"I'm glad to see that you've recovered. I wanted to apologize for leaving so suddenly." His gaze searched her face briefly.
Jen's pulse quickened as his midnight eyes seemed to probe to the very center of her being. She noted that he wasn't offering an explanation for his abrupt departure, even while he was saying he was sorry. Dumas suddenly cawed loudly and flapped his wings, making Jen jump for the second time and Cobbs whine and strain at the leash.
"Dumas doesn't mean to scare anyone. He is very mischievous but means no harm. There is little company for him up here and he misses the attention." As if agreeing, the crow cocked his head and cawed again. Jen looked into the crow's glittering eyes, which seemed unnaturally perspicuous for those of a bird.
"I overreacted—I...I was just surprised. Actually, I love all animals." She hesitated. "Would he mind if I pet him?"
"He would be honored," the man assured her. He spoke softly to the crow. "Go and make friends with the lovely lady to make amends for your earlier bad manners."
The crow flew over. Jen held her breath and Cobbs whimpered again, but decided to sit at her heels. The crow landed on her wrist, so and that his talons only lightly touched her. "Bon jour, enchanted to meet you," Dumas croaked. Jen laughed aloud in delight, and stroked him s. He was beautiful, a sleek blue-black with a clever expression in his eyes. He flapped his wings and adjusted himself on her wrist.
"He's wonderful," she said. Dumas cocked his head as if he understood her. The man was studying her as well, intently, dark eyes examining her face as if he could see all of her secrets. The few that she had. For a long moment, his gaze held hers.
He slipped his hands in coat pockets and broke the moment. "How rude you must think me. I've not introduced myself. I am Dameon La Faim." He pronounced the last "la fay," or at least that's what it sounded like to Jen's untrained ears. "Some of my American friends feel it is too difficult to pronounce, so they just call me Dameon Fame, an interesting derivative when one thinks of the excruciating price of notoriety." He smiled faintly, lines deepening in his cheeks.
Jen smiled back at him. "Jen McNeily. Nobody has a hard time with my name, so they just call me plain, old Jen."
"I can't imagine anyone using the adjectives ‘plain’ or ‘old’ when describing you," he answered softly.
Jen flushed and shifted from foot to foot, feeling awkward and out of her league.
"I live in the Grenville complex down the hill. I'm guessing that beautiful house behind you is yours," she finally said. She looked past him at the enormous, gothic structure towering in the background. "I've always admired it when I've walked up this way. " Jen stopped. Self-consciously, she tried to smooth her tangled hair.
Dameon turned to gaze at the mansion looming behind them. "You like it?" He seemed to study it as if he'd never really looked at it before, and turned back to face her. "Then you must come and visit the house often." Jen felt her face heat up; maybe it sounded as if she were angling for an invitation. He continued, "I bought it on impulse. The house had been on the market for so long. Somehow, it begged to be rescued."
"I'm glad you did," Jen responded sincerely. If she couldn't own it herself, then she was glad that it belonged to someone like Dameon.
"A house this large deserves better company than just myself. I would be honored if you would be my first guest," Dameon said softly, startling her.
Jen started to ask if she could see the house right then and there, but her nerve endings were on red alert. Something was going on here, something too intimate and strange. Memories of how he had terrified armed robbers sent her pulse uncomfortably a flutter. Just who was this man? And here she was, all alone in the middle of the woods with him.
She began to slowly back away. She realized they'd never come closer than within ten feet of each other, yet she acutely felt his presence as if they'd been touching.
Cobbs was also eager to leave, his ears raised, tail quivering. Inwardly wincing at how loudly her voice boomed in her own ears, she said, "It's been really nice, but I have to go now. Thanks for letting me pet Dumas." Her words had spilled out in a squeaky, nervous rush.
Dameon made a small, polite bow. "Another time then. I hope you find my house measures up to Miss Brontë's."
Next time—Miss Bronte's? How could he know about her love of Jane Eyre? It was uncanny and impossible. Unnerved, Jen was turning to leave when she realized Dumas was still sitting quietly on her arm. The bird looked at her with bright eyes, which seemed to see inside her head and find the contents amusing. She blushed. "Oops, I almost took him home with me."
