FALL (The Senses)

by Paterson, Cindy

  The crumbled piece of paper still lay protected in her deadlocked fist and she thought of the man who wrote it, of his unyielding courage. Waleron would fight until his heart refused to pump, his limbs refused to function—he’d never give up. He’d do whatever it took to survive.

  Her hand tightened on the paper.

  “You have nowhere to run,” Tarek said, eyes glistening with excitement. A bead of blood teetered on the tip of his swollen nose then dropped to hit his chin. “It will be much easier on you if you don’t fight.”

  “I promise to be good.” The words slipped across her tongue out of habit and desperation. She had known he wanted control and she’d given it to him. Over the years it had escalated to the point that she rarely decided anything for herself. She couldn’t even fight with her Talde anymore. She let it happen. After Waleron, she died a little more every day, leaving behind an empty shell.

  And tonight that shell was being cracked. The note Tarek found was too much for him to handle.

  Tarek was unsound; it was evident in the sweat beading on his brow and in his eyes that looked like high speeding pendulums. The generous Senses warrior who spent years trying to win her heart had vanished. There’d been a time when he fed her because she barely ate and bathed her when she refused to get out of bed.

  Then he changed. The isolation from her Talde, the refusal to allow her to call anyone without him monitoring. It was her slow burial as he began to lock her up when he was gone. Then the punishments began and, finally, the threats. He beat down her already broken soul until she had nothing left to fight for.

  Except the letter.

  “Tarek, I swear I can be good.” She needed to distract him, to keep him talking. “If you do this the Talde will—”

  “Shut up,” he said. Five feet. Four feet. Three feet away.

  She had never been frightened of dying. It had never scared her because she knew when she did, she’d join him. Waleron. But suddenly, when death faced her head-on, she wanted to live. It was the first time since Waleron died that she realized the truth in the statement.

  God, Waleron. I want to live. I don’t want to die like this.

  She lived with a flicker of belief that Waleron may be somewhere she could reach one day. It was a foolish notion, but that increment of hope refused to drown no matter how many cuts she put on her body.

  Delara reached behind her and tried the door again, but Tarek’s mind was still on it and she was unable to get pass his barriers. “Tarek, think of what you’re doing.”

  “You love a dead man. After everything I’ve put up with and still you think of him when I kiss you. You made a fool of me. A fool!” He grabbed for her.

  She dove to the right, sliding across the tiled floor on her stomach and managing to climb to her feet by the time he changed direction. She bit her lip so hard at the pain in her leg that she swore her teeth went right through the flesh.

  Kitchen. Knives. She had a chance with a knife in her hand. Waleron taught her how to fight with a knife and it had become her greatest asset. Tarek had known that and took her Talwar knives away months ago, but all she needed was something to deter him. To make him stop and think.

  His voice rang out as he shouted for his Scar. Oh god, she’d never have a chance with two of them. His Scar was his mirror image, and just as deadly. All she needed was to stab him once and his Scar wouldn’t be able to rise. Her Scar no longer lived, never to be called upon again after Tarek cut across the ink on the underside of her left foot. He had tied her down, ran a blade deep into the bottom of her arch and sliced. She hadn’t been able to walk on it for days. She never told anyone—she couldn’t and it wasn’t just from the fear of him killing her. It was bigger than that. Before he came to Toronto he lived in England as a solitary. He was a hit man with connections and it would put her Talde in jeopardy by telling anyone what he’d done.

  She peered over her shoulder as she ran for the kitchen. Tarek was almost in reach. Suddenly she went head first over the top of a chair that was thrown into her path. Telekinesis. Tarek was always better at it then she was. She used the chair to climb to her feet then pushed it out of her way. She turned to run and slammed into his Scar. Senses were all given their ink tattoos by the Goddess. When called upon to fight, Scars were lethal.

  The Scar wrapped his arms around her, pressing his chest hard against her breasts. He swung her around and shoved her towards Tarek. She fell to her knees, her head bowed, unkempt strands of hair covering her face and sticking to the blood on her cheeks.

