Evernight

by Kristen Callihan

  Thorne, bare-chested and hair disheveled, stared at her. Regret and something much like pity lined his expression. In silence they faced each other, both of them panting lightly. Then Holly slapped him. Hard enough to send fiery pain through her hand. Hard enough that his head canted to the side and a sheet of white hair slid over his cheek.

  “Don’t you ever do that to me again.” Holly held her scarred wrist close against her chest.

  Thorne stayed utterly still, his head bent, his face averted and hidden beneath his hair. Then slowly he straightened. His eyes, a brilliant striation of black and silver lines, bore into hers. “No. Never again.”

  Heat prickled behind her lids and at the base of her nose. She drew in another breath. Calm. Center. Crisply, she nodded. The silence between them was close and thick. Awkward.

  Next to her, Thorne stirred, his throat working on a hard swallow. His torso, that glorious example of sinewy musculature, tightened as the ever-present evil lake of platinum spread in a rapid wave outward from his scar. But he didn’t make a sound of pain.

  Slowly, she reached out and placed her palm on his chest. Thorne sucked in a soft breath, but held still for her. As she concentrated on easing his pain, she spoke. “I’ve no desire to freeze my feet, so you’ll have to get it, but in the top drawer of my bureau in the dressing room, I keep a collection of hair ribbons.”

  She could feel his gaze upon her and see his surprise in the clenching of his rippled abdominal wall. She let her hand drop and lifted her eyes to his. Some strange emotion passed over his expression before he nodded and went to do as she asked.

  She did not watch him go, other than to note that Thorne wore a pair of flannel smalls that reached his knees and hung far too low on his hips, exposing the crack of a rather taut and very fine arse. Flushed, she studied the starburst pattern on her cover as the sounds of Thorne retrieving the ribbon drifted out from the other room.

  Soon the bed creaked under his weight as he slid back into it. The intimacy of it, as if he already belonged there, had her insides tightening. She ought to have chased him out. Why was it that she’d allowed him to stay?

  “Here.” His voice was soft as he held a long length of red satin ribbon out to her. Wordlessly, Holly took the ribbon and began to wrap it about her right wrist. She favored sleeping on her left side, so this would have to do. Just as silent, Thorne held out his strong wrist for her.

  She bound them together with a figure eight wrap, but when she tried to tie the final knot, her fingers fumbled, awkward with the use of only one hand.

  “Here,” Thorne said quietly, “let me.”

  Leaning in close, until their foreheads nearly touched and his hair curtained over their bound wrists, he held the blunt tip of one finger to the knot as she pulled the other end tight. Done, Holly slowly raised her head.

  Their gazes locked. Holly’s mouth went dry, the urge to lean in just a little further making her belly clench. It clenched tighter when Thorne threaded his fingers through hers and clasped her hand.

  “Why,” Thorne whispered, “is the ribbon acceptable?”

  She answered just as low, though she couldn’t say what prompted her to whisper. “It just is.”

  It wasn’t a chain. It didn’t clank, or weigh her down. But to voice that would give rise to an old panic. Perhaps he read that in her eyes, for he simply nodded as if it made perfect sense. Then he sighed, his chest lifting and falling with the sound. “Lie down. Sleep. I promise, I won’t hurt you. And I’m only here because I have to be.”

  Was that supposed to comfort her? Instead, it sent a pang of something through her breast. Something uncomfortable.

  But Holly did as bided, curling up on her side and letting her arm fall behind her so her link with Thorne wouldn’t pull tight. Not that it mattered. Thorne slid in close, spooning his body to hers and bringing their linked arms together before her. Nothing, not even the heaviest cover, felt as secure, as instantly warming as his hold. From the man who’d come here to kill her. Who nearly killed another this day.

  “Thorne—”

  “Do not waste your breath fussing,” he cut in blandly. “It’s the only way to lie comfortably.” He snuggled in further, bringing parts of him she’d rather not focus on into contact. “And I will keep you warm.”

