The Shadow: The Original's Trilogy

by Cara Crescent

  She strained to hear. As he relaxed his accent became heavier, something she hadn’t thought possible.

  “First night, I ended up in a statuary room. The lights were off, not a living soul ’round. All that gleaming white marble and limestone. Like walking through a strange tomb where the bodies were frozen instead of buried. Reminded me of the stories of Medusa, you know, in Greek mythology. Felt a bit like her. Unwillingly turned into a monster, unwanted by society, destroying everything I encountered. Had a kinship with her.”

  Her throat grew tight as she listened to her most secret thoughts being voiced. She’d never considered someone else might feel the same.

  “After that, I started spending some of me pay. Buying up art, books, music, anything to try to remind me of the beauty humans were capable of. I always searched for that elusive . . . beautiful . . . something.”

  Her breath caught, she leaned forward. His voice had grown husky, his accented words trailing off until she strained to hear. She should let him sleep, but she wanted to know. She needed the same thing in her life. Wanted it desperately. For a long time, she sat there, picking at the loose threads on her bedspread. Afraid to ask, but wanting to know if he found it, needing know what it was. He appeared at peace with himself and the world—so he must have, right? “What was it? Your something beautiful?”

  “Mm.” His weight shifted and he started to snore softly.

  She sighed, settling back on the mattress.

  What had happened in ’forty-five that had challenged his faith in mankind? A personal event? Maybe something that made him flinch every time she motioned with her hands?

  She’d wanted to dislike him. To find a way to keep her distance because she did pose a threat to him. But during their conversation, she’d forgotten to keep him at a distance. He’d sucked her into their discussion and she’d begun to like him.

  Her gaze followed the hard lines of his body. Goddess preserve her, he was a reformed bad boy with a body made for sin. Almost as if he were made for her. Once upon a time she’d have jumped at an opportunity with such a man. But life had taught her caution.

  Curling up under the covers, she pulled out her phone and searched August, 1945. The first results said it all: The end of World War II. Hiroshima. Nagasaki. The conclusion of one abomination and the beginning of another—definitely a year to challenge a man’s faith in humanity.

  And Duncan Samael Sinclair had gone off in search of something beautiful.

  Chapter 11

  A mad little drummer woke Duncan a few hours later. The erratic beat, punctuated by staccato, wordless lyrics pulled him from his dreams. He forced away the haze of sleep, recognizing the rhythm as a heart in the throes of terror, accented by soft, spasmodic whimpers. This wasn’t the sweet rhythmic lullaby he’d drifted off to.

  He pressed his hand to his wound, easing out of the armchair to investigate. Restless in her sleep, Trina had knocked her pillow to the floor and had the sheets tangled around her legs. Why did he find her so damn fascinating? Because he’d known her before? Because she was better than before? She looked so much like Satrina, but she was different. More emotional. More . . . just more.

  When he sat at the edge of the bed, the mattress sagged under his weight and she rolled, curling around him. Logically, because the bed dipped toward him, but in his mind he rather fancied she did so to get closer. He stroked his hand down her arm, her skin dark under his pale, callused fingers. She moaned, throwing her arm over his thighs.

  “Mm, I’m not such a bad sort when you don’t have to look at me, eh?”

  She let out a soft whimper in response. Moisture glistened on her dark lashes. He had to restrain himself from shaking her awake and demanding to know what she dreamt of. His response was illogical. Inappropriate. It was damn near all-consuming.

  Rule Three: Never love.

  Hell, he needed to be careful with this one. She reminded him of Harry—the way she hid any weakness by turning prickly. He saw something in her, some pain she’d buried and nurtured into a shield to keep others away. Yeah, he needed to be careful, but he’d always been a sucker for a challenge.

  If she belonged to him, he’d curl up behind her and hold her through the nightmares. She didn’t, though. She’d pitch a fit if she woke to find him in her bed. Instead, he slipped one arm under her shoulders and the other under her knees and stood, groaning at the pull on his wounds. He carried her to the armchair, settling her in his lap. This evening, when she woke, she could slag him off to her heart’s content. He’d tell her . . . what? His actions were compulsive? Compassionate? No. they were possessive—and he doubted she’d like to hear that.

