The Mammoth Book of Paranormal Romance 2 (43 page)

Though her body ached, there was no real pain. She touched fingers to her forehead where she’d cracked the wheel and found smooth, unbroken skin. No bumps or gashes. Had she dreamed the accident? Maybe they’d made it to the stupid cabin after all. But if they had, where was Donatti?

Besides, it’d been too vivid for a dream. So maybe she was dreaming now, and she was actually lying unconscious in the wreckage. Not a cheerful thought.

She sat up slowly. Movement flickered in her peripherals, and her hand went reflexively for the piece she’d stopped carrying after Cy was born. She turned towards the motion, and a figure walked through the french doors.

Definitely not Donatti.

The guy was tall and solid. Dressed in jeans and a dark tee stretched over lean muscle, his steps were practically silent despite the sturdy black leather boots he wore. Shaggy red hair framed angular features and light brown eyes, almost gold, sparkled at her over a sexy-as-hell smile.

A hot guy in a cabin, in the middle of nowhere. This had to be a dream.

“I hope you’re not too frightened,” the guy said. He had a deep, soothing voice, as hypnotic as his eyes. “I couldn’t leave you in your car.”

“Christ, it really happened?” She shivered.
Impossible.
She’d damn near shattered her skull. Should’ve been in a lot worse shape than this. But she was uninjured and completely clean. Not a speck of dirt or rain anywhere. “Where’s Donatti?”

His smile vanished. “Your friend,” he said, and the sympathy in his tone punched her gut. “I’m afraid he didn’t make it.”

“No.” Not a dream, but a nightmare. The world dimmed and blurred at the edges. She was going to faint. She pinched her arm hard, and the pain snapped everything into too-bright focus. A cabin. A bed. A stranger’s face, lined with terrible sorrow. “He’s not dead,” she whispered. “Not Donatti. He always gets out of everything.”

“I’m so sorry. You’re in shock. I shouldn’t have . . .” He hesitated, stepped closer to the bed. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “There was nothing I could do for him.”

Jazz closed her eyes. A sob lodged in her throat, but she choked it back. He couldn’t be dead. She wouldn’t believe it. The force of her denial calmed her enough to breathe evenly, and she focused on the stranger. “Who are you, and where is this?”

His smile eased back in, a tentative curl of his mouth. “My name is Seth, and this is my home. You crashed about a mile from here.”

“But I whacked my head on the wheel.”
Donatti’s dead.
The words screamed through her, made her wince. She pushed them away. “And I’m not even hurt. Just a little stiff.”

“You weren’t injured when I found you. Only unconscious. Miraculous, really, considering the shape your . . . Donatti was in.” Seth flashed a look of heart-melting sympathy. “Maybe you’re remembering the accident wrong. The mind plays tricks when it doesn’t want to recall something, especially trauma.”

She shook her head. “No, I felt it. That’s what knocked me out.”

His brow furrowed. After a few seconds, his features relaxed with a sigh. “We should take things slowly. You’re still a bit muddled,” he said. “I’ve made coffee. Would you like a cup?”

He’d made coffee. Donatti, who’d sleep until noon every day if she didn’t pull the covers off him, had gotten up before her and made the coffee the morning they’d left. She’d stumbled into the kitchen, where he’d greeted her with a steaming mug and that dangerous, adorable excitement – that usually got him into trouble – flooding his blue eyes and spilling into a crooked smile.
Road trip, babe,
he’d said.
It’s been a while, hasn’t it? At least nobody’s chasing us this time.

Yesterday. For fuck’s sake, that was
yesterday.
And today he was—

Her stomach rebelled, and bitter bile scalded her throat. She bolted from the bed, pushed past a startled Seth and through the open doors, out to the patio railing. Leaned over and puked, emptied everything, dry-heaved again and again.
Donatti’s dead.
Dee Eee Ay Dee. Deceased. Lifeless. Gone, for good this time.

Her knees buckled and she crumpled to the deck, aching like a sore tooth.