  Tarek was on her before she could move—one hand in her hair and the other on her throat cutting off her air supply. She tried to inhale past the crushing fingers on her windpipe. She reached for his eye sockets, arms stretching past there limit, but he was out of range. Her feet kicked. Her body squirmed. Nothing would let up his hold.

  Tarek slammed her face into the marble coffee table, the action releasing his hold on her neck. She sucked in gulps of air before he smashed her head into the table again, this time shoving her hip bones into it. He did it again. Her abdomen hit the unforgiving edge and pain jolted through her insides.

  “I loved you damn it.” Tarek thrust his knee into her spine, then held her cheek into the cold marble. “You’re making me do this. This is your fault.”

  Her vision blurred as blood dripped into her eyes. She was disorientated from the blows. She heard Tarek’s heavy breathing and as a Tracker she could smell his out-of-control rage. It was as if a parasite was eating away at all his rational thoughts.

  She tried to raise her head, but he slammed it back down into the table and she failed to stop the cry tearing from her throat. Waleron. Oh god, I can’t win this fight. The crumpled piece of paper slipped from her grasp as her body went limp. Panic. No! Let me have this one piece of him.

  “The Talde has been laughing at me.” Tarek yanked on her hair, exposing her throat. His fingertips skimmed across the swollen, bruised flesh.

  He dropped her to the floor and she smoothed her palm over the tiles until she found the paper. She’d just closed her fist around it when he picked her body up with both hands as if she were a carcass. With one toss, he threw her into the wall.

  The drywall cracked under the impact and so did the bone in her right arm. Her body crumpled to the floor. Broken. Beaten. Too damaged to move.

  “Tarek,” she muffled as blood spurted from her mouth.

  A booted foot kicked her broken body over and over again. She was a rag doll, limp and half unconscious on the floor. I don’t want to die. Waleron, I don’t want to die like this.

  A fist careened towards her face and she heard bones snap and pain shot through her body. He held her left arm, twisting it until it broke under the pressure and her agonizing screams were lost to the ringing in her ears.

  Through swollen eyes, she saw him sneer. He grabbed her around the waist, raising her body into the air over his head. “If I can’t have you—no one will.” He sent her body flying through the air and crashing into the plasma TV. Shards of glass shattered and she lay unmoving on the ceramic tiles.

  I don’t want to die.

  Live.

  Fight.

  Her fingers curled around a piece of broken glass, the edges cutting her palm as she held onto it as tight as she could. She opened her eyes and saw Tarek leaning over her. One chance.

  Delara pushed upward, fighting against her broken arms, the glass shimmering as it came towards his legs. The sound that emerged from her throat was like a runaway train’s brakes screeching. But he saw it coming and laughed at her pathetic attempt, kicking it from her hand. She fell backward, the note clenched to her heart as his fist came at her, then…nothing.

  ****

  Delara woke on the cold, hard ground, her cheek resting in a shallow puddle of mud. Unable to move her head or open her eyes, she relied on the only sense she had left. She smelled an abundance of pine, along with bark and decomposing leaves soaking in wet soil. The woods. But the hint o
f rubber and oil meshed with gravel told her that she had to be near a road, although she had yet to hear a car. A deserted road along a wooded area. The closest place to their home was Vivian Forest.

  She lay limp, unable to move, cold seeping into her veins while she went in and out of consciousness. The sun rose. The sun set. Then rain and wind mixed with darkness again. Her body shivered until it exhausted itself and gave up, laying immune to the dropping temperature.

  Any movement was torture and more than likely her bones were already beginning to heal in the wrong places. Occasionally she heard a car, but it did little good as she must have been hidden from the view of the road since no one had seen her already.

  She prayed each time she fell unconscious that this time she wouldn’t wake. There was nothing left to hold onto, no will to live. Maybe it was better she died. Only then could she find home. Find Waleron.

