Blaéz straightened from pulling on his boots. He met her gaze in the mirror. “Ready?”
Caught staring at him, warmth surged into her cheeks. She nodded.
“Breakfast?”
“It’s too early. I’ll get something at work.” She picked up her tote and followed him out of the room, every bit of her aware of him.
“We’ll stop off at the police station first,” he said as they headed toward the stairs, “and you can file charges against those men.”
“Oh…” She pressed a hand to her suddenly churning tummy.
“There’s no need to fear, I’ll be with you.”
He would, she knew. That calmed her a little. “Thank you.”
Moments later, they stepped outside into warm, early morning sunshine. Darci faltered to a stop on the marbled portico and gawked at the view surrounding her.
Miles and miles of rolling park-like grounds spread out on either side of her. A circular driveway headed back into the tall trees in the distance. As the morning sun climbed up from behind them, it reflected off the castle. Thick, climbing green ivy diminished the starkness of the gray walls.
She’d known this was a castle, but still, nothing prepared her for the sheer breathtaking beauty of it, like she’d fallen into a fairytale. She walked down the few steps then looked up to the top of the building at the imposing towers, crenelated battlement, and terraces in all their glorious splendor.
“This place is incredible. Where exactly are we?”
“On our island estate just off Manhasset Bay — on Long Island Sound.”
Her gaze snapped to him. They owned an island? It shouldn’t fit this lethal man, but yet, it somehow did. Her gaze drifted back to the front of the circular driveway, and her eyes widened at the sleek black predator parked there. Much like the man himself.
A Bugatti Veyron. Why did she think he’d drive one of those badass SUVs?
Blaéz held the passenger door open. He stood too close. His body heat enfolded her, his sexy mouth was just a tempting head tilt away. In sheer self-preservation, Darci clambered into a low seat of sublime decadence. She dropped her tote to the floorboard and inhaled a deep, calming breath.
He shut the door, rounded the hood, and got in beside her. The engine purred to life, and they left the castle behind and soon crossed a steel bridge running over clear blue waters. She glanced at Blaéz as he shifted gears, but his entire focus appeared to be on the road. Guess he wasn't one for small talk.
An hour later, at the police station downtown, Blaéz waited while she laid charges against the three men who’d attacked her last night. Tagg, the detective on the case, a big man with a buzz cut and sharp angular features took her statement. Only Blaéz’s presence next to her kept her sane and not running as she relived the incident. Thank God she didn't have to see her attackers face-to-face. The mug shots to identify them didn't help much since it had been dark and she could barely make them out.
After they left the police station, she became aware of how quiet Blaéz had gone. Nothing showed on his face, but something was different; she could feel the distance like a widening chasm. He’d withdrawn from her.
She tried to understand what had happened. What had changed since that morning?
Yes, he’d saved her. That she understood, then he’d taken her to his home to recover, which she didn't get. She knew he liked her. Heck, the guy had threatened a sit-in at her library until she’d agreed to see him. And now, he’d just switched off?
She didn't buy it. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“I see…” Her fingers clenched on her lap. “Then why did you take me to your home — protect me?”
“I would have done so for anyone.”
Unexpected hurt shimmered through her. Well, that set her straight. She wasn’t anyone special, just a job. Darci picked up her tote as he brought the sleek vehicle to a purring halt in front of the library. She opened the door, but he was already there.
“Thanks for the ride and for saving me last night—”
“I don’t expect thanks,” he cut her off, tone terse. “I'm just sorry I couldn’t prevent it.” With a hand on her back, he moved her aside, shut the door, and walked her up the few steps to the huge front entrance of the library. “And you do matter.”
Her heart tripped. It was the last thing she’d expected. “What are you saying?”
“Something I damn well shouldn’t.”
Still, that inkling of hope was hard to let go. “Will I see you again?”
His brooding gaze met hers. As if compelled, he gently ran a finger along her jaw. “If I could, I would hold on to you, never let you go. But I'm fucked up in every way, and would only hurt you.”
