by C. L. Wilson
Her fingers brushed the lump on her forehead, and she hissed in pain, then groaned in relief. Not crazy, concussed. She was concussed. She’d hit her head hard when she crashed her car. She’d just been hallucinating, not going crazy.
And Mr. Glowy, Golden & Gorgeous? You weren’t concussed then.
With grim determination, Kat ignored that nagging thought and took several deep breaths to calm her mind and her pounding heart.
Brain trauma was no laughing matter. She needed to get to a hospital. Kat regarded her car. No driving that out of here. She’d have to call a tow and a cab.
She opened her purse and pulled her cell phone out of its pocket, then muttered a curse. No bars. She was in a cell signal dead spot.
She glanced around. This section of town always made her feel uneasy, with its dilapidated buildings and dark alleyways. At least, for the moment, the street was deserted. Why, oh why, couldn’t she have wrecked in a spot that had good cell reception? Or at least in a better part of town?
Thankfully, with her nightly work at Haven House, she never went anywhere without a can of pepper spray. Kat dug the can out of her purse, put one chilly finger on the trigger, and walked across the street in search of better cell reception. Still no bars. Damn it!
Somewhere off to her right, another dog howled, making her jump and drop her phone. It hit the asphalt and went spinning into the open curb-side storm drain.
“No!” Kat dropped to her knees to peer into the drain, hoping her phone might have caught on something, when movement in the corner of her eye made her freeze.
Four men had just emerged from an alleyway. Rough, dangerous looking men.
She knew the moment they spotted her. They nudged each other, heads tilting in her direction. Turned towards her.
Her blood turned to ice. She was in trouble.
Her father—or rather her subconscious voicing itself through the concussion-induced hallucination of her father—had said there was a Catholic church three blocks to the right. She hadn’t stepped foot in a church in more than seven years. Had sworn never to step foot in one ever again. Was it even open? It had better be.
She turned and started walking. She wanted to run. Desperately. But she worried such a blatant sign of fear would only bring them after her faster. Just keep walking, as fast as possible. Save your running for when you need it.
She risked a glance over her shoulder. They were following, lips curled as they joked with one another. Close enough that she could see their cold, flat, predatory eyes. Tonight, she’d seen veils of shadowy “wrongness” wrapped around Viveca’s two girls, but these men were completely covered in it. Unlike the shadows over the girls, the inky darkness covering these men wound about them in ropes, thick and dense and solid, swirling over their skin like nests of snakes. Her hand tightened on the pepper spray in her pocket.
With every step, they gained on her.
A dog howled again to her left, then another to her right, and for reasons she could not explain, the howling dogs scared her even more than the men coming after her.
Run! Her father’s voice boomed in her mind, filled with urgency and command.
Terror grabbed her by her throat. She kicked off her shoes and ran, now more scared of the howling things than the predators behind her. The baying, bone-chilling cries were coming from all directions. They were circling her.
Without warning, a dark shape lunged from the shadows of an alleyway. Hands grabbed her, snatching her off her feet and slamming her against the side of the building. Her head smacked solid brick and she nearly passed out again. Only the hands pinning her in place kept her upright.
“Where are you going in such a rush?”
Kat squinted, woozily trying to focus as her attacker’s face went in and out of focus. She should have let Pete follow her home. The thought wept despairingly in her mind.
Hands were on her, touching her. Hot breath in her face. Foul. Frightening.
Panic and fury and stark terror battled for supremacy. She struggled, nearly yanking her arm out of its socket. Her knee came up and struck a glancing blow to the man’s groin. Not enough to incapacitate him, but hard enough to make him gasp and loosen his grip on her. She brought up her pepper spray and aimed a blast at his face.
“Ow!” The man howled and released her, spewing a string of filthy epithets. “You gonna pay for that, bitch!”
She dove for the open street and escape. Gasping, sobbing, she ran. The church was less than two blocks away. She could see the welcoming glow of its lit doorway.
“Help!” She screamed, hoping someone in the church would hear her. “Help me! Please, help me!”
