by Holley Trent
Most cambions had a mishmash of gifts. The only consistent thing was having a psychic link to their demon parent, and of course, incubi and succubi all had the seduction thing down pat.
“The grandmother—Clarissa—she’s a wonderful hostess. Likes taking care of people,” he said.
She blew out a breath and shook her head, as with awe. “Sounds nice.”
“Yeah. She makes holidays almost bearable.”
“And the other brother?”
“Claude. He lives in North Carolina, too, but in the mountains. We talk and text a lot. Claude lives closest to my sister Julia. He watches out for her and does the big brother thing.”
“I’ve driven through North Carolina a bunch of times, but never stopped for longer than twenty minutes.”
“Yeah, I hadn’t spent much time there until John relocated. I like the Atlantic beaches. They’re a bit wild with the currents, and the water on the southernmost beaches is warm.”
Her gaze tracked down his torso, and when they reached the tabletop, she leaned sideways and glanced at his pants and boots beneath the table. “You don’t strike me as a beach type.”
A low rumble escaped his chest, and he realized it was a laugh. A real laugh, and not a scoff or a snort. Did he really laugh so little that he’d be surprised to hear it—that he wouldn’t recognize the sound coming from his own body?
Hell of a life he’d been living.
“I wasn’t, really, but John likes it. He’s full of wide-eyed wonder that way. He grew up in the desert, and the ocean is still a huge novelty for him.”
“And you go just because he likes it?”
His turn to shrug. “Yeah, why not? It’s a pretty easy thing to do to make someone that happy. Usually someone will drag along a grill, assuming there isn’t a fire ban, and we’ll cook out there. John and Ariel hope to buy a house near the beach one day.”
Yeah, they hoped to, but the most probable outcome would be Charles would buy them one as a wedding gift. They didn’t know how much money he was sitting on, either. No one knew that beyond Pop, and Pop had his own ill-gotten gains to spend.
“Maybe I’ll pick up a load down there next summer.”
“Yeah. Make it a priority. Put it on your bucket list.”
She gave him a mock salute and winked.
Oh, she’s something. Charles felt himself smiling like an idiot and was glad she’d turned her attention back to her pile of food. He just couldn’t muster up the cool around this woman.
When the check came, Charles ordered one more pot of coffee to fill Marion’s thermos and a little cup of half-and-half to take along.
“Aren’t you considerate?” she said, swirling one last wedge of pancake through the syrup on her plate.
Please don’t eat that.
She ate it.
He groaned. She had to be ready to burst, but if she was uncomfortable, she wasn’t acting it. She looked downright spry, in fact, practically thrumming with energy.
“How do you drive when you’re that full?”
“Mind over matter, Chucky.”
“Don’t call me that. I’m not that kind of demon.”
“Huh?”
Shit. He forced a smile onto his lips. “Sorry. Bad childhood memory. Neighborhood bullies, you know. I think Child’s Play traumatized every kid on my block.”
Her lips formed an O-shape and she nodded. “Got it. No Chucky. Should I call you Mr. Edison? Aren’t you my boss, in a way?”
He imagined no one could really be this woman’s boss. She had that regal air of being the boss of every-damn-thing, even if she didn’t want to be. “No, I’m not your boss. Just an … outsider checking in. You can call me Charles.”
She nodded and stood, gathering up her coat and drawing her knit cap from one of its pockets. “I’ll remember that if we ever cross paths again.”
He left a wad of cash with the bill and picked up his own jacket. “What’s the rush? You have something planned for this morning?”
She zipped her coat up to her chin and cocked her chin up him defiantly. “No. I’m just going to make my way south to somewhere that isn’t zero degrees. Maybe Galveston. It was nice down there last time I visited.” She stared out the window as she mused. “Redneck Riviera, they call it.”
“Might I offer a suggestion?”
“Lay it on me.”