  Her fist was still frozen closed. She refused to let go of the crumpled piece of paper, even in death. She lost consciousness again.

  Meeting

  London, England 1865 (122 years prior)

  Waleron felt a shiver shift across his body, and goosebumps surfaced on his skin. He tensed with surprise at the unexpected and rare sensations. His vision sharpened and the fine hairs on the back on his neck stood in anticipation of what he knew would change the path of his existence. He searched the crowd without moving his head, merely shifting his eyes, wondering what could raise his senses to such heights.

  Then, his breath ceased to exist.

  A young woman strolled up the grey stone pathway towards Jedrik and Damien. Her tanned face glistened in the sunlight highlighting her upturned nose and smooth, flawless skin. He narrowed his vision, focusing on her eyes that were the color of dark-roasted coffee beans. Wide and scintillating with delight, they danced from one person to another in greeting, appearing as if this were the most wonderful day in her life. Long cheekbones played up her angelic face that sung pure innocence while plush lips softened the severity of her features.

  She walked with a child-like skip in her step, but it was seductive as if she knew it swayed her hips perfectly, consequently catching the attention of several men she passed by. Head high and slim shoulders pulled back, she walked with confidence and...yes, purity, he decided. As if she was a filly set out to pasture for the first time.

  Magnificent, he thought.

  He pushed away from the wall intent on approaching her, took one step, then paused. What was he thinking? He never approached a woman, nor did he involve himself with female Senses.

  The woman stopped and scrunched up her button-like nose while scanning the crowd with her glittering coffee eyes. Her expression swiftly changed, losing the unique radiance, to perplexity. Her brows lowered and her lips pushed together in a tight line.

  Sweet. And definitely kissable despite the fact that she was a Senses and off limits. He would have to make an exception.

  He waited. Patient and silent until finally she sensed his direct notice over a hundred feet away and their eyes met. He swore she caressed his entire body with her luscious mouth with a single gaze.

  God, she was impressive. Perhaps from their birth land of Spain. Small in stature, maybe five foot three with toned muscles and burnt umber hair that was in an unkempt chignon. She wore beige breeches, which instantly gave him the impression that she was rather bold considering none of the other Senses women had come dressed in men’s attire.

  Her lips did the tiniest twitch in the outer corners and then her eyes blinked and he saw laughter in their depths. Struck by the pureness of her joy, her happiness leaked into his bloodstream and fed him warmth he had never experienced before.

  She leaned to her right, a stray strand of hair falling across her shoulder as she whispered something to Jedrik, who raised his head and looked around as if searching for something or someone. The woman pinched Jedrik’s arm and Waleron noticed the exaggerated wince Jedrik gave. She said something else then gave a formal nod to Damien. He failed to return her polite gesture, glaring at her with derision. Damien detested women, hence why Waleron’s Talde consisted of all men. A small allowance considering Damien was paramount at filtering out vamps from their hiding places. Their greatest vampire hunter.

  The woman took a step in his direction then another and another. His heart beat so fast that he swore it was going to leap out of his chest and begin running towards her. Waiting for her to walk across the courtyard and up the stone stairs to the house was the longest few minutes in his one-hundred-and-ninety-eight years of life.

  He had never encountered her before, but if she were too young to be in a Talde then he wouldn’t have. She appeared to be a close acquaintance of Jedrik, but the Scot had never mentioned a particular woman in conversation to him. Although, Waleron rarely spoke anything but business with any of the Senses.

  The subtle scent of peaches wafted into him as she drew closer and his mouth watered. Christ, she was alluring and he hadn’t even spoken to her. Yet he wanted to wrap her up in his arms and steal her away to the closest bedchamber and make love to her all night, then for the next century, or two.

  She stopped a foot away from him, hesitated for a brief second, then smiled. God that smile was contagious and he felt his own lips curve upwards in a rare grin.

  He bowed his head in greeting and she in turn did the same.