Running feet slapped the pavement behind her. The first group of men had caught up to her. She managed another four, five desperate steps before hard hands closed around her arm and yanked. Her feet flew out from under her. She landed hard on her back in the middle of the road, legs sprawled, skirt pushed up high above her knees. Her head smacked the pavement again. Her vision went dim and blurry.
“Where you going, sweet thing? The party’s just starting.” They grabbed her and dragged her limp body into the alley.
“Don’t touch me! Leave me alone!” She pushed weakly at her attackers, but they only laughed and slapped her hands away. Then their hands were on her, touching, ripping at her blouse and skirt. “Please! Don’t! Stop!” She had no strength in her limbs. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes.
A cruel voice laughed. “Hear that? ‘Please don’t stop.’ The bitch wants it.” Hard fingers dug into the flesh of her knees and thighs, pulling them apart.
She closed her eyes, searching for the tranquil turquoise sea that had always been her refuge in the worst times. But this time there was only blackness and pain, numbed only slightly by the blows to her head.
A cry tore from her throat, ripped from the depths of her soul. A low, keening, animal wail of pain and loss and despair. Had even the sea forsaken her?
On the heels of her cry came a strange noise, like a meaty thud. Then the sound of something heavy hitting the pavement. One of her attackers cried out, a sharp shard of sound that broke off abruptly. The hands holding her down were gone.
Instinct kicked in. Get away. Get away now. Kat rolled to her hands and knees and forced her eyes open. One too many knocks to the head had left her with severely blurred vision.
The men who’d attacked her were fighting someone else. She had a hazy image of dark bodies flying through the air and a maelstrom of light. Bright. Golden. Painful to look at. She squeezed her eyes shut and reached blindly for the side of the building, trying to drag herself to her feet.
Then the sounds of fighting ceased, and there was silence, broken only by her harsh, sobbing rasps and the howl of maddened dogs. The light surrounded her, painfully bright, but oh, so warm and comforting. It gathered her up in its strength, held her close. The painful, radiance faded, leaving behind a face. Strong, male, impossibly beautiful, dominated by eyes the same deep, drowning turquoise of a tropical sea.
“You are safe, Katrina. I am with you. You are not alone.”
CHAPTER THREE
Kat woke to the sight of frost on her bedroom window. The frozen crystals sparkled like diamonds in the morning sunlight. Morning? Sunlight? She sat up with a gasp and reached for her alarm clock.
Nine am? Nine? She was two hours late to work. How the hell had that happened? She was never late. Never.
Kat jumped out of bed and ran for the closet, snatching clothes out and throwing them on the bed as she sprinted for the shower. She turned the water on, grabbed her toothbrush and toothpaste, and brushed her teeth with one hand and her hair with the other. No time to wash hair this morning.
How had she missed setting the alarm? She always set the thing. It was part of her nightly routine.
She ran through the events of last night in her mind, looking for the cause of her forgetfulness. Work, the shelter, Viveca and her girls. The abuser—Mary’s husband—who’d st
ormed the shelter. Pete walking her to her car. The dogs howling. The crash…
Kat stopped brushing.
She stared at her reflection in the mirror. Mouth full of toothpaste foam. Hair hanging around her face—her utterly normal, unmarked face. Oh God. With a whimper, Kat spat out her toothpaste, rinsed, then went back to inspecting her face.
She’d crashed her car. Slammed her face into steering wheel. Where were her bruises? She’d seen her father…another whimper.
The strength drained from her legs. She staggered back, sliding down the bathroom wall. Had it all been a dream? She ran a hand over the back of her head, feeling for the enormous goose eggs that should have been there if last night had really happened the way she remembered. There was no bruise, no swelling, no tenderness.
She covered her face with her hands. “Oh my God, I really am losing my mind. Just like Dad.”
What was she going to do? She needed to see a psychiatrist of course. That was the first course of action. Well, after she called Harry to let him know she wouldn’t be coming to work today.
Kat sucked down a desperate breath and tried to order her thoughts.
Take a shower. Call in sick to work. Call a psychiatrist. That was a workable plan. Logical. Get to it, Kat.