  Rule One: Never let true emotion show.

  She could stuff her displeasure. He wasn’t any happier about this whole mess than her. He wanted her. Had every intention of having her. But she wasn’t the type of woman to be left behind and relationships were not his strong suit.

  The last one . . . ah, Gertie. He’d tried to love her. She had been his wife, supposed to have been his helpmate. Instead, she’d become the bane of his existence—the longer he had her in his grasp the more she changed into something unlovable. He’d found solace with Satrina, though she’d been a cold woman, always keeping him at arm’s length.

  Then they’d all died. All within a few days. Satrina disappeared, never to be heard from again, and his wife and son . . . . His gut twisted into an unyielding knot.

  Yeah, Gertie had been his own personal hell and Satrina hadn’t been much better. To set himself up for such a thing again would be daft.

  Trina sighed, drawing his attention back to the present. Her head listed to the side, the pointed diamond-shaped stones in her choker digging into her neck. It was a menacing-looking bauble and broken, to boot. One of the milky-white stones was cracked. Most of the stone was missing from another. Odd that she’d changed into a pair of baggy shorts and a tank top for bed, but hadn’t removed her jewelry.

  He lifted her, crossed his ankle over his knee and settled her bum into the pocket his leg made. He nudged her head into the crook of his elbow so the choker wouldn’t dig into her.

  She was different from the women he usually seduced. Even the abstract designs inked around her upper arm had a gothic bent to them. Small in stature; her head didn’t even reach his shoulders. With her narrow waist and slender, toned limbs, she was petite everywhere except for the full breasts attempting to spill out of her tank top.

  Despite all that, she had an upper-crust aura about her—maybe because of her impeccable posture or the inscrutable expression she wore to try to hide her thoughts or perhaps because of the fragile pride she wrapped herself in. Whatever the reason, it made him want to push her buttons until that pristine mask shattered so he could get to the woman underneath. And he had every intention of getting to her. Soon as she started trusting him.

  His lips quirked. Damn but she’d been shocked as hell when he caught her lying about those Tarot cards. Embarrassed, too. She wouldn’t try to trick him again.

  His gaze settled on her mouth, the saucy bow shape, the full lower lip. Christ, the things he’d like to do to that mouth. She’d shoot him again if she had any inkling.

  Yeah, she’d be his. At least, for a little while. She’d already started to get curious about him. She watched him whenever she thought he wasn’t paying her mind.

  Ugly as he was, he had never understood his appeal, but for whatever reason, he had the devil’s luck with women. Well, at least with getting them into the sack. He discovered real fast not to expect more—a hard-learned lesson that he’d never forget.

  *****

  Trina woke to a gentle rocking, almost like that of a ship. The comforting motion tipped her from side to side, following the ebb and flow. She turned her head into her warm pillow. Inhaled earthy things—trees and rain . . . she shouldn’t smell any of those things in the ocean.

  Wait . . . she wasn’t in the Navy anymore.

  Soft rhythmic inhalations and e
xhalations kept time with the rocking motion.

  Duncan.

  She came awake with a start, launching herself out of his lap. She whirled around, fisting her hands at her sides, ready to berate him with a barrage of scathing put downs. Magic thrummed through her veins alongside a potent rush of adrenaline.

  No Magic. Don’t use Magic. She paused. Forced her hands to unclench.

  At her hesitation, he grinned like a Cheshire cat. “All you had to do was ask, Duchess. No need sneaking into me arms while I’m asleep.”

  “Why you arrogant, little b—”

  “Careful now. Ain’t nothing little about me.”

  Her gaze dropped to his lap where an impressive erection pushed against his fly.

  “Penny for your thoughts?” His lips spread in a knowing smile.

