Rising Darkness: A Game Of Shadows Novel Part 21

She jerked her gaze away, shaking, and stared in the direction of the table across the room.

He put a warm hand on her arm. "Are you all right?"

"Yes," she croaked, and cleared her throat. "I think I just saw who you were."

She heard the frown in his voice. "What do you mean?"

"I saw an image of you. Not you as you are, here in the present. Well, at least not at first." Vaguely aware that she was babbling, she made an effort to control herself. "I think I saw a vision of what you looked like in that first life."

But if that was real-and she was so far beyond questioning the reality of her own experiences, so it must be real-then it had been no vision at all, but a memory.

My G.o.d, what a magnificent creature he had been.

And still was.

His fingers tightened. She felt each individual one, pressing gently into her flesh. He controlled his own strength completely, not adding a single twinge of discomfort to her still healing body. Not only must he have absolute knowledge of his own capabilities, but she realized that he had studied and marked the position of every one of her bruises. He had to have, to avoid them so completely.

Then he let her go. As she turned her gaze back to him, he rolled away from her and onto his feet, moving lightly like a dancer. "Come on," he said. "We slept the day away, and we only have an hour or so of daylight left."

Thrown off balance, she fumbled her way out from under the covers. The scuffed hardwood floor felt like a sheet of ice, and her toes curled in protest. Trying to minimize the discomfort, she stood on one foot. "What are we doing?"

"We're going outside for target practice, remember?" He strode over to the table where he had left his T-s.h.i.+rt and socks, and he dressed swiftly, the bulky muscles of his arms and chest flexing as he drew the s.h.i.+rt over his head.

The cabin was too cold for half measures. Either she needed to get dressed or she needed to dive back under the covers. For a moment she wavered, but she knew that if she tried to go back to bed, he would only pull her out again bodily.

s.h.i.+vering, she minced across the freezing floor to the dresser and dragged on a pair of socks. As predicted, they fit. Then she tried on the new jeans. They hung on her hips, but her other pair was still drying on the water heater, and these would do in a pinch. Finally she dove into the voluminous gray sweats.h.i.+rt, hunting for the neck and armholes.

Her voice m.u.f.fled by the thick material, she grumbled, "I would rather have some supper, you know."

"Target practice first," he told her. "Then I'll cook you supper."

That brightened her outlook on the near future considerably. She emerged from the depths of the sweats.h.i.+rt with a smile. "You cook?"

"I cook." He sat in the one of the chairs and laced on his boots.

"Do you by any chance cook omelets?" She hopped into her shoes.

One corner of his mouth lifted. "I do cook omelets. I cook other things too. It's not haute cuisine, but it's good enough."

Somehow that didn't surprise her. Autonomy would matter to him. He would be competent at a lot of things.

After only a brief hesitation, she walked over to put a hand on his wide shoulder. As he lifted his head in inquiry, she bent and kissed him on his hard, warm mouth. "I noticed that you bought asparagus, mushrooms and strawberries," she whispered. "I meant to thank you earlier but got sidetracked."

His expression relaxed, and he gave her a smile. "You're welcome." He stood, foraged in his weapons bag and pocketed a couple of spare clips. Then he strode to the dresser to pick up the nine-millimeter. "Come on."

Grimacing, she followed him outside and around to the back of the cabin, noting how he studied his surroundings, his gaze clear and sharp. The clearing hadn't been mowed in a while, and the long gra.s.s was tangled underfoot.

She muttered, "Have I mentioned recently that I don't want to do this?"

"Not since you woke up," he said. "In fact, I was just admiring your restraint, but I suppose that's all in the past now."

He held the gun out. She turned her back to him.

Circling her, he came back into view and held the gun out again, his expression implacable.

She scowled at him and s.n.a.t.c.hed the gun out of his hand.

"Show me where the safety is," he said.

She pointed, her mouth folded tight.

"Good," he said. "Now, show me that you remember how to reload it."

She pulled the clip out and slammed it back in. Her hands were shaking so that she fumbled the move.

[flat, popping sounds . . . people falling like mown flowers . . .]

He put a hand over hers. His grip was sure and steady. "Are you thinking about what happened to those people?"

"Yes," she whispered.

He tilted her face up. "It's time to take your own advice, Mary," he said. His voice was calm. "The memories are terrible, but what happened is in the past. Acknowledge that, and let it go. This is just a gun. It's a thing, like a scalpel, or a chair, or like any other thing. It's up to you what you do with it."

"There's something wrong with that argument." She pressed a fist to her forehead, trying to clear her head. "I can't think what it is right at the moment, but there is."

"You are in control of this gun," he told her, clearly unmoved by her shaky reaction. "It is not in control of you. If you are not in control of yourself, you might slip and kill or injure someone, but that is true of the scalpel as well. If you have the nerve to wield a scalpel, you can shoot this gun. Now, take the safety off. Hold it like I showed you."

His calm, relentless att.i.tude was actually helping, not hurting. She slipped off the safety and held the gun two handed, like he had demonstrated earlier. The muscles in her arms and shoulders bunched with tension.

