Oh, sweet beauty. His mind clouded, Adam and Segue and Earth receding from his consciousness. Adam would understand…
The mermaid smiled and teased one of her nipples.
A wave of desire flowed over Custo, painfully gathering at his groin. His sudden need washed away everything except the mermaid’s glorious undulating body. His gaze roved over her slick form, looking for a place to plug himself in and drown in ecstasy. Now that would be a good death!
A tremendous bellow snapped his attention again to the great wall. Shadowman’s low-pitched shout of rage shook the sandy shores of Heaven like an earthquake, the grains settling into fine, tiered ripples.
Uh oh. Seemed as though Death discovered that his love was not in Heaven.
The water rose with Shadowman’s anger, the boat perching precariously on a wave as the channel water retracted with a great sucking noise away from the forest’s shore.
The mermaid screeched and bared pointy piranha teeth before diving into the choppy waves.
Custo reared back—not the kind of kiss he’d been looking for.
A tsunami was building, the latent energy of the waters swelling beneath the boat. Custo looked for an oar. Nothing. An oar couldn’t save him anyway. He sat in the boat bottom and gripped the sides.
With a sudden rush, the boat was propelled toward the Shadowlands. He sailed through the air like a spear until the water hit the tree line and he lost his hold, tossed into the grip of a tree. He clung to the branches as water tumbled beneath him. The boat careened away, shattered nearby, and showered him with the splinters of Shadowman’s bitter disappointment.
Custo shook his head clear, the mermaid’s seduction receding with the water. She had utterly enslaved his mind, subsuming his purpose to her will. If her power over him was any indication, the Shadowlands was one seriously dangerous place.
He stayed in his nest until the water ebbed, rattling the branches in belated shock and scanning the density of the wood below for danger. Finding nothing, he picked his way down to the sludge. It was tight work. His jeans were plastered to his legs, restraining movement, and his shirt ripped under his sleeve on a bony branch, but he made it to the bottom and ran through the squishy mire into the darkness.
Mortality had to be on the other side of the forest, didn’t it? Through the deep trees and a bright crossing, Earth would just have to accommodate this no-name bastard again. Then Segue, and the message for Adam. After that, he had no idea.
The damp sent a chill running over his body, which he ignored as he pushed himself deeper to evade capture. There was no path, only shadow layered with black trunks, illuminated by a soft glow that had no discernable source. A woodsy smell predominated, not that he could ever guess the variety of the tree, nor care to. The rich earth below was layered with dead growth and cragged over with rambling tree roots.
He was much better suited to civilization. Give him a fight in an alley any day over a walk in the woods.
He stretched his mind again, but that sense had grown dumb in the forest. He couldn’t tell what was ahead or behind, not for sure. But there had to be a way to get back. Adam’s institute had documented ghosts. Segue was simply going to have to find room for one more haunt.
Bright red drew his attention to succulent berries hanging heavy and fat like grapes on the branches of a nearby bush. Custo’s mouth watered with their sweet, wet scent. His stomach felt suddenly, miserably hollow. How convenient that these should be right here when he needed them. He reached for a cluster, licking his lips in anticipation, but stopped himself.
He didn’t need to eat. He was dead.
Still, the berries promised a succulent burst of flavor in his mouth. Just one bite—
No. After the mermaid he couldn’t trust anything. Every story, every fairy tale he’d ever heard, counseled against eating something in the Otherworld. He couldn’t trust anything in Shadow. Custo turned away.
A small creature skittered through the trees, something like a rabbit. It stopped on its haunches and craned its head to regard him with too-human eyes. Strange. The animal perked up its head, as if sensing danger, and bounded off again.
Custo listened as well, but he heard only the shift and sigh of the trees. An occasional crack. An eerie whine.
No. Not a whine. Sad, slow violins.
He turned around, his gaze searching the trees. Ahead, a scrap of white light glowed, partially obscured by black trunks. The light dimmed and then grew again.
