Water Bound

by Christine Feehan

  "Rikki."

  His voice startled her. She'd been so caught up in the flow of muscle beneath skin, she'd forgotten what she was doing. What had she been doing? She blinked at him, bringing him back in focus.

  "While I appreciate the fact that you like my body, I could use a little help getting up."

  "What?" Even to her own ears she sounded confused.

  His voice gentled. Turned soft, almost seductive. "Come here."

  She felt her body's instant response to his tone, almost as if he hypnotized her. She'd actually stepped forward without thought--without consent--a wholly natural response to his summons. She frowned at him. "Who are you?"

  "I wish I could tell you. Whatever I am, Rikki, whoever I am, it isn't a good thing."

  She slipped her arm around his back and used her leg muscles, honed by fighting the currents beneath the ocean as they shoved her back and forth, to help him to his feet. "Maybe. And maybe you would have shot me just now if you're all that bad. Give yourself a break and just get in bed and go to sleep. We can sort all this out in the morning."

  He seemed heavier this time, and a small bit of blood trickled down the side of his head. She bit her lip. She shouldn't have listened to him. She should have overcome her own aversion to the hospital and just taken him.

  "The bathroom. All that water you keep shoving down me is beginning to be felt."

  She hesitated, nearly panicking. Her bathroom was only a few steps away, while the guest bathroom was at the other end of the house. Her things. For a moment she couldn't breathe. He was invading--everywhere.

  "Rikki, it's okay if you want me to use the other bathroom. I can make it."

  Again his voice stroked over her with gentleness. It made her feel small and silly to have to have everything her way. It wasn't like she had an obsession with germs--it was that everything had to be a certain way.

  "That's ridiculous, we're right here." She forced herself to help him through the door.

  Once outside of the bathroom, she leaned against the wall with her heart pounding and every muscle tight and protesting. For a moment there was chaos in her brain. What if he touched her things? Messed up her towels? Moved her soap dispenser? She could feel her pulse pounding. Little things could make her explode with anger. She'd worked on it, did breathing exercises, but still, when people messed with her things . . .

  And what if that was the kind of thing that triggered her mind to set fires in her sleep? She was distressed, over-tired and someone was in her house. She put her head between her knees, feeling sick. She knew better than to trust herself. And if a maniac was out there, destroying homes because she was in them, she'd just placed Lev's life in danger.

  What's wrong? I can feel your distress. It's pouring off you in waves.

  She stiffened, slowly straightening, looking around her. It was his voice again, distinctly his voice. And he knew she was upset.

  Don't talk to me in my head. Deliberately she thought the words rather than saying them aloud, uncertain of what to expect. Could they really talk to one another telepathically? It was long suspected in Sea Haven that the Drakes could talk to one another, but she'd never had a single telepathic experience--until she'd encountered Lev.

  The door opened and he hung on to it, his blue eyes drifting over her, searching her expression, her eyes. "Are you okay? I know this is difficult for you."

  He was the one who was injured. She frowned again and wrapped her arm around him. "You washed your hands, didn't you?"

  His smile fascinated her. "Yes, ma'am. I'm all about cleanliness."

  He was teasing her. She'd never been good at the concept, although living around the other women the past four years had helped her. Lexi was a terrible tease, and as young as she'd been, with the horrific background she'd had, they all had protected her as much as possible. If teasing was how she needed to cope with stress, then even Rikki was willing to learn to deal with it for her. Rikki didn't dare look up at his face as she took him on through to the bedroom. She was getting used to that face, the angles and planes, the shadows and scars. His face appealed to her in the same way his body did. She was afraid once she focused on it, she'd be captured and would reveal the strangeness of her mind to him.

  She tucked the blankets around him. "You need to go to sleep, Lev. It's very late."

  "I can't."

  She met his eyes, and her stomach took a plunge, as if she'd dropped into a deep blue sea. He was looking up at her. He was a tough, scarred man, a warrior with a million weapons. His eyes were flat and cold, yet she could see his confusion, his vulnerability. She realized exactly why she'd brought him home--why she'd taken such a chance--what she saw in him. Herself. She was looking at a man who was utterly, absolutely alone. He was confused and had no idea what or who he was. Something shifted inside of her. Softened.