"An honor I'm sure he would have appreciated," Dameon assured her, smiling gently. "Dumas, come." Immediately, the bird flew upward and settled, preening his raven wings aloft Dameon's shoulder. "It's getting dark outside. Would you like me to drive you home?" His voice, soft, liquid, followed her into the woods.
Jen mumbled something incoherent, pulled Cobbs behind her and broke into a wild run. Stumbling over one tree root after another and nearly falling on her face, she wondered if she would make it home in one piece. Involuntarily, she turned to see if Dameon was watching her. When she looked back, she saw that he and Dumas were gone. So much for her silly ego.
Jen shivered and urged Cobbs to move faster. "Let's jog home, buddy. It will be good for us both," she whispered. Tearing through the woods at a breathtaking pace, she thought she heard a faint echo of him saying "we'll meet again." She and Cobbs were both breathing heavily. Their loud wheezing and panting sounded unnaturally loud in the silent forest.
Leaves, moss and pine needles flew up in Jen's face as she crashed down the path. The trees seemed to bow down, thicker and blacker than usual. Not a speck of light was showing. Jen increased their pace as images of the cigarette-smoking stranger lurking in the woods flashed through her thoughts. She raced through the twilight and didn't stop till she reached home. Her house, well-lit and sturdy, beckoned like a beacon.
Exhausted, she and Cobbs and simultaneously collapsed to the sofa. Cobbs stretched out heavily across her lap and looked up at her with plaintive eyes. "I know, bud, we overdid it. I don't know what came over me. How silly. Dameon is a perfectly ordinary guy, a good guy, offering to drive us home, and we lose our heads." Even as Jen heard the reassuring words she spoke aloud, a tiny voice inside her head was saying that he was no ordinary man.
Jen found herself restless that night. The house was noisy with pipes rumbling and the windows squeaking and rattling in the increasing wind. Acutely conscious of each sound, she tried to lose herself in her favorite movie, but somehow, while watching Patrick Swayze and Demi Moore, images of Dameon superimposed themselves over the screen. After the video ended, Jen went to her bookcase and pulled out the article on adopting Russian children. Scanning it quickly, she sighed and put it away. Someday...when she had more money...
She got up and began pacing the living room, going from window to window. Peering out, she stared into the darkness and had no idea what she was looking for. The darkness seemed to be filled with energy and movement. Deep purple shadows shimmered across the sky. The night itself seemed to be a living thing.
Unable to bear the confines of the room a minute longer, Jen grabbed her coat. Stepping out the back door, she inhaled deeply, sucking in the fresh, tart air. The wind whipping scudderlike clouds across the cool silver moon was the perfect background for excitement and romance. Restlessly, Jen had a sudden, inexplicable longing to lift her arms and fly, to soar through the sky above the purple and black night clouds, above her own trapped existence, and see the world from a bird's view. High above the tedium of earthbound life.
Goose bumps covered her skin, reminding her of the falling temperature. Still reluctant to go in, she allowed herself to fantasize further, and tried to imagine the perfect soul mate, the lover who would join her in dreams.
An owl in a nearby tree hooted, breaking the silence. Its lambent, amber eyes pierced the dark and locked onto her. Jen had an immediate sympathy f
or rabbits and mice, its prey the eyes hard and pitiless., Turning her head away, Jen closed her eyes and stretched She refused to be spooked by an innocent animal.
When she opened them, the owl was still there, staring at her. Jen a found herself taking a step back. The wind stirred and moaned like a woman crying. Night was the perfect cover for violence and danger.
A finger of cold touched her spine. She could no longer feel safe, even at home. She suppressed the desire to run back into the house, and forced herself to walk at a leisurely pace.
* * * *
Angrily, Tatiana left the body of the owl. The only evidence of her presence was a column of smoke. Sometimes, it was easier to slip inside another life form's body than to go to all of the bother of shape-shifting. Sometimes, Tatiana preferred not to be visible. The human female had looked right at her inside of the owl's body and had been too stupid to recognize what she was seeing.
