He nodded over the spoon he held to his mouth. Swallowed and replied, “Making you known to everyone. Not just as someone I’ve marked and claimed but as an equal member of the community.”
“And a teacher isn’t?”
“Not this community. You’re now part of a world the Mundanes don’t recognize, acknowledge or believe in. And …” He paused, handed her the basket of bread, before taking a roll himself and breaking it in two. “You need to learn to harness the magic within.”
“And how do you propose I do that?” Sheesh, she knew the answer, it was written all over his face.
“With me, my dear Miss Carrack. Don’t deny it. You want me as much as I want you. This wasn’t what I envisioned last night, but we forged a bond by magic and sex.”
“Taking a lot for granted, aren’t you?
“Tell me,” he asked, “could you really walk away from me and never want me again?”
It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him “yes” and do just that to prove the point, but she’d never been one to tell lies. “I find this whole nonsense rather terrifying.”
“Terrifying, yes, but nonsense it isn’t and I believe, my dear Ella, together we’ll forge a power that satisfies us both and changes the course of both our lives.”
She took another taste of soup as she mulled over his proposal. It was insane, incredible and beyond reason, but she couldn’t ignore the heat and desire coursing through her veins.
It should be impossible, but the old Unan was right – what surged between Leigh and her was magical.
She looked him in the eyes, smiled. ‘You said last night, I wasn’t ready for full-on sex with a Pixie. Is that likely to change any time soon?”
“Oh, yes,” he replied. “It most certainly will.”
Good.
All the Time in the World
Shiloh Walker
Boston – 1915
He had worked with beautiful women before.
He had slept with beautiful women before.
He had loved beautiful women before.
He had known beautiful women before.
The woman before him now wasn’t just beautiful – although she was lovely, very, very lovely. At least, she seemed so to him. Her skin was as pale as milk, her eyes clear and soft blue, and her hair silky and dark brown.
Many women he had worked with had a frail look to them, although frail they were not. Frailty had no place in the lives they had chosen.
Gretel did not look frail. She had a woman’s body … a strong woman’s body. She was petite in stature, the top of her head barely reaching his chin, but she had generous curves and an undeniable strength to her body.
But there were shadows in her eyes. Those shadows and a vulnerability to touch something deep inside him.
Rip wasn’t entirely sure he cared for it.
Do the job, he told himself. Once it was done, he could leave Boston, and Gretel, behind.
But it was never as easy as that.
If she did not know better, Greta would think the universe, God, mankind and her friends conspired against her.
It should have been a simple assignment – the two of them were to retrieve a book from this warehouse on the docks. Retrieve the book, desoy it. The book’s owner had already been dealt with.
It should have been simple.
But the life of a guardian angel was rarely simple – Greta should have known that by now. Nothing in her life had been simple … and she’d lived a very, very long life.
Of course, if she had wanted simple, she never should have accepted the choice to become a Grimm. One of God’s guardian angels, a select band of warrior-bred guardian angels, named the Grimm by one of their leaders – a man with a strange, rather macabre sense of humour.
Born on the outskirts of the Black Forest in Germany some three hundred years before, she’d lived through a nightmarish childhood, only to be saved when she was about to give up hope. Saved, it would seem, by a guardian angel.
A few short years later, she had died a rather painful and unexpected death. As her soul was slipping away, she was offered a chance. A choice of her own – she could move on, or she could return, this time a guardian angel, herself.
Simple … if simple was what she sought, then she should have just passed on to the hereafter all those years ago.
Inwardly she chastised herself. She should have known this job wouldn’t be simple, should have known she wouldn’t get away from him so easily.
Him. A fellow Grimm by the name of Rip. An odd name, that, and, like her, he had a story of his own. How much of the “tale” behind his name was truth, how much was fiction, she didn’t know.
What she did know was that the man disturbed her on a very basic level.
This assignment was proving anything but simple – they’d had not just one demon-possessed to deal with, but four. Now that those four were dealt with, the warehouse was burning around them and Rip was injured.
Greta had to figure out how to get her companion out of there before the two of them died in the fire. They might not be easy to kill, but Rip was bleeding out, too weak to move and if she didn’t get them out soon, the roof might collapse.
The heat was intense, scalding her skin, though the flames weren’t close enough to reach them. Yet. Smoke stung her eyes and her altered body had already slowed her breathing – she didn’t need oxygen the way she had when she was mortal, so the smoke alone wouldn’t present the danger.
But the flames … she was rather certain a fire could kill them.
The air was thick with smoke, ash and sulphur. Death, too. Mustn’t forget the stink of death.
The man with her lay still and silent, despite the pain she knew he must feel. His eyes, dark and brooding, stared into hers. “Get the hell out of here, Gretel. Now. The ceiling is going to collapse.”
His blood slicked her hands as she pressed them against the gaping wound on his side. “I’m not leaving you here and it’s not like you can walk out of here alone. I’ll thank you not to call me Gretel, Rip. The name is Greta.”
She hadn’t gone by that name for more than three hundred years.