  Blythe had found Rikki when she was exactly the same way. She'd been completely alone and so confused about herself. She still didn't know if she caused fires, or if she'd been responsible for the deaths of her parents and the loss of three homes. She had no idea if she'd killed the only man she'd ever loved. For all she knew she was a murderess. She was terrified to trust herself, let alone anyone else. Just as this man was.

  She actually felt connected to him in some way she couldn't break. She couldn't abandon him. Maybe it was payment for what Blythe and the others had done for her. All she knew was--there was no way to walk away from him. She acknowledged the danger. He very likely could be just what he appeared, a killer of some kind, but somehow that didn't seem right to her.

  He'd done two things that stuck out in her mind that were a bit contrary to his being completely evil. He hadn't killed her when he obviously had the opportunity, and he'd dragged himself from a kitchen chair to the floor, causing himself a great deal of pain, in order to protect her from an unknown threat. He'd observed that she was worried about intruders, and he'd risked further injury and certainly a great deal more pain in order to protect her. He could have protected himself from the bed. No one, no one, had ever done that for her before.

  "You don't have to worry," she reassured him, looking him straight in the eye. "I'll watch over you. If anything suspicious happens, I'll wake you up. Just go to sleep now."

  "You're asking me to trust you."

  She couldn't help herself. There was one unruly strand of hair that spilled into the middle of his forehead. She brushed it back with gentle fingers. "I trusted you, bringing you home, going down for the uni and leaving you alone in my boat. I left the keys in my truck. I know you noticed them. I gave you back your weapons."

  "You didn't trust me when the woman came tonight."

  "Blythe. Her name is Blythe and I owe her everything. I can take a chance with my life, but not with hers. All I'm saying is, you came home with me. Let me watch over you tonight, and then tomorrow you can go back to being whoever you want to be."

  His blue eyes moved over her face as if memorizing every detail and looking deeper, under her skin, behind her eyes, deeper still, as if he might judge the truth of what she was saying.

  "How will you sleep?"

  Her fingers reluctantly left his face. "You're in my house. In my bed. It's safer that I be out of the house and stay awake, and I can't explain to you why."

  It was his turn to frown. "But you'll talk about this with me tomorrow."

  She shrugged, not committing to anything and unwilling to lie. What would she say? I might be a psycho? But then, he thought he was one as well. "Good night, Lev. If you need me, I'll have the kitchen door open."

  Rikki snapped off the bedroom light and left him. Either he'd drift off or he wouldn't, but at least he could rest. She dragged a spare blanket from the linen closet and made a fresh pot of coffee for herself before going out onto the porch and settling into the hammock swing. It was her most comfortable chair and she planned to spend the night there.

  It was always cold in the evening and already the fog blanketed the trees and gardens, sn
aking its way into the yard so she could barely make out her sleepy flowers and shrubbery. She loved the feel of the fog on her skin, those drops of mist that shrouded the night in a wet veil of silver. She snuggled beneath the blanket, pulling in her feet, a little uneasy.

  She put her apprehension down to having a stranger in her house, but still, she couldn't settle. Twice she walked around the house, wishing she could make up her mind whether or not to get a dog. Airiana loved animals and was always bugging Rikki, and all the others, about getting dogs for protection. A dog was one more thing for her to worry about if a fire started in the night.

  She sipped at her coffee and looked at all the places she'd studied a thousand times. Vantage points where someone might be able to hide in concealment and spy on her home and family. How paranoid did it make her that she scouted all the areas and visited them regularly to check for signs someone had been watching her? She sighed and kicked at the railing with her bare foot. Very paranoid, but she wasn't ever going to stop. It was the only way she ever managed to sleep at night.