“Blaéz—” She grasped his wrist.
He shook his head and dropped his hand. “What we want is but a dream. Trust me, it’s better this way. Goodbye, Darci Callahan. Be safe for me. And never use that alley again.”
He loped down the steps to his car. Moments later, the Veyron and its dangerous occupant disappeared down the street.
A dream? Darci really wished it were, maybe then she wouldn’t feel this unexpected sense of loss.
Chapter 7
Blaéz stopped at the corner of Broome and Canal Streets, the night air thick with humidity and exhaust fumes. The drone of car engines and people yakking filled the streets, yet he felt far removed from it all.
Time seemed to have slowed down to a trickle since he’d left Darci yesterday. Even the demonii kill earlier had made little impact.
This was his lot in life, time… endless time.
Had he done the right thing?
Darci was all that made sense in his life. He’d lived a lifetime of emotions in that brief moment with her. The confusion in her beautiful eyes when he’d walked away made him realize he’d behaved like a bastard. He’d gone after her like some demented stalker and demanded her attention, then he’d walked away — walked away from the only person he ever truly wanted. No, it was better this way. He could never protect her from himself and the shit that came with him.
Head lowered, he continued up the street once more. He must have walked a million miles, wore down countless pairs of boots. Night after night, he did the same thing. And would for eternity.
He needed a drink — needed the liquid heat that would warm the cold void inside of him.
Cutting across a thoroughfare, he made his way to Club Anarchy. Bypassing the long line of people leading to the entrance of the club and the two demon bouncers there, he entered the popular nightspot. Heavy metal music vibrated around him. He tuned it out, but could do little about the multicolored laser lights whipping his retinas. A group of inebriated humans stumbled toward him. He skirted them and took the stairs to the upper level, nodded to a waitress, and raised three fingers. “Whiskey — neat.”
Hands braced on the gallery railing, he watched the feverish, gyrating bodies on the ground floor. Seconds later, a musky feminine scent surrounded him. A reed-thin female clad in a short, skin-tight black dress settled against the balustrade.
“Hey there, big guy.” Her smile amped up as she studied him beneath lowered lashes.
Taking his silence as an invitation, she trailed her fingers down his arm. He cut her an impassive stare. She dropped her hand.
“We could have so much fun,” she murmured.
He didn't respond. Sidestepping her, he headed for his usual table. The drunken fools occupying it should be running. Instead, they glared at him, looking for a fight.
Oh, he wanted one, all right, but not with these sotted idiots. A draft of air would doubtless knock them on their arses. He willed them to leave and dropped into his seat
The waitress appeared with his whiskeys.
“Keep the tab running.” He slugged two back in rapid succession. Fire blazed down his throat, giving him a transient sensation of warmth. Right then, he wished for oblivion.
Go get her. You need her.
He stared at his empty glass. No, she’d be safe this way. And Maloch would never know about her.
A stir in the air had him looking up. Detachedly, he watched the female dressed in a long, dark green skirt and lace-up leather vest approach him and debated leaving. That icy, untouchable aura surrounding her like a cloak rapidly cleared a path through the gawking humans.
The Morrigan pulled out the chair opposite his and sat down. Resting her arms on the scarred wooden table, she laced her fingers. Her stunning, pale features remained calm, but her gaze held a hint of wariness. “Blaéz—”
He ignored her, picked up his third whiskey, and sucked back the rest of his liquor. He didn't care for the great queen — the all-powerful Goddess of War and Death and her maternal guilt visits. He just wished she’d forget he ever existed.
The waitress reappeared with his refills. He downed another.
“Blaéz, stop,” The Morrigan pleaded. “That liquor will not help you. Pay heed to me—”
“Why? I remember doing so once, and look where it got me, thrown in that hellhole.”
She didn't flinch at his cold words. “I could do nothing, you know this.”
“Indeed.”
“It was too dangerous. Blaéz…” She reached out to stroke his hand.