He walked behind her and pointed over her shoulder. She sighted along the length of his arm to where his finger pointed. "Aim for that low-hanging branch. Remember, pull the trigger. Don't yank at it."

She pulled the trigger. The gun spat a bullet. Startling wildly, she dropped it.

Silence. She dared to peek over her shoulder at him. He had raised his eyebrows, and his mouth was compressed in a suppressed smile. "You surprised me. I thought it would take at least another ten more minutes to talk you into doing that."

"I hate you," she grumbled.

He spun her around so fast she didn't even have time to squeak. Snaking an arm around her neck, he gave her a savage kiss that was so scorching, she felt as if all of her clothes might burn off of her body. Electricity sizzled through her nerves. By the time he was finished, she was shaking all over and unabashedly clinging to him, with her fingers tangled in his short, fine hair. His mouth left hers with obvious reluctance, and as she sagged limply in his hold, he studied her with a heavy-lidded, predatory look.

She licked her lips. Even her mouth was shaking. "Okay, you caught me. I was kidding. I don't hate you."

He circled her throat with one hand. It was such a barbaric gesture, and he did it so tenderly. She looked up into the dangerous face of her best friend in the entire world.

And she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he would never hurt her, would always defend her. Always.

Something invisible hovered in the air, some decision in his edged expression. He looked like a tiger might, as it walked up to a fence and considered whether or not it might be time to jump over to freedom. Then the tiger retreated, slowly, and he smiled again as he let her go.

Even when he was no longer touching her, the skin at her neck burned with the memory of the warmth from his hand.

He said, "Pick the gun up, and this time, really aim for that branch."

Flooded with sensation and blind with desire, she managed to pick the gun up again and not shoot herself in the foot.

After a half an hour, he called a halt to the lesson. Not, she thought, because he had any pity on her, but because the shadows were lengthening too much on the branches to use them for proper target practice.

And not that she had managed to hit any of the branches, anyway. As wrung out as if they had been boxing the entire time, she clicked on the safety and tried to hand the gun to him, but he wouldn't take it.

"I did good, didn't I?" she said brightly.

The tiger that lived behind his face laughed. "Come on," he said. "I promised you supper."

Back inside, the cabin was almost as cold as it was outside. Teeth chattering, she went to build a new fire in the fireplace while he pulled out various ingredients from the fridge and set to work.

While she waited for the flames to take hold, she wandered into the bathroom and checked her clothes that were still draped on the hot water heater. They were dry, and the material felt stiff and rough. She shook them out and folded them, then set them on the dresser. Then she went back to squat in front of the bright new fire, holding her chilled fingers to the growing warmth.

With his dark head bent to the prosaic task of chopping vegetables, he said, "Tell me your long, stupid story."

It took her a few heartbeats to connect to what he meant. When she remembered, she said, "Justin and I both went to Notre Dame. I wasn't very good at making friends, but he has-had-a knack for it. It's a big university, but he still seemed to know everybody on campus. One of his friends was a roommate of mine, and she introduced us. We really liked each other, you know. We made each other laugh." She paused, but he remained silent. She bit her lip. "The truth of the matter is, he was gay and couldn't admit to it, and I wasn't interested in anybody. We each pretended to be something we weren't, and we tried to create a life that would look right. Look normal. I thought if I acted normal for long enough, I might eventually start feeling normal. You know, fake it till you make it."

She looked over her shoulder. Michael's expression revealed nothing but calm interest. He asked, "How long were you married?"

"Just under two years. It was a relief when we called it quits." What was he thinking? His reaction, or rather the lack of one, threw her off balance. Did he . . . care? She asked hesitantly, "Have you had a serious relations.h.i.+p?"

His gaze lifted from his task briefly. "No."

Unsure about the undertones in his too-brief reply or in that clear, wry look, and not confident about asking him anything further, she stood and walked over to the table. He had blanched the asparagus and sauteed the mushrooms. Now, he beat several eggs in a large metal bowl while b.u.t.ter melted in a skillet over low heat.

The package of strawberries remained on the table, as of yet still untouched. It was too early in the year for local, seasonal strawberries, and the price on the packet was exorbitant. She carried it to the sink to clean and slice the fruit into plain bowls.

"Your ally in the Secret Service," she said, watching the knife in her hands. She was good with a knife, and confident. "The one that was killed yesterday morning. How did he die?"

"He didn't tell me the details," Michael replied quietly.

She lowered her hands, resting them on the edge of the kitchen sink. "Excuse me?"

He poured the beaten contents of the bowl into the warm skillet, and the fragrant smell of cooking eggs filled the room. "His ghost came to tell me that he had been killed. That's all I know."

Well, h.e.l.l. She rubbed her face with the back of one damp hand, surprised that she was still capable of surprise. After all, she did live in a world with hawk allies, talking wolves and dragons, wind spirits and possibly a Virgin Mary.

Gretchen had mentioned the spirit of the girl that had died in Mary's ER, but if Mary had thought about it at all, she had imagined BabyMama Two like the popular, modern view of ghosts. All mystery and woo-woo, but not a lot of practical sense or communication.