Five minutes later, wrapped in a fluffy pink bathrobe and matching slippers, her hair damp and freshly washed, Kat opened her bedroom door.
And stopped dead in her tracks.
There was a man in her apartment.
A tall, broad shouldered man wearing jeans and nothing else, stood in her kitchen, whisking something briskly in a mixing bowl. Silky hair, as golden as sunshine, tumbled around an impossibly beautiful face. Corded muscle, ripped to perfection, bunched beneath smooth, tanned skin as he lifted the whisk from the bowl and eyed the firm peaks of what looked like whipped egg whites clinging to the wire strands of the whisk.
“That looks pretty good if I do say so myself,” the man said.
Though he didn’t glance her way or offer any acknowledgement of her presence, Kat somehow knew he was talking to her. His voice was a low, husky ripple of sound that hummed across her skin.
He turned back to the counter, and she found herself staring at the broad, impressively muscled expanse of his back and the large detailed golden tattoos of wings that arched up from his shoulder blades, rose to the top of his back, then curved down the tapering lines of his chest towards his waist. The feather tips of the tattooed wings disappeared into the waistband of his snug fitting jeans.
Kat stared, speechless, one of part of her mind wondering why she wasn’t screaming and running to call 911, while all another part of her could do was wonder, dry-mouthed, just how far down those wingtips went.
“There was an ice storm last night. All the roads and businesses are closed, so I let you sleep in. You needed it. The waffles will be ready in a few minutes. It’s your father’s recipe. You used to love them so.” He painted oil on the waffle iron with a kitchen brush. “You’re out of milk, by the way. I had to borrow some from your neighbor, Josie.”
Kat’s hand crept to the collar of her robe. She gathered the edges in one tight fist and stared at the breathtakingly gorgeous, half-naked stranger standing in her kitchen. She recognized him, of course. She’d seen him often enough the last couple of weeks.
Mr. Glowy, Golden & Gorgeous was standing in her kitchen. Half naked. Making waffles.
She swallowed, her scrambled mind desperately trying to remember the rudiments of speech.
“Who…who are you?”
The man poured batter onto the hot, waffle iron and closed the lid. “There. Just a few minutes now.” Smiling, he turned and for the first time met her gaze full on. “You know who I am, Katrina. You’ve always known. And you aren’t afraid because you know you I would never, ever hurt you.”
Katrina stared open-mouthed into deep, drowningly beautiful eyes framed by thick golden-brown lashes. Eyes the brilliant turquoise of a tropical sea.
The exact color of the tropical sea she’d always visited in her mind to get away from the torments of her childhood.
“I am Micah,” the man continued. “The Guardian sent by the Archangel Ramiel to protect you from the forces of darkness.”
###
Kat kept her head between her knees, breathing in and out of a paper bag until her hyperventilating lungs calmed down and decided to breathe normally.
“I really am going crazy.”
“No, you’re not. I promise you.”
She glared balefully at the gorgeous hallucination sitting across from her in the stuffed leather chair.
“I can’t exactly believe you now, can I?” she snapped. “You’re a figment of my imagination.”
“A figment I am most assuredly not. As I have already explained, I am a Guardian. Your Guardian, to be precise.”
“A Guardian Angel.”
“In essence, yes.”
“Well, you’ve done a bang up job so far. You’re fired, by the way.”
He winced, and that radiant shine that seemed to emanate from his very skin dimmed a little. “If I could have done more to spare you the pain you’ve suffered, I would have. But as evil as your grandparents are, they are not the enemy I was created to protect you from.”
“Great.” She gave a harsh bark of laughter. “You mean there’s something worse yet in store for me?”
He hung his head. “Much worse, I’m afraid. Your father tried to warn you about them.”
“My father was a paranoid schizophrenic who couldn’t stay on his meds.”
“No, Katrina. Your father was a Lightkeeper, like you, hunted his whole life by the selfsame creatures of Darkness that are now hunting you.”
“Right.” Kat stood up. She held out a hand, stopping the gorgeous delusion from following suit. “No, you stay there. I’ll be right back.”