  She forced her gaze up. “You damn well know you’re the one who accosted me in my sleep you . . . you perverted deviant. You want me—”

  In less than a heartbeat he had her backed to the wall. An icy tendril of apprehension crept up her spine. Her Magic spiked, demanding release. She tamped the urge down again.

  With him looming over her, she didn’t even reach his shoulders in height and she couldn’t help but notice the flex of muscle in his chest, how thick his biceps were or how broad his shoulders. Goddess preserve her, this man could do a person some damage.

  No Magic.

  She didn’t want to hurt him. Not unless he did something to deserve her wrath, so she waited, ready to defend herself.

  He didn’t touch her, instead he braced his arms on the wall to either side of her, leaving her room to escape. Gave her time to do so, in fact, but she stayed, entranced by the fire in his hazel eyes.

  “Yeah, I want you.” He leaned in. Let his body press against hers long enough for her to feel his erection hard and hot through their clothing. “You feel me?”

  “Yeah, I get it, you want to fuck me.” She used her most derisive tone, hating the shakiness of her voice.

  “Oh, no.” He shook his head once. “No, not with you. You’re not the kind of woman created for a mindless fuck. No, a woman like you . . . . Should I tell you what it’d be like? Would you like that, love?”

  “Don’t call me that.” Too late, she realized the breathlessness of her voice denied any truth to her words. She’d always wanted to be someone’s love. But it wasn’t meant to be. Not for her. She lifted her chin. “I don’t like it.”

  “You do.” He tipped his head to the side, studying her. “See, when the time is right, I’m gonna strip these clothes off you like they were fancy paper on a pressy. Not with the clumsiness of an excited five-year-old on Christmas morn, but with the reverence of a man who’s never gotten a pressy before and maybe never will again.” His voice sounded like silk pulled across velvet, smooth and soft, but still rough from slumber, catching here and there before sliding along again in its fluid, effortless baritone.

  “I’ll peel them away, prolonging the anticipation, savoring the experience, making a memory of each second. When we’re both starkers, love, I’ll do the same to you. I’ll kiss those pouting lips of yours, coaxing you to open for me so I can taste you again.” He bit his bottom lip, bowing his head as if to kiss her, but stopped shy. "You remember me kiss, yeah? Remember me loving your mouth? How I taste?” He leaned close enough for her to feel his words on her lips, to taste each breath he exhaled, but didn’t come close enough for anything more. “I’ll touch every inch of your skin with me hands, lick every bit of flesh, undoing any reservations you have.”

  He awakened senses she’d thought long dead, making her burn, but denying her the relief of his touch. Her head spun, scattering her thoughts as she became intoxicated on desire.

  “And your breasts. Ah, you’ve got magnificent breasts. I can almost feel their weight in me palm, imagine your nipples hardening in me mouth, straining for more.”

  As affected by the erotic pictures he painted as she, his breath had turned ragged. His gaze never left hers, holding her captive in a way his hands never could.

  “You’ll be begging, writhing against me, pleading with me to fill you with me cock. And I’ll be hard for you—bursting with the need to be inside you. But not yet. First, I’ll want to taste you. . . . ” His thigh nudged hers apart, slid against the apex of her legs. “Here.”

  Unable to look away, her cheeks burned. He must feel the heat, the dampness through their clothes.

  “Don’t blush, love. Don’t be embarrassed. You’re wet for me. I like that. Makes me ache all the more for you. So much I can’t stand much more. You like it, too—that I’m so damn hot for you. You like the idea of me mouth on your pussy, me tongue sliding over your clit. That’ll be the first time I make you come. But I have a secret, love.”

  He leaned in until his chest brushed her breasts, making them ache, until the scruff on his jaw scratched her cheek, until his heavy breath caressed her ear, causing her to shiver. “It won’t be anywhere near the last.”

  Duncan pushed back to arm’s length.

  Her hands twitched, wanting to pull him in until he pressed her to the wall. Until he fulfilled each act he’d described.

  His gaze stroked over her as if trying to memorize the moment in its finest detail. She waited for him to lean in and kiss her. She waited for him to touch her. For more erotic words.

  She waited in vain.