  All true. Yet she lay in absolute stiffness. How could she not? She’d never in her life been held by a man in this manner. Never shared her bed with another. Every part of her that touched him narrowed down to an acute focus—of his chin resting just above her head; his soft, warm exhales that buffeted her hair; the movement of his chest against the blades of her shoulders; the hollow of his hips that so neatly cupped her bottom.

  Perversely, she fairly twitched with the urge to arch her back and seek out the bulge of his cock with the curve of her bottom. Her cheeks flamed. How perfectly horrid of her. And what would that accomplish? Other than make her look a fool, or give the impression that she was seeking something she didn’t truly want. Holly ground her teeth. “I’ll never sleep like this.”

  He made a noise that could either be construed as agreement or annoyance. Perhaps both. “You think I relish sleeping with a spitting cat of a woman?” His hand spread wide over her fist, closing over it. “But I’ll try my best.” And with that, he was silent.

  Oh, but it did not stop, the hot, itchy feeling that coursed through her. His forearm was an iron band about her waist, drawing her attention down to his hand, where the tips of his fingers just touched her belly. He did not move them, but with every breath she took, they dragged along her nightgown, tickling, making her lower belly ache sweetly.

  Holly forced herself not to yield to temptation and focused on other things. “Thorne?”

  “What now?” he rumbled.

  Ye gods, but his rough, sleepy voice did strange things to her insides. Holly swallowed. “The crawler that broke in. I believe I recognized him.” She hadn’t at first, but lying next to Thorne, a memory had broken free.

  She felt him tense and lift his head. “Who was it?” He was alert now. Sharply so.

  “I think it was a shifter Amaros brought in.” Holly frowned. “Darby, I believe he was called. They experimented on him.” She winced when Thorne shuddered as though he could not control it. “It was before I became involved. They put a gold heart in him, but Amaros had said he died.”

  “You’re sure it was Darby?”

  “Not one hundred percent,” Holly admitted. “He certainly wasn’t covered in gold at the time, but his eyes…” A fine tremor worked through her. “I remember his eyes.” Those eyes had been so very full of fear and outrage. Just as Thorne’s had been. She would never forget any of the victims. She would never forget a second she’d spent in that hellish prison.

  Thorne was silent for a moment. “How many others did that bastard experiment on?”

  “I don’t know. Even one is too many.”

  They grew silent once more, but the thought haunted her. As did the notion that there could be, at this moment, more than one maddened and murderous shadow crawler roaming London. Would they all come after her?

  “Darby left behind a dagger,” she blurted out. “An exact replica of the one tattooed upon your arm.”

  Thorne’s body grew so tight that it felt like steel against her back.

  “What does it mean?” she whispered.

  His voice was a dark night, surrounding her with its strength. “I do not know. But I mean to find out.”

  Chapter Eight

  I understand you are in need of me?” Thorne entered Holly’s laboratory the next morning as if put out for having to be there. His hair hung shining and clean about his face. Though Jack had sent round Thorne’s clothes, he was still in a state of dishevel, wearing only shirtsleeves, braces, and a pair of trousers. He took her in on a glance then noticed Felix standing next to her.

  “What is he doing here?” Thorne’s tone was peremptory.

  “Assisting.”

  The corner of
Thorne’s mouth pulled down. “With what, pray tell?”

  Holly braced a hand upon her desk. “I thought it best that I begin to truly uphold my end of the bargain.”

  He did not appear to be eased by this information but prowled further into the room, his gaze roaming about as if seeking any hidden menaces. “How do you plan to do this?”

  A crisis of nerves threatened to make her voice weak. Holly stayed firmly in place and took a breath. “Though I am nowhere near being an expert on biology, or the anatomy of demons for that matter, I shall try my best. I’ll need samples of your blood, skin, and hair.”

  Thorne stood stock still. “I am not going to be tied down.”

  “I am not asking you to do that.” She tried to give him a look of reassurance. “You may sit here on this stool. I’ll take the samples, and Felix shall label them. Does that sound reasonable?”

  With a sour face, Thorne sat. “Let’s get on with it, then.”

