fluttering in the salty offshore breeze.

  “Why does he call you Bertie?”

  “That was my name before I was Enthralled. That’s what vampires call their human slaves. I was Raven’s Thrall until he released me.” He pursed his lips and filled the plastic champagne cup in Willie’s hand. “That was back m—1906.”

  Willie emptied her glass in one quick, heady swallow that left her gasping. “How old are you?”

  “A hundred and sixty-seven, but I’m not immortal. I’ll die eventually. I’ve aged a bit since Raven let me go, since he stopped feeding.” He showed her the scars on both wrists, the faint white nicks left unmistakably by fangs. “I’m the one who brought him the Riddle of Rejoining.”

  “Then I thank you, Father, with all my heart.”

  “Thank God it worked, Willie. I was merely doing His work, even then, when I was a Thrall. Raven let me go once he’d deciphered the Riddle, because human beings don’t enslave other human beings. He was a rare vampire.”

  The wind stiffened, rustling the almond trees. One corner of the blanket fluttered. So did Johnny’s hair as he turned his face up to the sun.

  “Will he be all right now, do you think?”

  “If you can keep him out of the sun,” Father Bertram said and then gave Willie a grave frown. “And if you can convince him to give the moonstone back to Nekhat. If he remembers he’ll want to keep it.”

  Willie shivered and glanced down the beach at Johnny coming toward them. He smiled and stretched a hand out to her when he reached the blanket, pulled her up and swept an arm around her waist.

  “It’s time to go,” he murmured, nuzzling her throat.

  Past time, Willie thought as he pressed himself against her. His eyes, half-lidded and smoky, said the same thing.

  “Can we drop you somewhere, Bertie?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. This is your honeymoon.” He winked at Willie and tapped his white collar. “I’m an easy pickup in this.”

  On the back seat of the Fiat there was a large box wrapped in white paper. The card attached to the ribbon said, “For the bride, with love from Father Bertram. P.S. Keep in mind I wasn’t always a priest.”

  While Johnny drove, Willie opened it, peeled back the tissue paper and shrieked.

  He glanced at her sideways. Her cheeks were nearly as red as her hair. “What’s in there?”

  “Give me twenty minutes in a bathroom—” Willie clapped the lid back on”—and you’ll find out.”

  They soon arrived at their destination. But he didn’t want to give her twenty seconds in the bathroom. He wanted her naked and underneath him—or naked and on top of him, whichever she preferred—in the king-size bed overhung with chiffon drapes that stirred in the breeze blowing through French doors. The latter led onto a covered, walled lanai with a hot tub that overlooked a strip of pure white sand murmuring with lazy surf. Willie murmured, too, as she felt the soft down mattress.

  “Did you book this room before we left Stonebridge?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “You weren’t you then. You were Raven. I can’t feature him doing anything like this.” She looked around the room and shook her head. “Maybe I don’t get it, after all.”

  “I don’t understand it all, either, if it makes you feel any better. I remember thinking you’d like it here.”

  “Oh, I do. It’s beautiful. A sitting room, his and her bathrooms. A lanai and a private beach.” She smiled at him, her eyes shining. “It’s the honeymoon cabana, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” He shut the French doors and turned the key behind him. “You do realize you’re locked in a room with a man who hasn’t had a woman in 116 years.”

  “Seventeen.” She picked up Bertie’s gift from the bed. “And boy, do I have a birthday present for you.”

  He dived at her and she ran, laughing, into the closest bathroom and locked the door. He spread his arms across it, leaned his forehead against it, listened to his heart pound and wondered why it didn’t burst with happiness.

  “Willie?”

  “Yes?”

  “Please don’t take twenty minutes.”

  “Oh, Johnny! There’s a Jacuzzi!”

  He groaned. She laughed. Then he grinned and raced into the other bathroom. In the mirror he could see the pulse thudding at the base of his throat. He touched it, marveling at the miracle, then rubbed his jaw with his hand and shivered at the scrape of his whiskers. He was mortal.