Strong arms went around her, drew her to her feet. “Easy, now,” Seth murmured. “You’re all right. I have you. You’ve got to breathe.”

She let him hold her and tried to obey, snatching deep, shuddering breaths of air. Her head throbbed, the heavy acceptance of Donatti’s death suddenly pushing against everything else she had to worry about – Cyrus, the ruined car, the fact that she was lost in the middle of nowhere with a man she didn’t know. A man who was warm and comforting, and had probably saved her life.

“Bathroom,” she murmured.

He drew back. “What?”

“I’m sorry. I think I . . . need a bathroom.”

“Of course.” He rubbed her shoulder, settled a hand at the small of her back and guided her gently inside. He pointed across the bedroom. “Through there, to the right. Can you make it?”

She nodded and hitched a watery smile. “Thank you.”

“Any time.”

Jazz followed his directions and closed herself in a spacious bathroom appointed in rustic splendour. Almost everything was wood, from the walls and floor to the cabinets enclosing the sink and the large corner bathtub. Even the toilet seat was polished wood. At the far wall, sheer curtains covered a block-glass window that stretched from floor to ceiling.

She relieved herself, and the fluttering nausea in her gut abated a little. She’d have to get it together fast. Get hold of Akila and Ian, tell them what happened. Somehow make arrangements to retrieve Donatti’s body.

Jesus. They’d have to bury him. Have a funeral. The thought sent her stomach roiling again.

She fought it, stood and dressed. The shelves by the window caught her eye. Folded towels, soap, bottles of shampoo. And a . . . toaster? Frowning, she moved closer and stared. It was an old radio. A 1960s-style transistor, streaked with rust and dented near the top. Beside it was a scratched Polaroid camera with a cracked eye – not the plastic flip-out style, but a metal monster with an accordion lens. The kind that hadn’t been made since the 1970s.

Her mind flashed to the decades-old wrecks they’d passed last night, and a cold splinter lodged in her chest. First classic cars, now this battered old junk. It didn’t make sense.

Neither did waking up unharmed. She
knew
she’d smashed into the wheel.

She made her way to the sink and turned the faucet on with trembling hands. This was all wrong. And it wasn’t a dream. She washed, splashed water on her face and glanced up, expecting to catch a glimpse of her own disturbed face.

There was no mirror.

With no concrete idea why that bothered her, she dried her face and hands with the towel hanging by the sink and scanned the room. No mirror on the walls or the back of the door. Block glass window. The french doors in the bedroom had been mesh screen panels, framed with more block glass. There were no smooth, reflective surfaces.

The djinn could use reflective surfaces as transporters to move them anywhere in the world that had a mirror or window they could picture in their heads. Donatti could’ve used one to get them home in a few seconds. If he wasn’t dead.

The reminder dizzied her, and she grabbed the sink to keep from falling over.
Pull it together, Jazz.
She had to get out of here, find other people, phones, transportation. Get away from Seth, before she found out what was wrong with him, with this place. Instinct told her that once she discovered the truth, it’d be too late.

“Was he your husband?”

Jazz, seated at a table in a charming little kitchen that made her want to puke some more, gripped the mug he’d given her and avoided meeting Seth’s eyes. She wanted to tell him not to refer to Donatti in the past tense, but that wouldn’t do any good. “No,” she said. “My . . . boyfriend. I guess.”

Seth sat across from her. “You guess?”

“My son’s father. We live together.”
Lived together.
Grief bubbled through her, and she blinked rapidly as her hands around the coffee cup blurred. She’d never get used to this.

“You have a son?” he said.

“Yes. He’s two. And I need to get home to him.”

Seth didn’t say anything. She looked at him, and the disturbed expression on his face made her cold all over again. “I’m afraid that’s going to be difficult,” he said.

“Why?”

“This place is a good fifty, sixty miles from anywhere. That’s a straight shot, not using the paths. And I don’t own any transportation besides my feet.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No.” He sipped at his own coffee. “I grow or trap everything I eat. This coffee? Made from dandelion roots. Not bad, either.”