Kat marched to the front door of her apartment, stepped out into the hall, and headed to the apartment two doors down. A few minutes later, the door to 301 opened, and Kat’s exercise friend and Zumba partner, Josie Mikanopolous, smiled in greeting.
“Hi, Josie, sorry to bother you, but do you have a cup of milk I could borrow?”
Josie frowned. “Another cup? Sounds like you’re making a lot of waffles—or did that hot guy who came by earlier drink the first cup I gave him?”
“Hot guy?”
“Don’t play coy. You know exactly who I’m talking about.” Josie’s frown morphed into a wicked, eye-brow waggling grin. “Thor in the flesh, abs you could bounce a quarter off of. Your secret hummina hummina. And here I thought you were all work and no play.” Josie shook her head and whistled in appreciation. “It’s really true what they say about the quiet ones, isn’t it? Hold on a sec, let me get the milk.”
Kat stood there on Josie’s doorstep in her fluffy pink robe. Stunned and speechless.
He wasn’t a hallucination. Josie had seen him too.
“Here you go.” Josie was back with milk in a plastic Solo cup. “Is this enough?”
Kat stared blindly at the milk and mumbled, “Enough?”
“The milk, silly. Is that enough milk?”
“Oh, yes, fine. It’s fine. Thanks, Josie.”
“No probs, Kat. And by the way, if you and Thor ever break up, I’d be happy to let that hunk of mouthwatering goodness come cook my waffles any day.” Josie waggled her brows suggestively and laughed. “Seriously, I’m happy for you, Kat. Jealous as all get out, but happy for you all the same.”
“Thank you.” Clutching the Solo cup of milk, Kat turned, retraced her steps, and reentered her apartment.
Micah was standing before one of her windows, bathed in sunlight. He turned, lean back against her windowsill, and arched golden eyebrows. “Well? Do you now believe that I’m no figment of your imagination?”
She stared at him, stared at the milk in her Solo cup, then drank it down in a series of desperate gulps. “That could use a Thorazine chaser.”
“You aren�
��t crazy, Kat. Everything your father told you is real. The bad things he warned you about are real. They are hunting you. They will find you.”
Kat ran a hand over her face. “I think you need to start at the beginning.”
“I will,” Micah promised. “But you should eat first. Your waffle is almost ready.” He put a bottle of maple syrup on the breakfast bar and turned to get a stick of butter from her fridge.
Kat frowned at the syrup. “Where’d you get the syrup? And the waffle iron?” She didn’t have either of those things. Never had after her father died.
“Josie was very helpful.”
Kat eyed Micah’s naked back and muttered, “Oh, I’m sure she was.” If he’d wandered down the hall in nothing but those butt-hugging jeans and all those muscles, Josie would have offered up a lot more than a cup of milk, a bottle of syrup and a waffle iron.
A smile curled one corner of Micah’s mouth. “She seems very nice.”
The waffle iron beeped, saving Katrina from giving voice to the inexplicably snappish rejoinder hovering on the tip of her tongue. What was wrong with her, for heaven’s sake? Josie’s many flirtations had always amused Kat, and, truth be told, sometimes made her the tiniest bit envious. Josie was never alone unless she wanted to be. Kat had lived most of her life in solitude, even in the midst of a crowd.
Micah raised the lid to reveal a perfect, fragrant golden-brown waffle, which he transferred to a waiting plate. He handed the plate to Kat.
Katrina spread butter and syrup with liberal abandon, then forked several squares of butter- and maple-syrup-laden waffley goodness into her mouth and closed her eyes in bliss. Heaven! Sheer, glorious, gastronomic heaven. She chewed slowly, savoring every exquisite flavor and texture. Whoever had invented the waffle should have been crowned king or something, because surely no other breakfast food could ever compare.
“Waffles are my favorite,” she confessed after cleaning her plate in record time.
He forked a second waffle on her plate, then smiled when she pounced on the plate and began buttering away. “I remember.”
She glanced up sharply, maple syrup in hand. “You remember?”