  He’d shower first and then shave. He’d already left a burn on Willie’s chin. He didn’t want to skin all the soft, sweet places he planned to kiss until she couldn’t breathe. He turned on the shower, stripped and then stood still and shaking, fully erect just thinking about it.

  Was she thinking about him? Was she nervous? What if he still frightened her? She wouldn’t be here, fool. She wouldn’t have married you. She was his wife. His bride. The first day of the rest of his life, indeed.

  He nicked himself shaving. On the throat, which gave him a nasty turn. He used the dryer the hotel provided on his hair, combed it back with his fingers and shook it around his shoulders. It wouldn’t break scissors now; he could cut it.

  He slapped a hand against his midriff and smiled at the ring of solid flesh. Then he held his breath and watched his abdominal muscles tighten, smooth as a washboard. Not bad for a 152-year-old man.

  His wife was still in the bathroom when he came out with a towel cinched around his waist. He hadn’t thought to bring the pajamas he owned but never wore.

  He felt the cut on his knee and the itch of his sunburn. He also felt a swell of loss and melancholy from the voices trapped in the moonstone, a flame of anger and a resolve to finish things with Nekhat, but he’d deal with them later. He felt too euphoric at the moment; his system was too shot with adrenaline—and testosterone.

  He looked down at himself and groaned. He couldn’t stand here jutting like a stag in rut. He closed the sheers and the heavier drapes on the French doors. The light fell somewhat but not enough. He would have to get into bed and drape a sheet artfully about his loins.

  He’d barely crossed the room when the bathroom door opened. He dropped to the side of the bed, wincing at the twinge in his left knee, stretched his arms across the mattress and laced his fingers. Fool, he thought. He looked as if he was praying.

  And he was, suddenly, for strength enough not to fling his wife on the floor. He watched her edge past the doorway, blinking and looking for him in the darkened room. She was wrapped in a towel, as she had been the first time he’d seen her, when she’d walked through him in her bedroom. This time, her towel was whit
e rather than yellow. She’d washed her hair and pinned it up. Wet tendrils clung to the sides of her neck.

  “Johnny?” Her voice was as thready as the pulse he could see skipping in the shiny hollow of her throat.

  “I’m here.” He smiled when she turned toward him, her head tipped curiously. “Is that Bertie’s gift?”

  “I’m saving that for later. What are you doing?”

  Wishing he had the decency to shrivel from embarrassment. Instead he ached as his gaze took in her round shoulders, her gleaming thighs; the towel-draped outline of her lithe, lush body. Oh, dear God, she was so small. He’d tear her to shreds if he took her like this.

  “I’m, ah, looking for my wallet.”

  “Oh.” She sighed and smiled. “I’ll help you.”

  “No!” He barked it so sharply she flinched. “We’ll find it later. Just get into bed.”

  “It won’t take a minute.”

  It’ll take less than that, he groaned, mesmerized by the quiver of her breasts beneath the towel as she darted around the bed. She knelt beside him and groped under the bed, the scent of sweet-smelling soap tantalizing on her skin.

  “I think I’ve got it.” She bumped and brushed against him. Her eyes leapt and she gasped softly, “Oh.” An instant flush, vivid even in the gloom, washed up her throat.

  He propped his elbows on the bed and buried his face in his hands, living proof that a man couldn’t die of humiliation. He felt her lips touch his shoulder and jerked his face up.

  “I’m not shocked,” she murmured gently. “I’m not a virgin, you know.”

  “Praise God for that,” he said, the drawn breath gusting out of him. She looked up and kissed his shoulder again.

  “Let me help you.” She scrambled onto the bed, peeled back the sheets, lay down and tucked one pillow behind her head, another under her hips.

  The upward tilt of her pelvis made him groan. She turned her head and reached for him, her hair a glimmering, dark red tangle on white silk. He laced his fingers in hers and let her tug him onto the bed. He wanted to lie beside her, but she drew him over her and spread her knees.