It'd been so long, an eternity, since he'd enjoyed a proper meal. He'd almost forgotten how empowering it was, that perfect, breathtaking moment when the light finally dawned. When his prey realized they were staring death in the face, and he was able to feed on that sweet flood of fear as deeply as he fed on their flesh. Almost forgotten the hot burn of pleasure he took when they refused to give in, so potent and addictive.
And Kendra had fought hard.
Still, she hadn't been enough. Had failed, in fact, to give him the power he needed to bring his brother through that metaphysical prison gate that trapped his kind within the holding ground they'd named Meridian. To bring him back from the hell that had imprisoned his kinsmen for century upon century, while their enemies continued to walk the earth.
Only now did they have hope. Hope that Anthony Calder had given them. The first of their kind to establish order among the imprisoned Casus, Calder had mysteriously discovered a way to send a Casus through the gate and back to this realm. It was a difficult, draining process for Calder and his followers, and though there'd been serious doubts that it would actually work, Malcolm had been ecstatic when Calder accepted his petition to be the first.
But his freedom wasn't the same without his brother, Gregory, there to share it with him.
While Calder would eventually try to send others through the gate, Gregory would never be chosen. His brother was considered too unstable--too much of a risk--which meant that Gregory's freedom was up to him.
Malcolm had been told that once he'd gained enough power, he should be able to bring a shade back on his own, ripping him back from the bowels of Meridian. Kendra had been an inspired kill, as well as a pleasure, but he wasn't surprised that she'd failed to provide a strong enough feeding. After all, Calder had warned him that it would most likely take a Merrick to do the job.
That was why he needed Buchanan. Malcolm could have killed him last night, with little effort, but it'd been obvious that the bastard was still too green. Though he'd enjoyed scaring the shit out of him, until Ian Buchanan was fully awakened, there was no point in feeding from him. He hadn't even had the first talisman that Calder had charged Malcolm with finding--the one thing that could provide him a bargaining chip for Gregory's freedom, should Calder's theory prove wrong.
Impatience rode him hard, but he had to hold firm and show restraint. Traits not common to his kind, but Malcolm knew his brother's freedom could very well hinge on his success, and the rules were simple. Kill the bastard too early, and the feeding wouldn't be enough to get the job done. To get the full dose of power he needed, the Merrick living within Buchanan had to be at full strength at the time of his death.
Shoving his hands into the pockets of his slacks, Malcolm pulled in a slow, deep breath and shook off his frustration.
Yes, he could wait. It would be worth it. And in the meantime, he could always keep entertaining himself with the local fare. He'd been cautioned endlessly about the need to be careful in these modern times--that their kills couldn't be as rampant as before, when the Casus had ruled the night with fear, as powerful as bloody kings. But he'd been determined to leave the Wilcox woman out in the open, just so he could screw with Ian Buchanan's mind.
Witnessing the bastard's rage over her death had been worth the risk of a little exposure.
For now, he'd enjoy tormenting Buchanan for as long as it took, tightening the screws, while waiting for the perfect moment to strike. He'd even make a point of getting his hands on that particularly tasty little blond.
And, of course, there was that pesky matter of the interruption last night that he needed to look into. That had been unexpected, and he needed to be better prepared before he made his next move.
Until then, Malcolm planned on enjoying his newfound freedom. The body he'd taken wasn't half-bad, though the life attached to it could be described as nothing more than embarrassing.
You would think someone with Casus blood running through his veins would have amounted to more in this world, but Joe Kelly's accomplishments were as mundane as his name.
Not that Malcolm was complaining. He still couldn't believe his luck that he'd been chosen as the first of his kind to return. Nor could he decide if it was because his kinsman had been sure he would succeed--or because Calder considered him expendable if things didn't initially go according to plan. And in truth, he didn't care. Whatever Calder's reason for choosing him, there wasn't a chance in hell he'd have turned down the opportunity. Meridian held no life--
and without life, how could you feed on the pleasures of death? That was why the Casus had grown weak, wasting so many pointless years fighting amongst themselves. It wasn't until they'd finally begun listening to Calder that they'd been able to unite and work together toward a common goal. That goal being freedom, as well as revenge.