Tatiana had only traveled to Michigan after learning Dameon had purchased an additional home there. He was always on the move, restless and always searching for what, she could never understand. He either sold his homes or donated them to charities. She made a face at his idiocy. She certainly hadn't expected to be forced to witness his disgusting infatuation with a human.
Boredom and discontentment led Tatiana to abandon the hot spots of Europe to track him down in the States. She could not decide if her obsession with him was based on consuming hatred or frustrated desire. Or, maybe both. Not that it mattered. Her obsession entertained her when so little else did.
Dameon would be furious if he knew she was here. She smirked and drifted close to the human's house. She materialized, a willowy, ethereal shape, and moved closer to the bedroom window. The wind blew her long, blonde hair across her eyes, obscuring her vision. She brushed it back, but it immediately blew back in her face.
She cursed. A human form could be so tedious at times, even one as beautiful and flawless as her own. She studied the human female, watching her brush her long, reddish hair, and gleefully considered using the female as nourishment. As a night time snack. She laughed to herself, and pulled back. Not yet, she mustn't be too hasty. Her plan with the car thief had solidified and was a much better one than simply killing the female...
* * * *
Jen was restless, feeling vaguely trapped now that she was inside. The house was no longer a warm cocoon. Violence had seeped into her daily existence. She was acutely aware of how alone she was. Alone, lonely and vulnerable. Listening to the rustlings and sighing of the wind and leaves reflected and intensified the restlessness inside of her. She brushed her hair absentmindedly.
She pulled her album of photos from her bureau and searched through the pages, though she had studied them dozens of times. Jen loved taking unusual photos, which somehow disturbed people who looked at them. She studied the one of the owl descending like an arrow caught against a full moon, and admired the clarity and contrast between shadow and light. The next one, a house cat crouched in the dark, its eyes glowing like beautiful gems, perched on a rock, stalking something in the surrounding weeds. She admired the cat while feeling sorry for its prey. The next was of a man in profile at a truck stop, just a dark silhouette with only the tip of his cigarette glowing in the shadows. It was eerie, almost sinister, but somehow sad and forlorn, too. That's what I like about night photography, the contradictions. Dark and light juxtaposed. Good and bad side by side.
* * * *
Dameon could not eat or sleep. A flawlessly arranged tray of food and drink had been waiting for him, but remained untouched. Not that he needed much of human nourishment, anyway, and of course, he always fought the urge for the other type of sustenance. Dameon shuddered remembering the blood flowing from her hand. Luckily, the old hunger hadn't been aroused, but the sight of the blood brought back bad memories. Memories he'd rather forget.
He was being a fool. He was only frightening her. The fleeting thought that he could make her want him shamed him. He would never indulge in that kind of trickery. It never lasted and gave no real satisfaction. He wanted the real thing. He wanted her to desire him because her heart made it so.
Chapter Three
Jen trembled and ached. Her arms stretched out into the darkness, reaching, reaching...She twisted and writhed beneath her blankets. She was dreaming, helplessly caught in a maelstrom of fantasy and emotion. Seamlessly, from one dream to the next, she found herself riding aloft the wing of a black plane through stormy, lightning-filled skies. Surprisingly, she was unafraid, too completely focused, and even desperate, to find someone or something beyond the black clouds. At times, the sky turned to inky waves of ocean water.
She was overwhelmed and awestruck by the physical sensation of moving effortlessly through space. It was an incredible feeling, both enthralling and frightening. Unexpected despair and frustration rose up as she strained to see through the darkness. She felt tears fill her eyes.
Where was he? It was a person, after all, that she was seeking. She felt wetness on her face. Hunger burned through her until she finally reached the sanctuary in the arms of the unknown man. The man radiated power, and smelled deliciously of mint and fresh, cool air.
"Come to me," he whispered. "You and I, we belong together. We are two halves of the same soul."
Jen was frightened. "No, no. It isn't so," she whimpered, though she was longing to fling herself into his arms. The wind moaned and whirled around them.