He moved forward to investigate and discovered a clearing surrounded by wicked, wintry trees. In the center of the clearing, a woman danced. She was made of light, her figure slight, long and waifish, her skin pale and glistening. Her dark hair was pulled into a knot at the back of her head, like a fairy or a ballerina. Likewise, she floated on tiptoe and defied gravity with the stretch and arch of her body. The haunting music was part of her, yet it scored him.
More faerie magic? He didn’t care.
She kept her eyes downcast for the most part, so terribly sad, but when she raised her face to twirl, shining like hope, he knew he would never be the same.
She had to be his. He knew it with every broken fiber of his being.
The soft curve of her jaw, her full young lips and her storybook eyes were his perfection. A momentary pang of reservation struck him hard: The woman—little more than a girl—was everything that he wasn’t. Where he was coarse, she was all silky lines and smooth dips. While he was grasping and gritty, she moved with the sweetest magic, like a dream. Where he was tainted and used, she was bright and new.
Custo pushed his hesitation aside. So he was a selfish bastard. Too bad. He had to catch her or he knew he’d be soul sick forever.
He concealed himself behind a thick tree, tensed, ready. He didn’t want to scare her, but if she’d just move this way…
A growl rumbled across the clearing.
Custo’s attention snapped to the darkness of the opposite trees. A huge black wolf bared his teeth, his body crouched and ready to attack the woman.
The dancer stiffened slightly, but continued to move. Why? She obviously knew the wolf was there. A deeper pallor to her skin told him she was afraid. Why didn’t she back away?
The wolf spotted Custo and altered his stance, ears pinned back for attack.
Custo felt a wave of electric anger burn through him. He could not let the wolf harm her.
He stepped out of the trees slowly, his arms raised and open. His attention was divided between the shock of the woman, finally coming to a skittery stillness, and the redoubled menace of the wolf, his lips retracting to the gums, his teeth sharp as blades.
Custo moved into the center of the clearing. The woman’s gaze flitted from him to the wolf, to something beyond them in the trees.
“Oh, no. Not again,” she murmured. Then louder, with false brightness, “No, Jasper. Just a slick spot on the floor right here. Anybody have some rosin?” Her nervous voice was oddly warped and distant. The glow of her skin dimmed, her magic shifting.
The wolf charged her, two great bounds. Custo threw himself between them and pushed her out of harm’s way. He felt the weight of the wolf crush his back and they fell.
The air burned like white lightning.
They landed on a hard surface, but he felt no impact. The girl jumped out of the way, quick on her feet, and the wolf jumped over Custo’s head. It leaped out into a great void, filled with empty red velvet seats, row upon row with balconies above, and was lost in the darkness. A theater.
“I’ve got some, Annabella,” someone said.
The dancer didn’t answer; she kept her gaze on Custo, unblinking, fearful, and yet so lovely. The other mortals disregarded him as if he weren’t there, though he stood up, center stage.
He was back. Somehow he was back, returned to Earth. But as what?
Then he began to burn. He had no substance, but he was on fire regardless. His body screamed with pain, and he ran.
“No, wait!” the girl called
.
He’d have answered, but he couldn’t bear the heat. Every nerve was quivering, sizzling. He passed through the layered curtains at the side of the stage and felt the dust from the corners rise to chase him. He felt the dirt and moisture of the air whip into a frenzied, pursuing swarm. Every stray mote and drop gathered to him.
He ran, though he had no feet to touch the floor.
He fled down a winding corridor, out the exit, and past a smoker’s propped doorway into the night of the city. On the sidewalk the cloud of earth and wetness descended upon him. The earthen tornado drove him down onto the ground to inundate and…reform him.
He could sense the atoms of his mass rearranging, recombining, the zap and snap of molecules configuring cells to create organs, flesh, and bone. The crack and pull of sinew stringing him together had him quivering in terror. He felt the moment the fluid thickened to blood, and then its first rush through his new veins, charged by the slam of a heartbeat. With his first breath, he screamed his agony, arching his back on the concrete. Then he wept, gulping and hoarse.