“It’s not warm or southerly, but I have a house nearby.” Shit, had he kept up the maid service and gardening on that property? Pretty much everything was on auto-draft from his miscellaneous accounts. He didn’t even check the statements. That needed changing.
Her pleasant expression shifted slightly, and Charles knew precisely where it was headed. Straight to Frown Town.
He put up his hands in a calming gesture. “If you’d like, you can rest for a while there. Have a bath. Nap. Stay for dinner, if you’re up to it, and when you’re ready to go, you’ll be good as new. You really should get some sleep.”
Her eyes narrowed, but he could tell by that sharp intake of air that something he’d said had appealed to her.
“And what are you going to be doing while I’m resting?”
He shoved his hands into his pockets and tried to keep the smirk off his face. “Working. I’ve got some work to do.”
She didn’t say anything for a long while, but then she picked up her thermos. “I could probably just get a hotel room.”
“Why spend the money when you can have an entire house to yourself?”
She rocked back on her heels, chewed on her bottom lip, and then nodded. “Lead on, Charles. I hope your bathtub holds lots of hot water.”
He grinned. Like hell if he could remember.
That grin quickly ebbed as his head tingled with a psychic bombardment. Fuck. He closed his eyes, and rubbed them with his fingertips. He’d been so enamored by Marion, he’d let his guard down.
There you are. How many times do I have to summon you before you show up, Trucker?
Charles swallowed. I’ve been busy, Pop.
Come to me.
Can’t travel right now. I’m busy.
Then I’ll come to you. I do wonder what you’re busy doing, because I know what you’re not doing.
He opened his eyes, stood, and returned Marion’s coy grin. He swept his arm toward the door, indicating she should pass him.
Give me a couple of hours and I’ll tell you where to meet me. I’m in Idaho.
Joy.
The tingling stopped and the connection broke.
Charles sighed and held the door open for her. He’d been avoiding his father for months. He couldn’t keep ignoring the angry demon for long, though. It was better to check in and placate him than to send the fallen angel out on a vengeful hunt.
Pop didn’t like getting his hands dirty, and if he did, he’d make everyone suffer for it.
CHAPTER FOUR
Against her better judgment, Marion followed the man on the motorcycle through the streets of Coeur d’Alene. He’d led them in circles twice—which annoyed her because she was having to navigate her truck through some very narrow through-streets—and finally led her into the driveway of a one-story bungalow near the city center.
He pushed his bike toward the shed, and then stood at the door, fumbling with his keychain.
She stayed in her truck where it was warm while he tried, and failed, with several different keys. His forehead scrunched and his lips moved. He looked to be muttering to himself.
“Shouldn’t you know your own keys, dude?” She stabbed her seatbelt release, feeling oddly relieved that a man that pretty had an obvious flaw. He was seriously scatterbrained.
Finally, he got the padlock off and opened the shed door. He pushed his bike in, relocked the outbuilding, and strode toward the house’s side door, scowling at the keys once more.
After three misfires, he picked the right key and pushed his shoulder into the door, patting the wall for the light switch before beckoning her in.
She lock
ed up her truck and hurried into the slightly warmer house.
“Sorry.” He moved through the hall and turned on lights as he passed the switches. “I had the locks changed recently and still haven’t memorized the keys.”
“Why’d you change the locks? Crazy ex-girlfriend?”
Okay, maybe she was fishing for info. A guy who dressed that well very possibly swung the other way, so if she was going to flirt, she wanted to make sure she was barking up the right species of tree.
“Something like that,” he mumbled. He led her to a bedroom where she tossed her knapsack onto the bed.
She spun, slowly, taking in the simple furnishings and plain decor. White paint, no art, and no carpet. That last point became particularly salient when she heeled off her boots and felt the hardwood floor’s shocking coldness through her socks. She curled her toes. “You keep it chilly in here, huh?”