  “But not now.” He lowered his arms to his sides. “Get dressed, Duchess. I’ll be waiting downstairs.” He inclined his head to her and left the room.

  A shuddering breath shook loose. Damn, he was dangerous. He’d hardly touched her but he’d left her in such a state of arousal she had little doubt the slightest stimulus would send her careening over the edge. Never had she been so aroused, much less by something as simple as words.

  Maybe he really was hers. A soul created for her and her alone.

  No. The Watchers couldn’t see her. They didn’t know her well enough to fulfill the spell the coven had cast requesting her mate.

  This had nothing to do with him, or them being mated or true love. She hadn’t been with a man in two years. Too much abstinence had turned her to mush. That’s all this was.

  She nodded. Lust could be sated and forgotten. If Duncan wouldn’t let her push him away, she’d sleep with him and be done with him. Their curiosity would be satisfied and they could both move on.

  Chapter 12

  Smyrna Island, Pacific Oceania

  U.S. Department of Defense

  Revelations Industries, Inc.

  Julius Crowley allowed his mind to quiet, his control slipping away as the Watcher took over.

  Images flashed through his mind at such speeds he had no hope of garnering any information. The red-headed woman from his dream leaning over Lilith—one side of Lilith’s face sunken and black, James Pasquino pacing at the foot of Lilith’s bed. Leopold, hunkered down in his hidey-hole with his wife. A young boy he didn’t recognize sitting in a library, staring at a wall of monitors, sipping blood from a bag. Sentries standing guard at the gate of an abandoned townhome. Different Sentries disembarking from a Cessna on a private airstrip surrounded by evergreens.

  None of it made sense. Though he recognized most of them, the scenes themselves had no context. The single grain of truth: Azazel was keeping tabs on everyone involved in this mess.

  Azazel narrowed the scope of his vision. A u-shaped tropical island. A sizeable-looking military facility. Glass and stainless-steel hallways.

  Forcing himself to relax, Julius made his consciousness as small and unnoticeable as possible. He hid in his shared body, watching and listening. A vision of his surroundings filled his mind.

  A fat little man entered the lab. Chubby. Glasses. He used his forefinger to push them up the rise of his nose. Computers, measuring equipment, beakers, and centrifuges filled the room. Windows ran along one wall, tilted to look down onto a lower floor of the building.

  A memory flashed through his mind of this same guy sta
nding over him with a bone-saw. Moss.

  Moss hummed as he approached. Like before, he wore green scrubs with a white lab coat.

  His stomach roiled. Did that mean he intended to play surgeon again?

  “You did well in that last test, Mr. Crowley.”

  “You will call me Great One.” The words had tripped out of his mouth with no effort from him. He clamped his mouth shut.

  Moss’ brows lifted as walked around the edge of the gurney to straighten some instruments laid out on a sterile tray. “I’m going to repeat the experiment.”

  Moss’ voice echoed in his head as he heard the words both with his ears and in the vision.

  “Again? Why? You got your precise measurement. How ’bout you fuck off instead.”

  Moss flashed a tight smile. “I’d like to see how much you can regenerate. What will happen if I make the next cut at the first knuckle, for instance?”

  He opened his mouth to argue but his throat seized. He struggled against the pressure filling his throat, filling all of him. Resistance always made this more painful.

  Azazel spoke through him. “Why stop at the first knuckle? Take the whole finger.”

  Moss slid his glasses up his nose. “I had considered doing that.” A door hissed open as it slid to the side. Moss turned as a brunette in dark-blue scrubs entered. She had a small computer tablet in her hand. “I think we’re ready to begin with Mr. Crowley, LeAnne. I’d like you to record everything.”

  “Great One. I grow tired of reminding you. However, my host will be happy to assist you in any experiment you deem necessary. It’s most important you progress quickly. You must save the soldiers.”

  As if Azazel cared what happened to the soldiers. No, Azazel wanted something else, he just couldn’t figure out what. Did he expect the good doctor to allow them to bite the soldiers? What would that do? Create a few more vampires?