She muttered, "I didn't know ghosts could carry on a conversation. Actually, I guess before yesterday, I didn't know there was such a thing as ghosts."

"Most ghosts are not very coherent," he said. He added the mushrooms and asparagus to the skillet, along with a sprinkle of cheddar cheese. "In fact, most people aren't ghosts at all. It takes an especially strong-minded, pa.s.sionate individual to become a ghost, let alone one as . . . complete as Nicholas."

"That's your friend's name, Nicholas?"

"Yes. He was strong in a lot of things. Not only was he a good warrior, but he was also an adept in spiritual matters and the psychic realm. He was a unique human being, and his death was a serious blow." He shook his head. "For him to have become a target, he had to have given himself away somehow. Maybe he reacted to one of the Deceiver's creatures, when a normal human wouldn't have sensed anything. I only hope that the Deceiver doesn't target his family because of it."

Sadness swept through her. So many people lost in just a few days.

Then a chill followed on that thought: at least, those were the deaths that she knew about.

She said softly, "I'm sorry for your loss."

He picked up the skillet and flipped the omelet, then stood frowning down at the contents. Sounding almost surprised, he said, "I'm sorry too."

They fell silent for a while, as they served up the simple meal. Michael cleared his weapons and tools from the table, and she found the silverware. Then they sat and ate. The food was delicious. The earthy mushrooms and asparagus contrasted nicely with the sharp tang of cheddar cheese, and the rich b.u.t.ter complemented the browned, golden egg. The dish was offset with the sweet tartness of the strawberries. She didn't truly take another deep breath until after she had cleaned her plate.

In the fireplace, the fire had taken hold and blazed bright and hot, chasing the last of the chill away until she was so warm, she had to pull off the sweats.h.i.+rt. She hung it on the back of her chair.

Outside, she realized, the sun had set and full night blanketed the scene. Quiet surrounded the cabin, but she didn't find the silence desolate or too isolated. Rather, it was replete with a sense of green plant life that was burgeoning with the return of warmth and sunlight. In full summer, the place would be aggressively lavish with weeds and vines.

Her thoughts turned whimsical. Michael could trim back all the foliage and keep the clearing mown, and she could plant a small garden in the back. Some tomato plants, and zucchini, maybe some green beans, lettuce and green onions. The Wolf Lake country store seemed like the kind of place that stocked a little of everything. It would probably sell packets of garden seeds in the spring.

Michael could go fis.h.i.+ng. They could eat rainbow trout or perhaps bluegill for supper, along with the garden vegetables. She could sit in the sun and let the light wash her clean and new, as she explored the internal halls of her treasure chamber and relearned its secrets.

As quickly as the fantasy bloomed, it died again.

They wouldn't be here past tomorrow, let alone for an entire summer.

"What are you thinking?" Michael asked. He had also finished his meal and sat with his plate pushed back, elbows on the table as he angled his head toward her.

She just shook her head.

"Tell me," he insisted.

He took her hand and squeezed her fingers, and she could still see him with both her psychic and physical eyes, that royal, midnight mantle cloaking his all too human figure, and he was neither and both all at once, and yet the sum of him had become much more than each creature alone. And instead of feeling proud, enriched and replete with the sure knowledge that he was her mate, she was filled with the sharp, anguished spike of wanting, wanting.

She gave him a small twisted smile. "I'm just still trying to figure out how I can learn to milk a cow, I guess."

He lifted her hand and, head bowed, pressed his lips to it. His eyes closed, he held her fingers against his mouth. She sat still, watching him, and felt pierced to the core.

When his grip loosened, she pulled away and stacked their supper dishes together at random. Pus.h.i.+ng her chair back, she carried the dishes to the sink. The air in the cabin felt thick and intimate on her overly sensitized skin, and her body seemed too heavy to hold upright. Hardly aware of what she did, she leaned against the sink, squirted soap over the dishes and turned the faucet on.

Even though he moved so lightly that he made no noise, she felt him come up behind her, so close that she felt his body heat at her back.

Her hair was still bound back in the simple braid. He stroked the edge of her hairline, from her temple, around the delicate sh.e.l.l of her ear, to the nape of her neck. His light touch reverberated through her body and she s.h.i.+vered.

"I would love to see your hair loose, if I may."

He sounded strange, unlike his usual self. He sounded wistful, and somehow that hurt, twisting the spike deeper. She raised her shaking hands to the back of her head to pull out the elastic band, as she whispered, "It's a crazy mess at the best of times, you know. It's even crazier without conditioner."

He pulled his fingers through the loosened braid, and her hair sprang free. His quiet intake of breath sounded loud in the silent cabin. He sank both hands into the wild abundance and gently spread out the curls until they lay loose around her shoulders.

The sensation of his fingers moving through her hair was exotic, sensual, not just physically arousing but emotionally moving. Closing her eyes, she turned her head slightly toward him. He took such extraordinary care with her. She realized that he had not bruised her once, not even during the most violent part of their initial meeting.

"Thank you," he said. His voice was a rough, bare thread of sound. "It's beautiful."