Autumn Thorns (14 page)

The next thing I knew, he was standing behind me. “Lean forward.”

“What?”

“Just do it.”

Wondering what he was up to, but too tired to argue, I pushed my teacup to the side and leaned forward. The next moment his hands were on my shoulders and he was
massaging the muscles, gently, the warmth of his hands tingling against my bare skin. I let out a soft moan as he worked the knots under his fingers, pressing just enough to make them hurt for a brief second and then release their hold.

“You don't have to do this—”

“Shhh . . . quiet. Let me take away the strain and worry.” His voice was low—almost rhythmic, and it lulled me into a soft, cushioned place where the fear began to subside and could find no way in. I closed my eyes and let the gentle massage carry me away from all thoughts of the Shadow Man and of ghosts and murders. A few minutes later, I realized he had gathered me up off the chair, blankets and all. I tried to say I hadn't finished my tea but the words wouldn't come, and I rested my head on his shoulder as we entered the living room. He smelled strong and sexy and safe all at the same time—a comforting mix. I let out my breath slowly, content to remain silent.

In the living room, he laid me down on the sofa and, leaning over, kissed me softly on the lips. I tried to pull him down to me, but he disentangled himself and—finding yet another throw—made certain I was covered. The last I knew, he was sitting in the rocking chair, the lights turned low, watching me. As I drifted off to sleep again I knew without a doubt nothing would bother me while he was standing guard.

*   *   *

T
he second time I opened my eyes, it was to a faint shadow of late-autumn light shimmering through the windows. I blinked, wondering what time it was, and—as I pushed myself up to a sitting position—I realized my arm was sore. Then the events of the night all came tumbling back. I glanced around, hearing a whistling coming from the kitchen, and, with a slight groan, struggled to my feet. There was a sleeveless nightgown next to me—it had come from my suitcase, and I slipped out of the blankets and into the satin gown, grateful for the lack of sleeves. My arm ached and material would be grating against it. I glanced at the clock. It was almost nine.

As I padded into the kitchen, the first thing I saw were the cats—all lined up at their food dishes, chowing down on gushy food. They gave me a look as if to say,
Slacker . . .
and went back to eating. I laughed and turned to find Bryan hovering over the stove, watching what looked to be an omelet puff up in the skillet.

“Not only can you give one hell of a massage, tend to wounds, and feed cats, but you can cook? Too good to be true.” I edged my way toward the espresso machine, but he just let out a sharp whistle and pointed to the table. There, a steaming latte with a dollop of foam waited.

“Sit. Breakfast will be on the table in a couple minutes. I have to leave soon—I have business to attend to—but you should be all right for now. I'm pretty sure the Shadow Man only comes out in the darkness.” He slid a plate in front of me. Omelet, toast, and sausage.

I stared at the food, my smile fading. “Yeah, I think he's tied to the night. Bryan, thank you. I never managed to ask last night, how did you know I needed help?”

He paused, then sat beside me. “Eat while I talk.”

I dutifully dug into the food, which was delicious.

“You're left-handed?” He looked at me. “I didn't notice before.”

“Yeah, why?”

“No reason . . . Anyway, last night I was in bed, when I woke up hearing you scream. It was in my head—I couldn't hear anything out the window—but you were screaming for help and I knew you needed me. So I came running.” He slowly reached out and placed a hand over my right wrist. “Kerris, I think you know what this means. We're linked.”

I set down my fork, knowing what he was going to say. “You're my guardian, aren't you?”

He nodded. “I had a vision about seven years ago. I had returned to Ireland on a buying trip, and while I was there, the Morrígan came to me when I was out at one of the ancient sites. She told me I had been chosen for an important task. My clan is dedicated to her, and so there was no walking away from her decree. I followed my instincts and they
led me to Whisper Hollow. And I settled in to wait. When I met Lila and realized what she was, and when she told me about you, I knew that I had to wait for you to come home. So, I did. Last night—in the hospital and then here, when I felt your panic and fear, I knew that everything was true. I'm your guardian. Your protector.”