He picked up his drink and took another swallow.
Her fingers balled at his avoidance of her touch. “The pantheons were at each other’s throats, and asking only for your pardon would have been disastrous. All the protectors were held responsible for Inara's abduction. But you survived that place. You are strong. You are mine, a mhac—”
“Enough.” Now she would call him son when she never had before. He set his empty glass on the table. “I care little that you chose me to do a minimal job as protector to some goddess. It’s the why. And, Your Highness” — her mouth tightened at his deliberate use of her title — “don’t seek me out again.”
Yes, he was a cold-hearted bastard. She’d made him into one when she’d given him away the moment he’d taken his first breath. He would never call her my goddess, or worse, Mother. He pushed up from his seat, threw several dollars on the table and walked out, taking the stairs two at a time. People hurried out of his way as he headed for the door.
Outside, the humid stench of decay and garbage barely made an impact as he headed deeper into the alley. At the sudden flutter of wings, he glanced up. Ravens and crows moved along with him. He wasn’t surprised at the entourage. The Morrigan’s shape-shifting warriors never left her alone.
“Blaéz, wait—”
He pivoted. “You want to talk? Let’s do so, by all means, let me tell you all about it. The Jaedas, indeed, you are familiar with those amorphous entities,” he said when she stared at him in shock, “they held me trapped in that shifting hell of Tartarus for centuries, took over my body, and did things — well, you get the picture. Or did you want to know about the sick motherfucker who found me in the last century of my confinement and now owns my soul?”
Her deep blue eyes widened in distress before morphing into determination. “Blaéz, listen to me. I can help—”
“No. Every time you do, I land in a pile of shit and pay with blood.”
“I tried to keep you safe—”
“From what? Finnén? My twin thought I was your lover and he almost killed me for it because you persisted in keeping me close. Strange, isn’t it? He could never see the resemblance.”
“You are fraternal. He takes after his sire.”
And he was like her? Great. Blaéz glanced about the filthy backstreet at the roaches scurrying in the overflowing dumpsters. Why was he even having this conversation? Nothing good would come of it, except perhaps, easing her guilt. He wasn’t inclined to do so.
“Here’s the thing about not having a soul. I no longer care.” He dematerialized downtown, wishing she’d left him living in obscurity, growing up as a servant with no knowledge of the truth — of who he really was.
Back in physical form, Blaéz headed for the cages at the warehouse. The strong, fishy stench ripened the air. A fight would keep his mind occupied, because right then, he wanted to go to Darci. Needed her touch, needed her to warm the emptiness inside him.
Rather than ruin her life, he shoved open the metal door leading down to the fighting pit instead. The coppery odor of fresh blood nailed him in the lungs, the opponent’s pain saturating his mind. Hooked on the sensation, he made his way down the dank passage and into the chaotic, brightly lit basement.
Blaéz, get over here — alley off Eldridge Street.
He stopped, debating ignoring Dagan’s telepathic message.
At length, with little choice and his Guardian oath too deeply ingrained, he headed outside again and dematerialized to the Lower East Side. As he took form in a decrepit cul-de-sac not too far from the synagogue, an insidious chill slid over his skin. The acrid stench of sulfur, of malevolence overpowered the place along with grunts and hisses. Steel clashed, reverberating off the grubby walls.
In the midst of a furious battle, Dagan single-handedly fought a horde of demons. He spun around, his long hair flying out like another weapon.
They mentioned you by name, he telepathed.
Maloch. It could only be his doing.
Blaéz didn't bother summoning his sword. He flew into the horde, slammed one against the wall in a chokehold, and dug into his mind for the truth. The demon squalled at the vicious mental invasion—
A shadowy figure, a guttural tone. “Find who he’s with now…”
What the hell?
The demon broke free before Blaéz could dig out more info, and rammed a fist into his face. Stars exploded behind his eyes. The scourge plowed another blow into Blaéz’s belly, sending him back a few steps.