He blinked at her a couple of times as if the fact hadn’t registered with him, and he moved toward the doorway. He turned a knob near the light switch and the baseboard heater beneath the two small windows began clicking. “Sorry, I guess I do when I’m away. I’ve been on the road the past couple of weeks. I usually turn the thermostat down before I leave.”
“That’s very conservation-minded of you.”
He shrugged. “Force of habit. Listen, make yourself at home. There’s no food here, so while I’m out … uh … doing work things, do you want me to pick up lunch for you? Perhaps something for dinner?”
She pinched the coat zipper tab between her thumb and forefinger and nudged it down while studying him. He seemed pretty harmless, if overly accommodating. He was kind enough, but Charles Manson had probably been nice to strangers, too. There were probably a lot of places in an old house like this in which he could hide a body. Not like anyone would go looking for her, anyway. She was a freelancer and had no family. Still, something about him put her at ease, though she didn’t know why. A woman like her shouldn’t have been so calm. He had to be a foot and a half taller than her, obviously stronger, and at the moment he was blocking her only exit route.
She’d trained herself over the past twenty-four years to not end up in situations she couldn’t control. She had to be her own number one advocate and protector. Any other time she would have waited in the doorway while he was in the room to give herself a head start should she need to run, but the moment she’d walked into his house, her common sense evaporated.
For fuck’s sake, she’d taken off her shoes. Oddly, she wasn’t even angry with herself. Maybe she was too tired for guilt. Or maybe she knew, deep down, that this gorgeous giant wouldn’t hurt her. She cocked her head and narrowed her eyes at him. What was a man like him doing working for a trucking company? He’d probably be more at place behind a desk at some Fortune 500 company, assuming he’d cut off some of that hair—not that she’d support such an endeavor. She kept her own hair short for practical reasons, but there was something incredibly arousing about a man confident enough to don a ponytail. His hair had been loose up until the ride from the restaurant. She pondered which look she liked better.
He cleared his throat.
She chuckled nervously and nudged her boots closer to her bag. Just stop looking at him. “Uh, surprise me. I’m not picky. Just show me where the towels are before you go. I’m going to charge up my phone. Check my e-mail, maybe. Take a bath and a nap.”
“Are you that easy to please?”
She crouched low and unzipped her bag. “Maybe I just have low expectations.”
“Hmm. That needs changing.”
She scrunched her brow and glanced up at him, but he’d already retreated through the doorway. She listened to the sound of his boots clapping down the hallway floor, and then a door slammed shut.
She dove for the rear window and parted the curtains in time to see him loping down the sidewalk, head lowered and hands in pockets, toward downtown.
“Damn, I should have gotten his number.” She snapped her fingers, and sighed. What if she decided to leave before he got back? Seemed rude to take advantage of his hospitality only to skip out without a word.
She padded into the living room, figuring she’d see what the guy was all about. “Huh. Living room. Doesn’t look like there’s much living going on here.” She trailed her fingers along the chair rail as she made her way around the room, studying the little impersonal touches that had most certainly been left behind by some designer or girlfriend. The décor was simply too cohesive for a single guy who worked for a trucking company.
Bending at the waist, she studied the small, framed map of old Coeur d’Alene that perched on one of the sofa’s end tables. “Or maybe his mother decorated the place.”
It was a nice little house, but definitely didn’t speak to Marion’s artistic preferences. When she was out on the road with nothing to do but stare at asphalt and the horizon, she often thought about what kind of home she’d put that big hunk of savings toward. Maybe a renovated loft looking down onto bustling city streets?
She entered the bathroom, pressed the light switch up, and let out a little squeal of jubilation upon spotting the tub. It was deep and magnificent, made of cast iron and propped up on claw feet. The overflow drain was up high, so she could sink in up to her neck and let the stress from the past few weeks of driving flow from her muscles. She stuck the stopper in the drain, turned on the bathroom’s heater, and started the water before heading back to the bedroom for her bag.