Resting my hand over his, I was all too keenly aware of his proximity, of how one more shift and I could be in his arms. “
To every spirit shaman, a shapeshifter will come, to protect and guard.
Bryan, I didn't come back to Whisper Hollow expecting anything except a lot of adjustment and juggling as I found my place here. I sure as hell didn't expect to meet anybody, especially . . . you. I barely know how this whole gig works. And . . . not every shapeshifter is mated to their spirit shaman.”

“Yes, I know. But will you sit here and deny the sparks between us? Kerris, I want you so much. I want to kiss you, and touch you, and make you mine. And I think you want me, too.”

“You know I do. It's just . . . this is all so new.”

Bryan leaned back, letting out a small sigh. “I won't press it if you don't want me to . . . I promise you that—I'll stand by you, regardless of how things between us evolve. It's my duty and I'm happy to watch over you.”

Hesitating, wanting so much to reach out and take his hand, to kiss his fingers, I forced myself to sit very still. “Before anything else happens . . . before we go any further, I need to know—are you seeing anybody? Is there anyone I need to know about? I'm not a player. Hell, I'm not usually even willing to get into the game because so often it's led to disaster when the man finds out about my abilities. I guess what I'm asking is . . .”

“Am I leading you on just so I can fuck you?” The corners of his eyes crinkled, their ice blue frosty and pulling me in like an alpine lake. “Kerris, I have no mate. I was married, a long time ago, but she died. Since then, I've dated, but never seriously. I don't play with people's feelings. Hell, I don't like
most
people. It's not my nature. I won't ever claim to wear a white hat. I'm not one of the good guys. I admit it, I've done
my share of things that . . . well . . . leave that for now. But I do have a personal code of honor and I follow it.”

As he spoke, a wisp of energy flared around him—like strong tendrils of ivy. The first night, when he ran in front of my car, I had been surprised by how I couldn't read him. Now, I realized it was because of
what
he was. From what little I knew of shapeshifters—regardless of the clan or background—they were a difficult read and had generations of practice cloaking their nature.

So he was a widower. How long ago was “a long time,” though, and how had his wife died? “You were married?”

“Yes.” His eyes were cool. Not aloof, but masking his emotions. I suddenly realized I needed to learn as much as I could about shapeshifters, so I understood the nuances that were probably escaping me. Different race, different culture, and I didn't want to blindly do something that would offend him.

“Was she a shapeshifter, too?” All of a sudden I was hungry to know about her. I wanted to know what she had been like, what she had looked like. Why she had died.

He hesitated, then—“Yes, she was. She was a good woman, Kerris. I made a mistake marrying her. But I did right by her, as much as I could. She wanted children. Unfortunately, her body wasn't geared toward having them, and the medical technology wasn't as advanced as it is now. She died in childbirth.”

Childbirth? Then . . . “You have a child?”

He ducked his head. “Yes. I have a daughter. She's older than you. Kerris, I don't know if you realize it, but shapeshifters live a long time. I told you that I saw my father murdered—that was in 1878. I was born in 1872. I've lived a number of lives—moving around, taking a new name so that people never find out what I am. I've never felt truly safe and keep to myself a lot so that nobody finds out my secret. The other day you asked me why I moved to Whisper Hollow. Now you know. I was drawn here, and now I realize it was because of you. But it's also a place where those who are odd and unusual fit in. I have the feeling there are others here who . . . are not exactly human, so to speak.”

I blinked. This was a lot to take in, and I wasn't sure what to think. If I'd been anybody but me, I might have run like hell. But I was a spirit shaman, and the world was filled with strange and mysterious creatures. And I was supposed to be paired with a guardian who had, apparently, dropped right in my lap. Or in front of my car, to be more accurate. I had the sudden urge to know everything I could about him.

“What were you chasing the night we met?”

He glanced at the floor and didn't answer for a moment. “There are creatures in the woods here. You know that. This . . . this is a danger to the town. A
d'yavol-volkov
. A devil-wolf. It's a form of demon. I've dealt with them before, but very few people know how to handle them.”