“Call the police,” somebody said.
Custo swiped at his running eyes and nose and scuttled back toward the building. The concrete scraped his butt, so he knew he was naked.
“Just stay calm,” the man said, arms extended, palms down. He was youngish, in sweats and running shoes. “Help is on the way.”
Help? He had to be out of his mind.
Another voice echoed off the building’s walls. More people coming.
Custo’s breath came in harsh pants, but he managed to stand. His knees buckled, but he caught himself on a rusty railing and held himself up. A wild shiver ran over him. Damn, it was cold. So damn cold.
“Stay back,” the man said, retreating a few paces himself.
Custo looked around. Where the hell was he? Tall buildings rose around him, most of them gray, but one had a shiny mirrored surface.
He turned and lurched into a jog, his hand skimming the building for support. When he found his balance, he picked up speed, ducking into a service alley when he heard the twerp of a police car. He waited there, shaking with shock and a strange sense of vertigo.
Custo held up his hand, stretching the dark lines of his palm, then flipped it over. It appeared to be his own, minus the ragged scar across his knuckles. He closed his fingers into a fist and squeezed until his hand burned. Strong again. He wasn’t a ghost, that was for sure. Angel? He had no idea. Maybe he should have asked more questions of Luca when he’d had the chance.
He tried his angel’s trick and opened his mind. Humanity crashed into his consciousness, soul after soul, their inner voices crowding out all coherent thought. Too much, too much. He tried to disengage, but couldn’t find himself in the chaotic press. A last gasp, and he sought her. He reached for her like a lifeline and felt a blissful tug. Sanity returned with the knowledge that the girl was safe, inside. And?—he touched her mind—she was getting ready to head home and she was arming herself for a fight.
His new heart clenched. What did she fear? Where?
The wolf. Had to be.
Custo recalled the wolf’s attack. The collision. The fall. Sickening guilt rushed through Custo’s veins. He was responsible for the beast’s cross into mortality. She’d somehow opened the way, but he brought the wolf through.
Well, the wolf couldn’t have her. Soon all of Segue would be searching for it, and the girl wouldn’t be bothered again. He’d just have to move fast.
Custo waited behind a Dumpster until some poor slob walked by alone. He grabbed him and dragged him into the alley with an arm around his neck and a hand over his mouth. The man bucked against him, but he was too short and light to do any damage.
“I only want your pants,” Custo growled in the man’s ear.
Three minutes later Custo staggered out of the alley fully clothed. He made for the nearest corner. The street signs read w fifty-sixth and ave of the americas. New York City. Midtown.
Then he knew where to go. The Segue Institute had safe houses globally. New York City had four that Custo could think of. Four and one more, the last a secure location that only he and Adam knew about. Once there, he’d have access to supplies, cash, food, and weapons. Most importantly, he could find and warn Adam.
But not without the girl.
CHAPTER 3
Annabella gripped her brand-new jumbo flashlight while she exited the heavy bronze door of city center onto West Fifty-sixth. The flashlight was heavy, designed for camping, but there was no way she was going to be caught in the dark without her own source of light. Not with that freaky wolf on the loose—on the streets or in her head. She kept her finger on the power button, like a trigger. And when she got that silly-girl shaky feeling, she imagined turning on the light and smoking the monster.
Take that, you growling son of a bitch!
Her heartbeat accelerated as she stepped into a night of crackling energy. The one-way street was hissing with traffic, punctuated by the occasional blare of a horn. She headed directly to the curb to hail a cab. Her plan: carry her own light source everywhere, make it home safely, preferably with yummy takeout (she was starving), turn on every light in her studio apartment, all three of them, and sleep in the very brightest patch. She wasn’t about to let any real or imagined wolf take this chance away from her. Tomorrow she would debut as Giselle.
And then everything would go back to normal.
A cab drew alongside her. So far so good. She threw her bag along the backseat before sliding in herself, flashlight in her lap, choking for a second on a breath of strong far eastern incense.