  He was silent and unmoving as Holly snipped his hair, but when she attempted to draw blood, she hesitated. He snorted at the action and simply punctured his inner elbow with his claw. Holly’s hand was steady as she pushed the tip of a lancet against the wound to draw the dark crimson rivulets of blood down into a small vial.

  “I sent a description of the dagger to SOS headquarters,” Holly told Thorne.

  His gaze lifted from the blood pooling at the bottom of the vial. “How? You did not leave the house.”

  “Through the use of my photophone transmitter.” Holly gestured towards the apparatus that faced the south window of her laboratory. Composed of a polished length of wood, with a speaking tube on one side and a series of mirrors on the other, it worked as an excellent means of communication on clear days.

  “It’s a complex process,” Holly explained. “But, to put it simply, both light and sound travel in waves. When you speak into the cone, the sound waves are directed to the mirror there at the end and then travel in the form of a light wave pattern. That pattern is caught on a receiver comprising a bigger, convex mirror, which vibrates upon being hit by the waves and reformes into sound—”

  Looking glazed, Thorne lifted a hand to halt her explanation. “Are you trying to tell me that you can communicate by means of controlling light waves?”

  “Well, yes.”

  A slow, almost wry smile curled over his lips. “Bloody hell, Evernight, but you do humble those of us with plebeian minds.”

  “It isn’t my invention,” she admitted, unaccountably flushed from the praise. “True, I’ve worked on perfecting the processes for farther distances, but the idea is American in origin.

  “Mr. Alexander Graham Bell claims to have invented it, though really it was created through a collaborative effort with Mr. Charles Sumner Tainter. In all honesty,” she said, “a great inventor needs a healthy amount of conceit. Mr. Bell and, fellow inventor, Mr. Edison would declare they’d created the moon and the tides between them if they could get away with the claim.”

  Thorne chuckled. “Have you met them? Seems you could teach those men a thing or two.”

  She bit back a smile. “Perhaps I could. But it is my business not to be noticed by Edison and his ilk.” The SOS lived in shadows, and she was content with that.

  “The world does not know what it is missing,” Thorne said softly, and more warmth flooded her.

  It was ridiculous the way his praise flustered her. Holly set down her lancet. “What I was trying to tell you was that I’ve heard back from the SOS research division. They cannot find any rendering of the dagger or record of assassins who might use it.”

  “They won’t.” Thorne’s mouth snapped shut, and he frowned. “Those who take up the dagger don’t leave behind a record.” He said it slowly, as if feeling his way around the answer.

  Holly glanced at Felix, who hovered at the periphery, and Thorne did as well. His lean body went stiff as stone. Holly gave Felix a small, almost imperceptible nod, and the man quietly quit the room.

  “Did that just come to you?” she asked when Felix was gone.

  Thorne’s long lashes swept upward as he looked at her. “Yes. Yet nothing more.” Frustration marred his smooth forehead.

  “Don’t force it. We’ll find the answers.” Holly wished she believed with the same conviction in which she spoke.

  “Meanwhile, I shall feel bloody useless, shall I?” Thorne groused.

  “I shall endeavor to appreciate you for your brawn then.”

  He made a noise of amusement, and they fell silent as Holly returned to her task.

  The flesh sample was the worst of it. Holly scraped along his skin to gather tiny particles, but the metal parts at his chest had to be gouged out. He claimed it did not pain him, but the sound of it, and the pressure she had to apply to the blade, had her breaking out into a sweat.

  When it was done, she ran her forearm along her brow. “There. I’ve brought down every reference book on the biological sciences our library holds, as well as a tome on demonology. There ought to be some answers in them.”

  “Is that it then, for me?” His gaze, when it met hers, was closed off. “Or do you intend to poke and prod me some more?”

  Rude arse. It made what she had to say all the more difficult. But as her health relied on keeping his as well, then she needed to do what was necessary. Holly took a deep breath. “As to what I can do for your health, I have a plan.”

  “ ‘Plan,’ ” Will repeated dubiously.

