Demon's Kiss (12 page)

Louise? Was it Louise’s disappearance? She couldn’t imagine why he should care about the fate of a woman he had never met, but his distraction had started when he had walked over to investigate Louise’s home at Box Town, and it had not abated since.

“Hey,” she said, and he turned to look at her, his eyes glittering in the darkened interior of the car. The shadows were as kind to him as the light, accentuating his chiseled features. She raised her hand, almost touched him. And then she caught herself.
God
. If she touched him, even once, she wouldn’t want to stop.

“We’re in, then out,” Ciarran said, his gaze watchful as he glanced at the apartment building, then scanned the area for any threat.

“I know.” Clea stared straight ahead, blinking against the sudden sting of tears. They’d had this discussion before they left the Bathurst Street Bridge. She knew it was dangerous for her to go into her apartment, and how horrible was it that she wasn’t safe in her own home? It seemed that she had barely had time to assimilate one loss, one change, before another rode in on a crashing wave that nearly knocked her to her knees. “I just need my photos of Gram and Mom and Dad. Two minutes.”

Those pictures were her last tangible link to loved ones she had lost. Really, they were her only possessions of value. Not monetary, but of untold worth to an orphan’s isolated heart. If she had those photos, her touchstones to anchor her in a chaotic world, she’d be fine. She’d find a way to be fine. She looked at him then and attempted a wobbly smile. “I promise I’ll stay so close you’ll think we’re attached at the hip.”

Something flared in his eyes, and she realized that maybe she hadn’t chosen the best reassurance. Attached at the hip. At the pelvis.

Whoo
. Don’t go there, Clea.

He scanned the area once more, returned his gaze to her. “Your home is directly in the center of a
hybrid
warren—”

“You mentioned that this morning. What is it?”

“An anthill.” He smiled, a slow disquieting curve of hard, masculine lips. “With
hybrids
instead of ants.”

“Oh.” A reassuring thought.

“Two minutes. In and then out, Clea,” he said brusquely. “The
hybrids
are a wily breed. They may be waiting for your return.”

“But you don’t think they are.” She could hear the confidence in his voice, and the censure. He definitely thought this was a bad idea.

“No. I do not think they lie in wait.” He pushed open the driver’s side door.

“So we’re . . .” She hesitated. “We’re safe?”

He slanted her a sardonic glance. “As long as you are by my side, you are safe.”

Safe. She’d spent her whole life trying to build a wall around herself, trying to be safe. Every decision she made. Every action she took. All for nothing, because it turned out that the world wasn’t anything like she’d thought it was.

He climbed from the car, walked around to her side, and offered his hand to help her out.

A wistful smile blossomed inside of her as she studied his hand. Such courtly, old-world manners. Slowly, she raised her eyes to his, her smile fading. Old-world. A shiver coursed through her, and with it, a strange premonition that his definition of time was far different than hers.

She pressed her tongue against the back of her top teeth. Too much, too fast. She hadn’t wanted answers earlier, but now, suddenly, she wanted those answers. Needed them. Demons.
Hybrids
. Why an all-powerful sorcerer was stuck to her side like a burr. Why she felt unsettled and strange, twitchy inside her own skin. Why the power she had known since childhood, the force that had protected her from harm, had changed now, grown, evolved.

She was almost afraid of herself. Definitely wary of what she was quickly coming to recognize as magic grown from a seed to a sapling. Why her? Why now?

Ciarran stood waiting, watching her, his expression remote, and yet she sensed his interest, his focus on her. She was changing because of
him
. Somehow, they were linked.

Swallowing, she took Ciarran’s outstretched hand, let him help her from the car, felt the sizzle between them. Attraction. And something more. Something dangerous. Frightening. Light, yes, but darkness, too. She dropped his hand. Whatever this sensation was, it was getting stronger, had been building all day, until she thought it might burst out of her in a flash of exploding skin and flesh and bone, and she was certain it was coming from him, into her.

Arms wrapped tight about herself, she stepped back. Despite the dark edge she sensed in him, or perhaps—God help her—because of it, she wanted to be close to him. Touch him. Run her hands over his muscled frame. Smooth, hot, golden skin. The image of him, looming above her, naked flesh and pulsing heat, features taut with passion, filled her mind.

She sucked in a breath. Turned away. Began to walk toward her apartment building. He moved so fast, she gasped. One second he was standing beside the car, the next he was firmly planted in front of her, towering over her, his expression harsh.

“Joined at the hip, Clea.” He leaned in close until his warm breath fanned her cheek, and his lips moved against her ear. “You move, I move. You breathe, I breathe.”

Oh, God. The feel of him, so close, so warm, was halfway to ecstasy, and despite the menace in his tone, the sound of his low, rough whisper poured through her, igniting every cell. She’d never responded to anyone the way she responded to him, hot and shivery. Chemistry, yeah. But something stronger, deeper, a primal link, and she didn’t understand it.

How could she fight something she didn’t understand?

He moved back just enough to look into her eyes, so close she could count every long, lush eyelash, highlighted in the pallid glow of the streetlight. Her heart slammed against her ribs, and her every nerve went into overdrive.

“Yeah,” she muttered, thinking about the two of them, moving together, breath intertwined.

His eyes narrowed as he studied her; then he shifted to the side. She took a step forward. He fell in beside her, matching his pace to hers as they approached the building.

“I don’t have my key,” she said a few moments later, pausing in front of her door. Or her money. Or her purse. She’d locked the door from the inside that morning and hadn’t had time to gather her belongings, hadn’t had time to do more than gasp before they left by way of the window. She shuddered at the recollection of hearing the glass shatter, feeling the wind whistle past her as the ground rushed up to meet them.