And this first taste of revenge was going to taste, oh, so sweet.
Tilting his face up to the sun, Malcolm basked in its warm glow, a deep breath filling his lungs with the fertile scents of the forest, such a refreshing change from the cold, rotting decay of Meridian. Turning at the end of the block, he continued making his way through the center of town, humming softly under his breath. When he reached the next street corner, an elderly woman wearing a Help Kendra's Family T-shirt, a donation bucket clutched in her frail hand, approached him with an appropriately somber smile.
"We're collecting money for Kendra Wilcox's funeral expenses. Her mother's a widower and is in desperate need of the kindness of strangers."
"I'd be happy to help out," Malcolm murmured, searching in his front pocket and pulling out a roll of bills. He enjoyed a silent chuckle, appreciating the irony of the situation. After all, he'd taken the money off Kendra Wilcox's broken, bleeding body. Or at least what was left of it.
"Thank you, sir. It was such a tragedy, what happened to the poor girl. If ever there was a time to be neighborly, it's now. God bless you."
Glancing at the photograph pasted to the side of the bucket, Malcolm shook his head with mock sympathy. "She was a beautiful girl. That picture doesn't really do her justice."
The woman's gray brows knitted with compassion. "You knew Kendra?"
"Oh, yes," he drawled as he started across the street. Looking back over his shoulder, Malcolm struggled to conceal his slow, satisfied smile. "You could even say she helped make me what I am today."
Sunday, 10:30 a.m.
STANDING WITH HER BACK propped against the counter in the small kitchenette, Molly took a fortifying sip of coffee, thinking she could drink an entire pot and still feel weary.
She'd slept like hell, but at least the storm had finally moved its way through by dawn.
Eventually, she'd managed to catch a few hours of rest, before Elaina had contacted her with another message. After that, she'd awakened to the bright burn of morning sunshine glowing around the dark green curtains that hung over the lone window, unable to fall back asleep.
As she'd rolled over to climb out of bed, she'd been met with the breathtaking sight of Ian Buchanan sprawled facedown over the neighboring queen bed. The intricate tattoo at the top of his spine had instantly caught her eye, somehow calling to her. She'd wanted to reach out and stroke it with the tips of her fingers--the oddest sense of certainty rushing through her blood that it would have been warm to the touch, pulsing with heat, with a strange, latent power--but she'd resisted, out of self-preservation more than anything. Because once she'd put her hands on him, she didn't think she'd have been able to stop. He was too beautiful, his dark shoulders gleaming against the white sheets that swept low across the sleek contours of his back, his powerful arms clutched around his pillow, partly shielding the rugged perfection of his face, thick lashes lying like dark smudges of ink against his cheeks, while he slept like the dead.
Not that she blamed him. He'd barely had time to rest the past few days and it was obvious the fight with the Casus, as well as the internal struggle he'd waged against the Merrick side of his nature, had taken its toll on him.
After his stunning declaration that he intended to keep her under his protection, they'd made a silent truce in the face of exhaustion and gone to bed. Ian had crawled between the sheets wearing his towel, then pulled it off and tossed it on the end of the bed, leaving Molly torn between a keen sense of regret that she didn't get to see him in the raw...and piercing relief that she wasn't being faced with that kind of devastating temptation. Borrowing her cell phone, he'd left a quick message for his brother, Riley, telling him that something had come up and he'd be in touch when he could, along with a strong warning to watch his back and be careful. Then she'd turned out the light and crawled into her own bed. For long minutes, she'd lain there, listening to the quiet sound of Ian's breathing and the hypnotic rhythm of the pounding rain against the thin roof of the motel, while wondering if they would share another dream...worrying over what the next day would bring.
And now that she'd received Elaina's latest directive, she couldn't help but speculate as to how cooperative he would be.