  5

  FLAMES raced up the walls and poured across the ceiling, liquid fire, running like rivers through the house, consuming everything in sight. The roar was loud, angry, and the flames reared back, looking--seeking. The orange and red inferno rolled into giant fiery balls, while wind rushed from wall to wall, fanning the conflagration. Heat filled the rooms, and great black gaping holes appeared in the walls. Chunks fell from the ceiling while the inferno blazed hotter.

  Water! Come to me! Help me. Water!

  Lev woke, gun in his fist, heart pounding, head throbbing, but most of all, his left palm was so painful, it felt like someone had shoved a knife through it. He could hear the sound of water all around him, in the bathroom, the kitchen, outside, even on the roof. He forced himself into a sitting position, wiping at the beads of sweat dotting his forehead with his arm. What the hell was going on? The echo of that frightened female voice still reverberated through his mind.

  His brain didn't feel as fuzzy. He had a whale of a headache, but he could think. His dream . . . No, her dream. Rikki. She was dreaming or, more precisely, having a nightmare, and somehow she was projecting her nightmare to him. He pressed his palm to his leg while he breathed away the last remnants of heat and fire surrounding him.

  Struggling to his feet, he managed to stagger into the bathroom and turn off both the shower and the sink. The basin had filled up, and water had run onto the floor, so he dropped a towel on the mess and went on through toward the kitchen. The sound of water pulled at him again as he went down the hall, and he pushed open a door to find the laundry room. Water ran in the washing machine. He turned that off, spotted his neatly folded clothes sitting on the dryer and pulled on his jeans, hastily buttoning a couple of the buttons as he made his way into the kitchen.

  The floor was flooded and water cascaded from the sink--the faucet was on full blast. He turned it off and went outside. Overhead, the skies had opened and poured water down, the main concentration on the house and yard. He looked out over the surrounding trees and saw it was raining, but not with the same force as around the house--around Rikki.

  Sound asleep, she was curled up in a hammock swing, a blanket around her, expressions of fear crossing her face as she cried imploringly, palms upward toward the water. His little sea urchin diver was definitely bound to an element--and a strong one at that.

  "Come here, lyubimaya moya." He reached for her. She was so slight that even in his weakened state, he doubted if he'd have trouble carrying her. He gathered her against his bare chest, whispering to her when she began to struggle. "I'm bringing you in. You can bring the rain with you if you like, but it isn't doing your house much good."

  Her lashes lifted and there she was. He felt the jolt through his entire body, the sensation of drowning in a sensual sea. He smiled at her. "I'm taking you inside. If you keep wiggling around, we're both going to end up on the ground."

  "I don't like anyone touching me."

  "I know." He made no move to put her down. Already the rain was lessening in intensity. He carried her into the house and kicked the door closed behind him, noting that her bare feet were covered in burn scars that obviously went up under the hem of her jeans. "Are you worried that someone might set your house on fire?"

  She studied his face for so long, he didn't think she'd answer him. "Yes."

  The word came out reluctantly, and for the first time, her gaze shifted from his. He carried her carefully through the kitchen. The floor was wet and needed to be mopped. She didn't notice. She was too busy trying not to touch his bare chest or struggle so hard he fell. He pretended not to notice her dilemma, choosing instead to figure out what she wasn't telling him. Whatever it was, it was important.

  He put her on the bed and sank down beside her, deliberately leaning his weight against her. He didn't have to fake weakness. His legs were rubbery and his palm--damn--it hurt like a son of a bitch. He pressed his thumb deep into the center, but before he could use healing energy, she reached out and took his wrist, drawing his hand to her. She had that little frown he found so endearing on her face.

  "Is your hand hurting?" She rubbed the pad of her thumb over his palm, tracing imaginary circles there. "I dreamt that your hand was hurting."

  The pain was gone the instant her thumb stroked over his skin. He was used to strange occurrences--he was gifted psychically in many different ways--but he'd never had a connection to another human being, at least he didn't think so. He'd hit his head pretty hard, and he wasn't remembering a whole hell of a lot about his life. Only images of violence, a gut instinct telling him someone wanted him dead, and yet he was fairly certain he would have remembered something like this.