A distant chill echoed through my body. “Devil wolf? What are they?”

“A demon who can shapeshift into a wolf, but they don't really have any connection to wolves. They aren't really shapeshifters, either. They're . . . dangerous and they feed off the living. Leave it at that, love. I don't even like talking about them.”

The thought that one lived in the woods near here was far from comforting, but I changed the subject as he asked. “Where were you born? Are you originally from Ireland, then?”

“My parents were. They left there in 1860, during the height of the potato famine, and immigrated to Boston. I was born in a small house on the outskirts—well, what the outskirts were then—of the city. A small group of the Tierney shapeshifter clan came over together. We kept to ourselves, were polite but reclusive. Nobody knew what we were, at least not till a rival clan sniffed us out and murdered my father.” He spat out a curse. “I told you that my clan took care of them. My uncle took a handful of our warriors. They tracked them down and . . . well . . . the rest is history.”

I forced myself to ask the next question. “What about your wife and daughter?” I leaned back in my chair, then let out a slow, soft sigh. I wanted to hear it all.

He gave me a defeated look. “Katrina and I were promised
to each other by our parents. In my clan, there are traditions we don't question. We just obey. Even though I didn't love her, I finally capitulated and married her in 1950. She was pretty, with a beautiful voice and long blond hair, but the spark just wasn't there. We did the best we could, though, trying to make it work. It was expected we would have children, and so she got pregnant a few years after we married. As I said, she wasn't physically suited to having children—I'm not sure what the doctors would call it, but during childbirth she died.”

The reality of all he had been through in his life—and I had a feeling we'd just touched the tip of the iceberg—hit me. “I'm sorry that she never got to see her child grow up.” Then another thought hit me. “The baby . . . Did . . .”

A smile spread across Bryan's face. “Yes, as I said, I have a daughter. Juliana survived, and today, she's still living in Boston. She's a lovely woman—looks around twenty if she looks a day, though she'll be sixty-three this year. I occasionally go back to visit her. I've never let her come here because people would assume I was dating her. Shapeshifters age at a different rate than humans, as I said, although we do have an illusion that can age us up, but it's tiring to constantly use. I suppose I could get away with telling people she was my daughter from a liaison I had when I was too young, but we haven't worked out any cover story.”

As I digested the information, not knowing what to say next, Bryan tapped me on the arm. He stayed well clear of my injuries. “Now,
I
need to know something. I know why you came back to Whisper Hollow, but are you sure you're willing to dive into the darkness that surrounds this town? Are you here for good? Because if you take up your grandmother's post as spirit shaman, this town will never let you go.”

Shaking my thoughts away from his story, I considered his question. He was right—I could already feel the town's spell weaving itself around me. Whisper Hollow was more than just a town on the peninsula in need of protection from the spirits that walked the streets. Whisper Hollow had an energy, a deep and vibrant consciousness, whose heart beat
just below the surface of the town and its inhabitants. And once Whisper Hollow got its hooks into you, it wouldn't let go. Some people it spat out like a bad-tasting food . . . but others, it took in and swaddled them with its energy, like bees preserved in amber. Whisper Hollow wanted me . . . No, more than that. The town
needed
me. And for some reason, I had the feeling it needed me more than it had needed my grandmother and that was why she was dead.

“Whisper Hollow has a will and rule of its own, Bryan. I had to come back. There was no choice. There
is
no choice. Not for me.” I held his gaze.

He let out a low breath. “Then it seems we are both here for good.”

I nodded. He was leaning closer to me and all I could think about was his lips on mine. And then he was out of his chair and he pulled me out of mine, into his arms, as he drew me in for a kiss. His lips were warm and once again, the hunger to have him—all of him—flared. I wanted his skin against mine, his chest pressed against my breasts, I wanted to feel him moving inside me. He sensed my need, because he slipped his fingers beneath the folds of my robe, stroking along the curve of my waist, running his fingers lightly over my ass. I caught my breath, my nipples hardening at his touch.