“Not a problem. I doubt the
hybrids
locked up after themselves this morning.” Ciarran reached out and turned the knob to open the door. Unlocked. Of course.

Ciarran moved in front of her, going through first. She figured he wasn’t taking any chances that they might encounter
hybrids,
but his body language was relaxed, leaving her fairly certain that nothing lurked in wait.

As they entered her apartment, she sniffed delicately. An unpleasant aroma wafted through the space, like she’d left the garbage can open in the kitchen. Flicking on the light, she gasped in dismay and grabbed Ciarran’s arm, her fingers digging into solid muscle. Her home was a mess, violence and rage marking the furniture and walls. Her twenty-year-old TV was smashed. The cushions of her sagging tweed couch were slashed open, the stuffing pulled deliberately from the gaping holes and left strewn all over the floor. Through the narrow archway that led to the kitchen, she could see a rectangle of linoleum flooring dotted with garbage, the source of the nasty smell.

The picture of her and Gram that had been on the table in the hall was lying facedown at her feet amid the jagged shards of the small vase, broken now, the dried flowers crushed to powder. The photograph of Mom and Dad that had hung on the wall by the kitchen was nowhere to be seen.

A sick horror welled inside her.

“What were they looking for?” she asked, her voice trembling as she bent and carefully lifted Gram’s picture from the debris. “What did they hope to find?”

“Nothing. They were looking for nothing. This destruction is an expression of their fury.” Ciarran rested one hand on her shoulder, and she felt her emotions spike, along with the crackle of their connection. His sympathy almost pushed her over the edge, and she blinked against the sting of tears.

Wanton destruction. Rage. A frenzy of spite. Yes, she could feel that, the crushing weight of it. They had done this for no reason other than to destroy.

For an instant, she thought her heart would break.

Things. They were only things. She turned the frame in her hand faceup. There was a long jagged crack running from one corner to the opposite one, but underneath, the photo was unmarked.

Her head was swimming, and she leaned her back against the wall, resting her weight on the solid surface, closing her eyes for just a second, only long enough to gather her emotions.

When she opened her eyes, she saw Ciarran’s leather jacket, hanging on the peg behind the door where he had put it that morning. He had left it behind when they’d gone through the window.

The soft leather hung in tatters, long strands hacked and torn, jagged, ugly.

“Your jacket. Ciarran. I’m sorry—”

“
You’re
sorry? It is not your failing to be sorry for. The fault is mine.” He was there, in front of her, his gaze focused, his jaw tense. “I’ll make it better, Clea,” he said, his voice tight.

Running his gloved fingers along her arm, he made a gesture with his free hand, and in an instant the room was filled with light, bright, sharp, and when it dulled, everything was in its place. The smell of garbage gone. Cushions whole on the couch. Dried flowers in their vase on the table.

All was as it had been.

Only
nothing
was as it had been.

That morning, the
hybrids
had driven her from her home; then they had decimated it. Despite the fact that Ciarran had returned everything to its original state, in her mind’s eye she would forever see the needless, spiteful demolition, feel the personal violation.

She let out a measured exhalation, focusing on the feel of the air escaping her puckered lips.

“This doesn’t make it better,” she whispered, making a loose gesture that encompassed the now-pristine room. “Actually, it makes it worse. You wave your wand, but I still
know
what they did. I know they were here. You can’t just lift the corner of the rug and shove the mess underneath”—her voice cracked—“because the mess is just too big.”

Her gaze locked with his as the moment stretched. His jaw clenched, and he looked away to scan the room. Panic washed through her, a cold rain. He wasn’t going to understand that his magical fix was superficial, shallow. How could he understand?

“You made it go away, but it’s only cosmetic.” She forced the words past the tightness in her throat. Just like he’d made the demon go away last night, but that hadn’t really fixed anything, either, because today more demons, or
hybrids
, or whatever they were had come and done
this
. She sighed. “Underneath, the ugliness is still there.”

“Ugliness under a pretty surface, huh?” He gave a short laugh, laced with self-derision, and she had the disconcerting thought that he wasn’t talking about her trashed apartment.

“You meant to make it better. I know that. But this . . .” She chuffed out a breath.

“Yeah. I get it.”

Slowly, he raised his hand and light slid from his fingertips, returning everything to the way it had been when they first walked in, the picture of destruction and unchained aggression.

Oddly, the fact that he’d put it back to chaos offered her more comfort than his attempt to make it all go away. Man, she was one sick puppy.

He turned to look at her, his eyes glittering, and even in this moment of her utter desolation, she was caught by the sheer beauty of him. The hollows of his cheeks. The hint of stubble that shadowed his jaw. The ever-changing colors that flashed in his eyes, more blue now than gray or green, so rich a color.

“I’ll help you clean it up, Clea.” His voice was quiet, controlled. “But not now. Now we have to get out of here.”

She swallowed, her gaze straying to the torn cushions of the couch. Carefully, she set Gram’s photo on the table, her hand trembling. She pressed her palms tight against the wall at her, back as the horrific realization chased through her and finally settled with cruel obstinacy.

Her life could never be the same as it had been before Ciarran strode into the Blue Bay Motel and sliced a demon to pieces. He hadn’t lied when he told her there was nowhere safe. Hadn’t lied last night, or today. She knew that now.

There was nowhere safe in all the world, just like he’d said.

Except by his side.

The certainty of that made her ache to step into the solid shelter of his embrace, made her want to be held in his arms, just for a moment.

“What—” Her voice cracked. She swallowed, tried again. “What happens now?”
What happens to me? What happens to my life?