  They remained, staring at one another for several seconds before she finally broke the silence and laughed with a deep husky sound that made his loins react. He shifted uncomfortably. Christ, waiting to get her naked beneath him was going to drive him mad. He was uncertain as to her age, perhaps twenty, but by her bold approach and attire, he suspected she was anything but innocent. Or perhaps that was wishful thinking.

  “I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting your acquaintance, sir. May I inquire as to your name?” she asked. She licked her lower lip, not in a sultry, seductive way; no it was natural, as if she needed to moisten the surface from the summer heat. He would’ve gladly done it for her.

  He bowed his head again but didn’t offer his hand, certain that if he touched her he’d lose all self-control and have her beneath him in a flash. “Waleron,” he declared with an air of authority that came so naturally regardless of his intentions.

  The laughter left her eyes and was replaced with surprise then aloofness. He was accustomed to the reaction, many were apprehensive around him, but he had hoped that perhaps she would be unaffected by his name. She tried to hide her shock by lowering her gaze, long, black lashes shielding her eyes from view while shifting her feet.

  He didn’t know why he did it. It just happened. One second he was two feet away, the next he was inches, his finger under her chin and with the slightest pressure raising her head so he could capture her eyes once more. His skin burned with need, pulsating with an intensity he had never known existed despite the numerous women he took to his bed.

  “And your name?” He barely managed to form the words from his constricted throat.

  “Ah it’s Delara...Delara Wyndam.” She was flustered, the skin on her cheeks rising to a soft pink hue and her eyelashes flickering. Perhaps she was innocent. That did not bode well for him.

  “Well then Delara, it is an honor.” God, he needed to be with this woman. Keep her close and never let her go. There was something about her...something that drew him to her from the moment he laid eyes on her.

  Who was he kidding? He was a Taldeburu; contemplating lasting relations was unthinkable. Vamps used loved ones as lures to defeat the strongest all the time. Recently a vamp had taken John, one of their Trackers, and tortured him for months attempting to find the location of his maite Lillian, a remarkable and rare Healer. Damien and his Talde rescued him, but at a high cost. John, a now ravaged soul, was brought back to his wife Lillian who endured the images of his torture in order to heal him. They’d never be the same.

  She stepped from his light touch and he allowed it—for now. “The honor is mine. I had not
expected to meet our Taldeburu so personally or I would have dressed more appropriately.”

  If she had done that, he’d not have seen the luscious outlines of her thighs. “Now that would have been a shame.” He reached forward and picked a piece of grass from her hair wishing he could take the pins out of her untidy chignon one by one while she lay nestled in his arms.

  She raised her tapered erotic brows and a smile lit her eyes. “Ah, so our Taldeburu does have wit. I had heard otherwise.”

  “Indeed? Perhaps it is saved for only those that are…enchanting.”

  She smiled and cocked her hip while placing one hand on it. “Flattery too. Shall I remove my clothes right here or do you prefer a little more privacy?”

  It took him a second, he guessed it was the shock of her bold words, then a rumbling began in his chest and he laughed. Maitagarri. She was a beloved angel and utterly refreshing. He presumed her to be a Tracker with the way she had scented his intense sexual attraction from a distance. Interesting. The woman was audacious and yet had the look of sweet innocence.

  He decided to play along. It had been a long time since he had been so amused. “I do not share. Ever.” He gestured with his head to the courtyard below. “Those men would be eager to taste what you offer.”

  “Offer?” Her voice raised an octave with amusement. “Oh, but I was not offering. Merely stating the obvious.” She bit her lower lip as if in contemplation, and it was such an enthralling gesture that he felt himself lose control of his lower region once again. “A quick tryst is not my style.”

  “Who said anything about quick,” he replied. No, it would be days or perhaps weeks, he decided—picturing her lying beneath him, arms above her head locked in his grip, head thrashing from side to side with unbridled fervor.

  She laughed, the captivating sound causing his breath to catch in his throat. “Enticing. Yet I am rather old-fashioned despite my,” she gestured to her state of attire, “outward appearance. Courting is essential.”