  He was in a foul mood. He’d been out of sorts since waking. Wrapped around Miss Evernight. Ordinarily, sanguis took great enjoyment in sharing a bed with others. After all, they craved physical contact and pleasure.

  None of which would describe last night’s fiasco. He’d come to Evernight’s bed because touching her eased him. And, if he were completely honest with himself, he simply wanted to be there. But he’d mucked it up by chaining her. Will had expected her ire; a part of him had looked forward to it. He’d not been prepared for the blind terror that took hold of her. And he’d felt… remorse. The rest of the night ought to have been spent in misery, tied as he was to an unwilling Miss Evernight.

  Hell, but he was downright rejuvenated after a night in Evernight’s bed. And he’d merely held her.

  Which was precisely the problem. Finding peace and contentment with Evernight—two emotions he was certain he’d never found in bed with a woman before—was entirely unacceptable. When awake, the woman was prickly as a hedgehog and about as lovable as a block of ice. Save she’d been warm and languid in sleep, leaning into his embrace as if she needed touch as much as he did. And her surprisingly plump and rounded arse had felt exquisitely perfect pushed up against his cock all night long.

  Thank the devil the woman was a sound sleeper or she’d surely have felt his reaction to her lovely bum.

  Will had quit the room before she’d had a chance to wake. Now, however, there was something about the tightness along Miss Evernight’s mouth that had his hackles rising.

  She was reluctant to voice this plan; that was clear. Although not as reluctant as she had been about touching him this past quarter hour. She’d all but quivered with disgust at that, looking at him as though he were a fiend fresh out of the pages of some shabby Gothic novel that humans loved to pen. Given his appearance when he’d returned to her home last night, he supposed he deserved as much. It still rankled.

  Instinct prompted him to capture her slim, cool hand. Instant relief. Every bloody time.

  She let him hold it for one breath, then delicately pulled away.

  “Our agreement was that you’d keep me well,” he reminded with a pointed look at her hand.

  Evernight smiled her slight, Mona Lisa smile. “Yes, as to that—”

  “Do not even try to back out—”

  “Calm yourself.” She lifted one cool brow at him. “What I was attempting to say is that I had an idea as to how we can make things more effective.”

  He eyed her warily. “Go on.”

 
She moved across the room, her drab gown making a whisper of sound. While the color was an uninspired charcoal grey, Will was enough of a connoisseur to see that it was made of the finest cashmere and fit her like a second skin. He ran a hand along the plush velvet settee that sat before the fireplace. Miss Evernight, he concluded, was a closet sensualist. Not in the visual sense but in the tactile. She surrounded herself with comfort.

  She cleared off a worktable with brisk efficiency. When she placed a thick eiderdown quilt upon the table, he could no longer hold his tongue. “More experiments, Miss Evernight?” He made his way to her, as if the very idea of experimentation did not turn his stomach.

  Her cool eyes held his. “Nothing invasive, I assure you, Mr. Thorne.”

  “Hmmm,” was all he could manage. He did not want to get on that table. If she tried to strap him down, he’d make the fuss she’d kicked up last night look like child’s play.

  “I’ll need you to disrobe.”

  Will halted, his ears ringing. “ ‘Disrobe.’ ” The word fell like a weight between them. Surely he’d misheard.

  “Yes.”

  Well, I’ll be a devil’s get. He reached for the strings of his trousers and tugged them as his heart began to chug away.

  Pink washed over her pale cheeks, and she studied the table instead of him. “I’ll step in the other room.” She took one step then stopped. “Down to your undergarments, please. Cover yourself with the rug there.” After pointing to the thick velvet throw folded at the end of the couch, she scurried off without another look.

  Will had no idea what she had planned but her discomfort was priceless, and he wanted more of it. He did as instructed, but took off his smalls as well. If she wanted him unclothed, she was getting the full treatment. His grin was wide as he stretched out on the sturdy table and covered his lower half with the throw—though it was tempting to leave that off too. He was far too warm to need it. But he’d behave. Up to a point.