  His strange reactions to her felt completely foreign--but right. He knew it didn't make sense, but at the moment, nothing did. He needed to be with her. He needed to take the fear from her eyes. He . . . needed.

  "You dreamt the house was on fire. This house." He'd get into the water aspect later. Right now he could give her peace. He closed his eyes and centered himself, allowing his mind to expand, to stretch, to seek the energy of others. He couldn't find anyone close to her home. If someone had been close, they'd left no trace of themselves behind, which was difficult to do. "We're alone, Rikki. I can't tell you how I know, but I do. Just like the way you manipulate water, I know if someone is close."

  His revelation should have made her feel more secure, but instead she looked haunted. Just for a moment. He caught a flash of terror in her eyes, and then her expression went blank, distant, as if she'd wiped her mind clean like a slate. He heard her breathing change, just for a moment, a quick inhale and then she exhaled, a long slow breath of air that gave away her agitation.

  "What time is it?" she asked. "I have to clean things up."

  "Nearly four. What you need to do is to lie down and rest."

  She mumbled something incoherent under her breath and went out of the room. He could hear her mopping the floor in the kitchen. It occurred to him that this wasn't the first--or last--time she'd done this. So fires were a recurring nightmare. And she feared someone would start one. She was barefoot and he'd seen the burn scars on her feet when he carried her--his mind was already cataloging each whorl and ridge.

  He sighed and brushed his hand over his face, and then just sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his palm with his thumb thoughtfully while the rain beat on the roof and she scrubbed her floor in the kitchen. Those burns were no accident, then. It was no wonder she worked under the water. It was where she felt safe. Her legs and feet probably hurt when she walked on land, but in the water she was more fluid. He knew the scars would make her skin feel tight and stretched, so walking could be painful.

  Mapping the scars in his mind, he traced the pattern in the air and pushed warm healing energy toward the air sketches. As a rule, healing had to be done when a wound occurred, not months--or years--after. But sometimes, if one worked at it, they could ease the scarr
ing. He pressed his fingertips to his temples. If he could remember that, why couldn't he remember why the hell every memory seemed to be surrounded with violence?

  He knew he could take apart his guns and put them back together in seconds because he'd already tried it, the moment she'd gone outside. He'd needed to clean his guns. He knew what ammo he needed for each weapon. He knew he could pull a knife, turn and throw, and hit his intended target with exact accuracy. When he saw someone, he saw targets on them and knew immediately where to strike to kill them if needed. His mind was like a computer, analyzing all the time, choosing kill spots. Did other people live that way?

  "Lev?" She stood in the hall looking at him, a worried frown on her face. "Do you need more aspirin? I don't keep anything else in the house."

  "No. I'm fine. I was trying to remember something--anything--that might tell me I'm a much better man than I think I am."

  She sent him a small, crooked smile. It was almost reluctant, as if she didn't really know how to smile. "I think that tells you you're a better man than you think you are." She looked back at the kitchen and then glanced toward the bathroom. "I'm sorry about the mess. It happens sometimes when I have nightmares. My guest bathroom was really flooded."

  "Because you dream about fires."

  She nodded slowly, her dark eyebrows drawn together. He liked the shape of her eyebrows, the way they emphasized her eyes and those incredibly long lashes.

  "Are you afraid you start the fires while you sleep?"

  Her gasp was audible. Her eyes widened in alarm. She actually took a step back from him and nearly dropped the mop.

  "It isn't that difficult to figure out, Rikki. You're afraid to sleep in the house with me in it. You call to water when you do sleep. You have burns on your feet. And the house on fire in your dream was this house. You're scared you're the one causing the fires."

  She swallowed hard, but her gaze didn't waver. "It's possible. Maybe even probable. My parents died in a fire. Two foster homes I lived in burned down, and then I lived in a state-run facility until I turned eighteen. I thought it was over until . . . I met someone. A few years ago, my fiance died in a fire. That's four fires, two that killed people."