“You bastards should know I thrive on pain.” With a powerful left hook, Blaéz drove his fist into the demon’s jaw. Bone cracked. The demon howled. “And that’s how it’s done.” Blaéz swiped off the warm, wet gush marring his sight. Probably split his brow.
His heightened hearing picked up a whizzing sound amidst the cacophony. He spun around, and the gleaming red hellfire bolt nailed him dead in the chest. He stumbled back, sucked air into flattened lungs. He’d heard the others curse lavishly when struck by a bolt. He didn't bother; just let the pain seep through him. But the fucker had ruined his shirt.
He summoned his weapon. His sword took form in his hand. He leaped into the air, blade arching, and decapitated the grinning scourge coming at him like a demented bat. Landing on his feet, Blaéz stumbled.
The curse of the hell-bolt was already weakening him. His vision darkened. Unable to wield his weapon, Blaéz dismissed it. With little choice, he seized the demon’s mind and let loose a surge of power. The scourge’s head exploded into bone, brain, and gore. Gray ash rained down to the asphalt. He seized another and detonated it, as well.
A dissonance of screeches flooded the alley as the remaining demons fled, disappearing through the shimmering tear in the mystical veil protecting the realm, and back into Hell.
Blaéz rested a hand on the greasy wall and tried to steady himself. Dizziness crowded him. A coppery smell invaded his nose. He glanced at his chest and the fist-size burn there, his tee glossy with blood. Damn. Guardians could self-heal from almost any injury except this crap.
Dagan jogged over. He pulled out a half-smoked cigar from his pocket, lit the thing and took a drag. “We have another rip in the veils.” He blew out a stream of smoke. “Shit will fly when the Empyrean hears about this.”
Indeed, it would. The mystical veils protected the realm and stopped supernatural evil from entering, but cracks formed, and those demon fuckers had tore through to cross over. It meant Echo had to use her newly burgeoning powers to help mend the rift, fast. Crap would definitely land everywhere since she still wasn't strong enough to tackle this so soon after coming out of her coma.
“You okay?” Dagan asked, his gaze lowering to Blaéz’s chest.
“Will be.�
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Dagan nodded. “I’ll take first shift and keep guard here.”
They would have to watch the rift now until the veils healed naturally — a long process, but it would heal, as long as it wasn’t used again. Right then, Blaéz cared little. He just wanted to get out of here, head back to the castle, crash for a couple of hours. Then he’d be good to go. “Later.”
Blaéz made his way toward a darkened doorway. With a palm braced on a mucky wall splashed with faded graffiti, he shook his head to clear the cottony sensation piling up inside his skull and attempted to dematerialize… nothing. His mind was too foggy to summon that ability.
Shit, he’d have to take a cab. Swaying a little on his feet, he lurched up the alley toward the main street, passing several parked bikes outside a workshop. A human leaned against one, yakking on his cell. A half-smoked hand-rolled dangled between his lips, the pungent stench adding to the reeking place. One-handed, he pulled off his jacket and tossed it behind him across the pillion.
Blaéz glanced at his blood-drenched shirt and gaping wound. As he passed the biker, he swiped the jacket and pulled on the battered thing with its multiple zippers, grimacing at the sweat stink. But it covered the scorched tee and bloody mess of his chest. At the busy main street, he flagged down a cab.
The driver barely blinked as Blaéz collapsed inside the vehicle and rattled off the address. Leaning back in his seat, he grabbed the hem at the side of his shirt that wasn’t soaked and attempted to clean his face, then gave up and shut his eyes…
“Yo, man?” A loud voice dispersed the black cloud that hadn't quite managed to pull him under. “We’re here. That’s twenty-one fifty.”
Groggy, Blaéz flung open the cab door, felt in his pockets, and handed the driver several dollars. He pitched up the stairs, braced his hands on either side of the doorjamb, and tried to keep himself upright. He let go of the frame long enough to rap on the wood.
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