Gretel … to some, the name evoked memories of breadcrumbs, witches, gingerbread houses. But for her, it brought nothing but dark, painful memories. They tried to rise up, tried to swamp her, as they always did in times of despair.
She battled them back. She had no time for them now. The scent of blood, hot and metallic, filled her head. He was losing too much blood, and healing far too slowly.
“Fool woman. Are you insane?” Rip reached up and shoved at her shoulder. It was a sign of his weakened state that he couldn’t budge her. “Get out of here.”
“And leave you to burn to death? I think not.”
“I will not burn to death,” he said. “We can’t buriedeath.”
“Are you so sure of that?” she asked, cocking a brow. She shook her head. “I don’t want to test the theory. Besides, whether we heal or not – burns hurt. Come on now … if you want me out, I’ll leave. But only if you’re with me. I’m not leaving you here to roast.”
Those dark brown eyes flashed. Then he sighed. “Fine. You’ll have to help me up. I cannot walk out on my own.”
She had already figured that much out on her own. It took some doing, getting him to his feet, but once they’d managed, she was just the right height to wedge her shoulder against his body, supporting his weight. They’d managed to make it exactly five steps when she heard an ominous crack.
“Oh no.”
Spinning towards the nearest window, she braced Rip’s weight with hers and lunged.
When she’d come into this new existence, it had come with some rather extraordinary abilities … she didn’t age, she never fell ill and she had the strength to lift a horse.
Too bad she couldn’t truly fly. There were rumours that some of her kind could. It was a shame she wasn’t one of them.
But she could pray. As she propelled herself and Rip
through a glass window into the freezing waters of the Boston Harbor, she prayed very, very hard.
Rip’s last clear memory was hurtling through the shattering glass, driven by Gretel’s not insubstantial strength. There were vague memories of cold water, her soft voice and pain. A great deal of pain.
Now he dreamed. Time passed so strangely in dreams. Had he been asleep for days? Hours? Weeks …?
He knew what it was like to lose time, after all.
But even then, he hadn’t been plagued by these strange dreams. Gretel was there. No … not Gretel. Greta. She called herself Greta, even though he knew who she was. The name “Gretel” brought shadows to her eyes, shadows and pain. He would have to remember that. He hated to be responsible for the pain he saw in those eyes, even if it was just the pain of memory.
Pain – damn, it was everywhere, it seemed. It chased him, haunted him, surrounded him. In her eyes, nipped at his flesh even in these dreams. That pain was horrid, some of the worst he could remember feeling, disturbing his sleep.
The stasis sleep – a healing sleep. If the pain chased him even there, he must have been hurt badly. Likely, he’d be dead, if he were still mortal.
He wasn’t though.
He’d live through this and, for now, he had Greta at his side, with a soft hand to stroke his brow when the pain became too great.
It lessened when she touched him.
Such a strange thing. When she touched down, he forgot the fiery pain of a slowly healing wound in his side. Another flickering fire replaced that pain … the burning heat of hunger, but he was weak, so weak even that fire couldn’t burn for long.
During the times when the pain faded to nothing but a dull ache, he fell into fitful dreams. Dreams of flying, dream of death, dreams of ash and smoke.
Greta … find her. Need to find her. But the thick smoke blinded him, choked him, slowed him down. When he found her, it was too late. Those soft blue eyes stared lifelessly at him, her face frozen in a mask of death.
Sorry. I’m so sorry, Greta.
Such tormenting dreams. Greta rose from the floor and propped one hip on the bed. Leaning forwards, she rested a hand on Rip’s shoulder. “It is just a dream,” she said softly. “I am fine. I am safe. You are safe.”
He seemed to settle for a minute, turning his face into her nd. She stroked his cheek and waited a moment. Then, carefully, she checked his wound.
The sleep had allowed him to heal, but it was still ugly. Had he still been human, he’d be dead.
But Grimms were harder to kill – almost impossible, really. Designed that way by the Lord Almighty. What good was an army of guardian angels if a few paltry, possessed mortals could take them down?
When she dragged him out of the harbour last night, the hole in his side was gaping and huge – she could have put her fist inside it. When one had been alive a few hundred years, a great deal of knowledge could be learned about the human body and she had put that knowledge to use as she cared for him through the night.
As morning drew near and still he slept, she began to worry. She spent the hours pacing the floor of the private room she had secured when she had arrived in Boston a few days earlier. She’d long ago learned the need to make sure she had place to go to ground, and fast. Now, tucked in the small, dark room, she wished she had something better. The narrow, simple bed suited her fine, but his longer, lanky body barely fitted on it. He should have a soft bed to rest while he healed. A soft bed, warm blankets, a hot meal.
As his dreams turned troubled, she soothed him and continued to worry. No, he hadn’t lost enough blood to die and she imagined that could kill him. All animals needed their lifeblood. But he had lost a great deal of blood and then there was the plunge into the harbour …
She shuddered as she remembered the icy cold water as it closed around them. The swim to shore seemed to take years and Rip had lapsed into unconsciousness. She was strong, but even with supernatural strength, towing a man who outweighed her through the icy cold waters of the Boston Harbor wasn’t easy.