She plucked out her toiletry kit, and mused, “No, not a loft …” Being on ground level seemed better. Someplace where she could see kids streaking past on their bikes and scooters. Maybe a townhouse with a stoop where she could sit with a good book on the weekends and chat with folks she knew as they strolled by.
Yeah, she liked that idea, and the idea of community. Even if she were alone, there’d be people around. She was tired of being alone.
She brushed her teeth and let her mind flit over the U.S. map that had become ingrained in her brain after years of driving. Where would her little townhouse be?
She’d spent some time in Chicago, and loved the vitality there. There was a lot to see and do, should she have time to do it. Maybe she could find some neighborhood filled with young professionals or families with small kids. Someplace with a lot of life and bustle.
She rinsed her mouth and shook her head.
Nah, not Chicago. If she was going to put down roots like a tree, she wanted it to at least be someplace she’d thrive. Someplace warm most months of the year.
She capped her toothbrush and pinned her long bangs back with a metal clip. Shrugging off her shirt, she pondered some more. Maybe go back to Ohio? Buy a little house there? It was certainly a central place for a long-haul trucker to live.
“Hell no.” She dipped a cautious elbow into the bathwater and found it just shy of scalding, just the way she liked it. She could never get water that hot in hotels. Their water heaters were set too low because of liability issues.
She wrenched the water knobs to their off positions, and shed her socks and pants. Bra and panties came last, and she rolled her eyes at the boring, utilitarian things piled there on the floor. They were damn near institutional. Plain white and purchased in bulk. No one ever saw them, and since she always washed clothes at truck stop laundries, having one color cut down on her loads.
She sank into the water up to her lips and closed her eyes. “Okay. To-do list while I’m on birthday vacation. Number one, go online and find someplace to live. Number two, buy underwear that doesn’t suck. Number three …” She giggled. “Find someone to show new underwear to.”
Pulling her bottom lip between her teeth, her thoughts turned to the man who’d graciously loaned her his home for the day.
Maybe she didn’t have to look so hard for that last thing on her list.
• • •
When Pop arrived at the coffee shop, Charles knew it without even looking up from his tea. Even with his back turned to the door, the dem
on’s presence registered with him down to his bones. If anyone else in the room knew they were in the arena of a being nearly as old as the universe, they didn’t react. They kept chatting. Kept laughing. Kept sipping.
Pop slipped into the seat across from him and removed his dark sunglasses, studying Charles with those seemingly bottomless blue eyes. Charles often thought if he stared long enough into his father’s gaze, he’d see far enough back in time to witness the moment of creation. Old soul didn’t even begin to describe the demon Gulielmus.
“Trucker,” Pop acknowledged after a long moment of uncomfortable silence.
Charles bobbed his head in a small nod. “Pop.”
“I haven’t been to Idaho in about fifty years.”
“You and me both.”
“Needed a change of scenery?”
Charles couldn’t tell for sure, but it looked like Pop shuddered in revulsion.
“You couldn’t have picked someplace warm?”
Charles shrugged and warmed his fingers around his paper cup. “Remember, you summoned me this morning, and this is where I’m passing through at the moment. I was on the road and remembered I had a house here. Decided to see it.”
Pop never could quite tell when he was lying, or lying by omission, but his narrowed eyes indicated his suspicion. He wouldn’t press, though. After all, Charles had inherited that particular lying skill from him.
Pop leaned back in his seat, and the wooden chair groaned from the exertion. At seven feet tall, he was an imposing figure, even without his looks. He could change forms at will, but his true form—the one he’d fallen to Earth with—had hair as yellow as the morning sun and eyes as blue as the Caribbean. That was the form he was in today. He turned heads whenever he went, and rarely bothered with being discreet. His ego was too large for discretion.
Up until John had come into the picture, Charles was the lucky fucker who most resembled the demon—only his hair was dark like his mother’s. John got the blond. All the boys got the height, more or less. Claude was the shortest between him, Charles, and John at six-two. Claude’s mother had been tiny. Both Charles and John stood at around six and a half feet tall.