“But you have store-made clothes. Shampoo. Dishes.” She wouldn’t mention the radio or the camera. Not until she knew what the hell was going on. Not ever, if she could help it. She’d be long gone as soon as she got something useful from him. “You couldn’t have made those.”

“I have a deal with a couple of forest rangers. They come around once a month, bring me supplies, visit a while.” He frowned again. “They were just here two days ago.”

Shit. No way she’d hang around here for a month. “Well, you must have a phone, right? Or a CB or something. For emergencies. I know somebody who’d come get me.” Much as she hated to admit it, roads or not, Ian could get here. He could fly.

He shook his head. “No reception towers in range. Even if there was, it’s almost impossible to find the place.”

“My friend could find it.”

He gave a gentle laugh. “Maybe you did hit your head.”

“Yeah.” She had, damn it. So why wasn’t she hurt? A horrifying idea occurred to her, one that made her lightheaded and nauseous all over again. “Seth,” she said. “How long have I been here?”

“Just since last night.” He smirked. “And I still don’t know your name.”

Last night. So she hadn’t been unconscious for weeks, at least. For some reason that didn’t bring much relief. “It’s Jazz,” she said.

“Jazz. With the beautiful eyes.”

Her breath caught. She’d always hated her eyes – they were different colours. One brown, one green. Donatti had loved them. Called them her goddess gaze, with the same unmistakable husky tone Seth had just used. The one that said he wished for a private room and a few hours alone. She and Donatti hadn’t gotten much of that since he came back. Now they never would.

“I’m sorry,” Seth said before she could get good and annoyed. “That was uncalled for.”

“I want to see the wreck.”

He stared at her. “The what?”

“The car. The crash site. Donatti.” Her throat closed around his name. “I just can’t believe he’s . . . gone. I have to see.” And maybe she could salvage her cell phone. If she could, she’d walk the paved road, in the direction she should’ve chosen, until she got a signal.

Damn it. If she’d just turned around at the first sign of weirdness, that ghostly overgrown DeSoto, Donatti would still be alive. She’d killed him. And gotten herself more lost than he ever could have.

Her eyes burned with unshed tears. She should’ve apologized. She owed him that.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Seth spoke gently, as if comforting a child. “It’s not pretty, Jazz. Not at all.”

She glared across the table. “I want to see him. Take me there.”

“Okay.” He held up a hand. “I’ll take you. But please, relax for a few minutes. Drink your coffee. I’ll fix something to eat, and then we’ll go.”

She didn’t want any goddamn coffee. She wanted to go home, to hold her baby and find some way to tell him his daddy was never coming back, to share her grief with someone who knew her, knew Donatti. But Seth had agreed to take her, and being pushy or demanding might change his mind. She’d never find it without him.

“All right,” she finally said, and added, “Thank you,” because it seemed appropriate.

He smiled tentatively. “Toast okay?”

“Perfect.” She managed to smile back.

While he stood and walked to a cupboard, Jazz eyed the mug suspiciously. Dandelion coffee, huh? She half expected to see little yellow petals floating in it. But it looked like coffee, and smelled like coffee. She raised it to her mouth and took a tentative sip.

It tasted like heaven.

“My God,” she murmured. Another swallow, and the taste coated her throat – silky smooth, nutty and sweet, better than anything Starbucks ever dreamed about serving. And somehow, familiar. “This is dandelions?”

“Mountain grown. The best kind,” Seth said without turning.

“It’s fantastic.” She’d tasted this before. Impossible, but she knew the flavour. She drank again, trying to remember. It seemed important.

Her eyelids grew heavy. At once, she wanted nothing more than to stretch out, right here on the table, and close them. But she shouldn’t want that. “Seth,” she said thickly. “I think . . .”

He turned, and his concerned features appeared to distort. “Maybe you should rest before we go,” he said. “Just for a little while. You’ve had such a hard night.”

“Rest,” she slurred. “I need rest.”

You need to get out! He’s drugged you!