Just as the driver pulled away from the curb, the opposite passenger door opened with a blast of thick exhaust. The cab jerked to a halt and Annabella startled, flicking a fat beam in the intruder’s direction.
“Cab’s taken,” she said when she recognized that it was a man—or at least, the lower half of one.
The man pushed her bag to the floor, got in anyway, and slammed the door. “West Thirty-sixth and Fifth,” he said. His low voice was rough with authority.
Jerk. “Hey, I was here first—”
The man turned his head and she swallowed her words.
Him.
In the partial illumination of the cab, his hair and skin washed to monochromatic shades of gold. His eyes were fair, direct, and tense, and he was slightly out of breath. A current of dark trouble ran along his barely controlled surface as he looked at her. Or rather, looked her over. His gaze settled on her flashlight and his brow furrowed in thought before one side of his mouth tugged up.
Heat flooded her body and burned her face.
“Lady?” the cabdriver asked over his shoulder.
No way. She got here first. And besides, she had to go straight home, have a nice dinner, relax, and get some rest for the gala tomorrow. Not to mention something was very wrong about this guy. His face might have been gorgeous, but his clothes were too small, clearly not his own. He’d rolled up the sleeves, but his shirt still didn’t fit across his broad shoulders. His pants were a joke, short by inches and straining across his thighs. One grand plié and the seams would rip.
Only one thing could make her change her mind, and she didn’t care if she sounded stupid. “You see a wolf lately?”
The man gave a short nod. “In the middle of your dance, onstage.”
Crap. She’d kinda been hoping she was crazy. She gnawed on her bottom lip. The least she could do for the man who put his body between her and a charging wolf was share a cab. Maybe he could even tell her what was going on.
She eased her grip on the flashlight and met the driver’s gaze. “It’s okay.”
The driver turned his attention to the road with a shrug and the cab pulled away from the curb.
The stranger didn’t relax, didn’t settle into his seat. His interest was focused on her—the weight of it had her clutching her flashlight again. The light might not hurt him, but she could brain him with the casing if she had to.
“What’s your name?” he asked, his words short and clipped.
“Annabella,” she answered, wary. “Yours?”
“Custo.” He darted a glance out the rear window, then came back to her. “You’re a dancer? A ballerina?”
“Yes.” She couldn’t help adding, “A principal with the Classical Ballet Theater. And you are…?”
“…taking you somewhere safe. Somewhere we can talk.” He winged his arm along the backrest.
Not likely. He could share her cab, but nothing else. No need to tell him that, though. He was keyed up enough already.
“What day is it?” he asked.
“Friday.”
“The date,” he clarified, his forehead tensing.
“October twenty-second.” October twenty-third was the gala performance, the start to the season. Her big day.
He frowned as if that still wasn’t the answer he wanted, but didn’t press. “Do you have a mobile phone?”
“Um…no, I don’t.” A white lie—she just hated loaning it out. Besides, that was her lifeline number two. Not that she’d call her mom again and take another ten years off the poor woman’s life. No, if she had to call anyone, she’d call the cops herself. Maybe for this guy.
Custo grabbed her bag off the floor, unzipping it before she had a chance to object. She snatched at the strap—where did he get off searching her stuff? He pushed through some of her sweaty dance clothes, warm-ups, shoes. Oh, shit, her backup tampons. She yanked the bag away from him. And anyway, the phone was in her sweatshirt pocket. “What the hell are you doing? It’s not in there.”
“Give me your phone.” He held out his hand. “It’s an emergency.”
She needed her phone. She wasn’t about to give it to this aggressive lunatic. Sharing the cab was clearly a mistake, but she could correct it. She looked out her window to figure out what part of town she was in. Just past the New York Public Library. She had her flashlight; she could grab another cab.
“It’s an emergency, damn it,” Custo insisted.
Bad Boys of the Night: Eight Sizzling Paranormal Romances: Paranormal Romance Boxed Set Page 20