"Don't be afraid. I would never hurt you. I swear to you, I would end my own life before harming one particle of your being." His eyes were soft, dark with passion.
"How can this be? I don't know you." Jen was filled with need and loneliness, but she was confused and afraid. Everything was darkness, yet she saw the man clearly, as if he were illuminated by some unseen light.
"Don't you?" His words caressed her ear. "Haven't we always known each other? Even though we have only just met."
She couldn't see his face, which was hidden in the shadow, but his lips were achingly close to hers. His body felt exquisitely real, flesh and bone in her arms. The feel of him beneath her fingertips was more intimate, more gently invasive, than anything she'd ever imagined. She experienced a moment of shattering ecstasy as the man touched her—she was caressed in a way she'd never experienced before. But it lasted too briefly. The moment of her boundaries melting and flowing into his shattered quickly.
Darkness separated them.
"Don't go," she pleaded. "Come back, oh, please, come back!" But, they were torn cruelly apart. Fear gripped her. She knew something horrible would happen if she didn't find him. His anguish was palpable. His need compelling her to reach him. She heard him whisper, "Come to me." The words still warm in her ears, with a start, Jen sat up.
Her T-shirt was soaked in perspiration and her hair clung to her forehead. She was bone-weary, as if she had been battling a terrible fever. Shakily, she stood up and stumbled toward the alarm clock. The bright red neon numbers were flashing four a.m., and with an aching throat, she found her way to the refrigerator for a Diet Coke.
She trembled without stop as if struck by a crippling illness, and leaned against the wall for strength. It seemed so real. She felt coldly desolate, as if the man torn from her arms was a reality and not a phantom of her mind. Her body was taut with an indefinable longing leftover from the dream.
She was tempted to call someone who could bring her back down to earth. The Garfield phone was leering crazily at her, grotesque in the dim light, and she wondered why she had thought it cute when she’d bought it at the garage sale.
With another sip of soda, she closed her eyes and tried to clear her thoughts. There was no one who wouldn't be furious at being wakened at the crack of dawn to hear about her dreams.
Jen's shattered nerves began to settle, but she was far too awake to return to bed.
* * * *
Dameon stared at the lab results for a long second before rising. He rubbed his eyes and turned off the computer before m
aking his way upstairs. He hesitated at the window, fighting the compulsion to look out. If only he hadn't witnessed the attempted theft and hadn't stopped to help the poor hapless human, he wouldn't have met Jen.
He sneered at himself, recalling his mysterious and absurdly dramatic disappearance. It was always better, though, to avoid attention and publicity. The last thing he needed was the police quizzing him or the newspapers sniffing around, looking for a story.
He was trying to do the right thing, but couldn't seem to help himself. He wanted to send her away, but at the same time, keep her at his side.
And he must be more careful about reading her thoughts. It gave him an unfair advantage. He'd made a slip that she had noticed.
One thoughtless impulse to help a human in distress and his world was changed forever. The instant Dameon had seen her he'd felt he'd known her forever. She was the one he'd given up hope on ever finding. After hundreds of years of searing emptiness, in that one brief moment, he suddenly no longer felt alone. He, himself, had tried to dismiss the notion as sentimental nonsense, and had nearly succeeded until he looked again into Jen's eyes. Eyes so beautiful and alive, he knew that he was in over his head. But it was wrong, terribly wrong, to want her.
Crushing pain suddenly rose like a wave and obliterated all thoughts. The familiar agony seared through him relentlessly, forcing him back to his room to retrieve his small, black briefcase. It could have been worse. There had been a time, long ago, when the suffering had been much, much worse. Small comfort now.
Extracting a hypodermic with a practiced, steady hand, he injected himself. An entirely separate type of pain, icy and ripping along every tissue in his body, caused him to cry out despite his biting his lip till it bled. This was old pain, centuries old. His cry echoed through the quiet loneliness as he realized he could never let her know what he was.
Kiss Noir (BookStrand Publishing Romance) Page 4