She was still standing beside the sink in the kitchen when he finally came in, wearing nothing but his dirty jeans, the top two buttons undone, revealing a compelling shadow that drew her gaze. His chest was bare, skin dark and bronzed in the low glow of light spilling in from the bedroom.
"Coffee?" she asked a bit hoarsely, noticing that his beard had grown in thicker during the night, darkening his jaw, accentuating the mesmerizing color of his eyes. He nodded, sinking his long, rangy body into one of the chairs, the cuts on his arm and rib cage looking remarkably better. Molly poured him a cup, then grabbed the pack of cigarettes and matchbox off the counter and took everything to the table, where an ashtray already sat in the center.
"Where did those come from?" he grunted, eyeing the cigarettes, his voice still rough from sleep, sounding warm and rich and scratchy, not to mention incredibly sexy.
"Don't worry. I didn't leave the room," she told him with a slight smile, taking a chair on the other side of the small table as she tucked a wild strand of hair behind her ear. She'd already taken her shower and thrown on jeans and a shirt. Her face was freshly scrubbed, and she'd left her hair to dry naturally, hoping it'd behave, but the damn curls had a mind of their own.
"I called up to the front desk a while ago and asked if they could put them on my tab, then just leave everything outside the door."
"That was awfully nice of you," he drawled, the low, silken words just shy of being snide. His gaze slid away from hers as he reached for the pack and stripped off the plastic outer wrapping. Molly's smile slipped at his tone.
Huh. Maybe he's just cranky in the morning...
She watched as he placed one of the cigarettes between his firm lips, then lowered his head and lit the tip, immediately taking a long drag, while the distinct smell of the sulfur burned her nose. A deep, rumbling groan of pleasure vibrated in his throat, and in spite of her unease, her mouth twitched at the corner. "I really shouldn't encourage such an unhealthy habit, but I thought you might wake up desperate for a cigarette."
"You could say that," he muttered with a noticeable dose of bitterness, after exhaling a hazy stream of smoke. Leaning back in the chair, one hand resting across the firm cut of his abs, his dark eyes found hers, delivering a look that was somehow wary...distrustful even, as if he wanted to know what the hell she was up to.
Despite his indolent posture, Molly could feel the tension in all those long, lean muscles and corded lines of sinew, his body tight...hard, as if ready for a confrontation. Jerking his chin toward her, he muttered, "Do you always look like that in the morning?"
She wet her lips, aware of the warmth climbing up her throat, the nerves twisting in her belly.
"Like what?"
"Like you've just had sex." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his spread knees, his cigarette pinched between his thumb and his forefinger, blue eyes holding hers in a challenging stare. "Cheeks flushed, mouth swollen, all those wild curls tousled around your face, like a man had his hands buried in them, even though I know we didn't share another dream last night. Doesn't matter how tired I was--there's no way in hell I'd have slept through that." He paused for a moment, taking a lazy drag off the cigarette, before adding, "Is that your little game, Miss Molly? You get a kick out of mind-fucking every guy you meet?"
Ready for a confrontation...or maybe looking to start one.
She knew a response was in order to put him in his place, but the words were jamming up in her throat, vibrating with a flustered combination of anger and confusion and lust. Saying nothing, she watched as he lifted the cigarette and took another deep drag, the burning ember at the tip a fiery spark of color against the burnished perfection of his body. It caught the light, like his eyes, and she stared, transfixed, aware that she could feel the coursing of her blood as it surged through her veins, vibrant and heavy and strong.
She was caught in time--held, suspended, trapped.
And he knew it. Knew just what his words had done to her. Knew just how easily he'd unraveled her composure. Knew the images his provocative words had planted in her mind like a seed.
Molly was ready to call him a jerk for playing with her emotions, when she caught a shadow flicker within that angry blue stare. She finally realized what he was doing--trying to start an argument as a way to avoid facing his feelings. He needed to release the emotional buildup after everything he'd been through...and she was the nearest outlet.
She could understand it--but it didn't change the fact that she needed to learn how to handle him without freezing up every time something provoking fell from that firm, sensual mouth.
Molly was discovering firsthand that it could be as dangerous as it was beautiful.