As the sun began to creep over the horizon, she checked Rip’s wound once more and breathed a sigh of relief. Finally, the wound was smoothing out, closing in on itself.
He sighed and shifted in his sleep, bringing one arm up over his head. His bicep bulged and Greta found herself staring at the firm, tense line. Her heart skipped a beat, then started dancing in her chest.
“Enough. He needs his rest,” she admonished herself. Turning away, she rubbed at her chest, disturbed by the odd ache there. So he had a lovely body.
She had seen many men with lovely bodies.
But how many of them would have insisted that she run away and leave them, alone and bleeding, with a burning building about to collapse?
He did something to her, something she wasn’t entirely comfortable with. It was a truth she had hidden from the last few days. While they worked, hiding was easy enough. And while he was injured, worry had kept her mind occupied. But now that he was healing, her mind tried to wander.
He did something to her. He made her feel things … made her want things.
You don’t need those things. You have lived centuries without them. Life is easier without those complications.
Yes. Life was easier.
“So what if your bed is empty? So what if you are lonely?” she muttered to herself.
Although lonely did not describe it. How could it? Lonely was just a word. Lonely could not describe the ache that often lived inside her. It could not describe the emptiness, the need, the longing for more.
Turning away from him, she returned to her solitary station by the door. With her back braced against the door, she sank to the floor, used her body to bar the entrance. Propping her arms on her upraised knees, she closed her eyes. She needed sleep.
The small room she had managed to secure for them had but the one bed. Rip needed it far more than she did. Beside had slept in worse places.
Far worse.
When Rip woke, he was immediately aware of three things.
One, it was dim in the room, though not quite dark, so he assumed it was either early morning, just after dawn, or sometime around sunset.
Two, his side itched abominably, so he knew the wound he’d taken was healing – which would mean he had slept for quite some time. It had been a bad wound.
Three, he wasn’t alone … he could sense Greta’s presence, though he couldn’t hear her, couldn’t see her.
Slowly, he stretched, taking a quick survey of his body – everything seemed to be working as it should, although there was some tightness, some tenderness lingering in his abdomen. Touching it, he could feel the faint, rough ridge of scar tissue. In a matter of hours, even that would be gone.
Greta was sitting in front of the door, her back pressed snug against it, her dark head pillowed on her arms, sleeping soundly.
On the floor. “Damn it,” he muttered, his voice all but soundless.
He climbed from the bed and glanced around the room. It wasn’t familiar – basic and Spartan, nothing but a bed, a simple chest of drawers and a washbasin on a stand. The bed was narrow, hardly more than a cot. It wasn’t what he would call spacious, but there would have been room for the two of them.
Enough room that she wouldn’t have had to sleep on the floor.
Crossing the room, he crouched beside her. “Greta,” he said softly, tapping her shoulder lightly.
“Hmm.” She made a soft, questioning sound under her breath, turning her face towards his. But her eyes didn’t open and the slow, steady rhythm of her breathing didn’t change.
She slept the sleep of the exhausted.
Rip paused only long enough to check his reserves and then slipped his arms under her body, lifted her in his arms. She snuggled close, rubbing her cheek against his chest. It wasn’t until he felt the brush of her silken, soft skin against his that he realized he wore no shirt. Or trousers. The only thing he wore was a leather cord around his neck that held the silver m
edallion all Grimms wore. It was a round disc, etched with upswept wings – their mark.
But beyond that medallion, he wore nothing. The medallion did nothing to preserve his modesty – thankfully, he had little of that.
He closed his eyes and stifled a groan as she turned her face against him, sighing in her sleep. Her lips brushed against his skin and, despite the lingering weakness and heavy exhaustion, Rip wished she were awake. Wished she would open her eyes and look at him … really look.
Look at him and see him, the way he had been looking at her from the first moment he had laid eyes on her four days ago.
He set his jaw and carried her to the bed, tucked her inside, drawing the covers around her softly rounded curves. That body of hers – he adored all those rich, round curves, the kind of curves that would fill a man’s hands, cradle his body.
If you wish to get through the night with any semblance of sanity, stop thinking about her body, he told himself.
But that was easier said than done. Turning away from Greta, he prowled the room until he found his clothes and one swift glance told him why she had stripped them away. They were wet. Clean – he caught the faint scent of soap on them – but wet. It would be hours before they dried.
Normally, the temperature had little effect on him. But he was oddly cold. Dimly, he had some recollection of plunging into icy waters. The harbour, he thought. Greta had plunged them into the harbour. Cold could hardly kill him. But he was still human enough that he would crave warmth for a while.
Unwilling to wear the wet clothes, he ignored them in favour of searching for food.
Greta would have something somewhere, he knew.
And he was right. On the short, squat chest of drawers, he found cheese, crackers, fruit and dried meat. He didn’t eat it all, though he was ravenous. If he knew she’d eaten, he would have eaten every last crumb.
He lingered by the washstand long enough to clean up, although the water and cloth were a poor substitute for a hot tub of water.
The Mammoth Book of Hot Romance Page 30