Buried Passion

by Marianne Willis

  Damn Ian for putting her in this situation. For the first time she reflected over his unexpected betrayal. So much for his phony apology. Tears pricked her eyes. The tightness in her chest grew unbearable. He’d made it seem as if he cared. All of it had to have been a ploy to keep her guard down. And to think he even went so far as to respond to her kisses and touch on the sofa. Her? A repulsive leech, according to him. Must be some hefty reward those vampires promised. Her head tapped the flat wood as her eyes drooped, the mental and physical exhaustion sedated her mind and limbs.

  Clutched in the tight grasp of sleep, she awakened with a squeal as she fell back, shoulder whacking into hard cement. Rachel flattened her hands on the cool ground and stared at the figure who opened the basement door.

  Dressed in a winter coat and slacks, a small girl with ginger pigtails gaped from beneath a pink helmet. She looked about five or six, holding onto the pom-pom rails of her bicycle. The cluttered basement echoed her piercing scream.

  “Shh. Shh,” Rachel beseeched with her hands up in a benign manner. “I won’t hurt you.”

  The girl quietened as Rachel crawled across the room and settled in a dark corner, unconcerned with the cobwebs across her back.

  “Who are you?” The child clung to the rails of her pink push-bike. “Why are you in our basement?”

  The tremble in her petite chin not only gave away her fright, but the strong acridity in the air confirmed distress. Who knew anxiety held a scent? Rachel didn’t want to scare the child or have the girl rat her out. “I’m running away from bad guys.”

  Pigtails kept silent as though pondering Rachel’s words.

  “Please. Can you help me?” she asked in the softest, most unthreatening way possible.

  “Tara, what are you doing down there?” A muffled croaky voice sounded from behind the basement door.

  The girl ran up the stairs.

  Rachel dragged her knees to her chest and hunched her shoulders.

  The child opened the door a crack, enough for her to poke her head out. “I’m okay, Mawmaw,” she said in a loud, slow voice. “I fell.”

  Footsteps faded from outside the door. The young girl shut the hollow wood in its frame and turned to face her.

  Rachel breathed a sigh.

  The child descended the stairs, her small, round face stretched with a smile that revealed a missing front tooth. “I’m Tara.”

  Rachel sagged against the wall and returned the smile. “I had a friend named Tara. I’m Rachel.”

  “Cool. Are you still friends with Tara?”

  Rachel frowned. “I…don’t know.”

  An old sink sat in the corner. Cardboard boxes stacked a nearby table. Roller-skates, scooters, photo albums, magazines and a bunch of baby toys sat piled in the opposite corner. A television hummed through the floorboards above. She prayed whoever was upstairs remained put. Once sundown arrived, she’d head out on the run again. “How old are you, Tara?”

  “I’m six,” she said in a sweet melodious voice.

  “Do you live here with your parents?”

  “Only my Mom and Great Mawmaw. Mom’s at work and Mawmaw’s watching TV. She can’t hear as well as she used to and prefers the volume loud.”

  Children were so informative. With an absent mother and deaf great grandmother, chances of getting caught were low…she hoped. “Do you think you can keep a secret? I don’t want anybody to know I’m here.”

  The little girl bit her lip. “Because of the bad guys?”

  “Yes. They can’t find me. Can I trust you?”

  Tara’s small brows scrunched together, as though deep in reflection. A second later, she held out her pinky, and they locked fingers. “I swear your secret is safe.”

  Chapter 8

  Heavy paws sloshed into the moist yard, trampling over grass and white clover. Ian shook the dew from his gray coat and whined at the hollow ache in his chest. He’d overestimated his ability to find her. Stupid of him to believe he could locate her in the first hour of his search. By the time he scouted the entire graveyard, a whiff of her fading scent taunted him.

  Out there somewhere Rachel was scared and alone. The vampire had grown on him…even fascinated him. Added to that was his returned birthmark that opened so many possibilities and left him with a thousand questions. The main one; how the hell had his life become such a mess?

  If the sun hadn’t risen, he would have followed the subtle remnants of her trail, but couldn’t risk people seeing a humongous wolf trampling around. To scout in human form was out of the question. He would have been naked as the day he was born. Rachel floated in his mind. What if she was stuck in daylight? A lump clogged his throat. He should have taken the truck last night.

  After he met with Chayton as promised, he planned on returning to the location where her scent lingered. Near the steps, Ian changed forms. Loud popping of reshaping bones accompanied the stretch of limbs and receding fur. Naked, he stood, caught the towel his friend threw and wrapped the cloth around his waist.

  A frustrated sigh echoed off the back porch and matched his own foul mood. “You had no luck either.” Chayton slouched against the post. “I haven’t stepped inside yet. I hoped to have good news…” Head bowed, he pinched his nose.

  Two werewolves out all night, yet neither of them found her. What if Rachel was his mate? For hours the thought plagued him, encouraged him to continue his quest, but she couldn’t be his. Dream-sharing was common with his kind. Not once had he dreamt of Rachel. Then again, he hadn’t dreamt of anyone. Besides, he should sense the connection as natural as instinct. He doubted Rachel shared his mark.

  “I picked up on her scent in Knoxville, but it was faint. We have one advantage. While she hides during the day, we can continue to search. We’ll catch up to her in no time.” Even though Rachel wasn’t his mate, he still wanted her safe.

  “Let’s get inside. I’d better tell Amber.”

  The strong aroma of brewed Brazilian beans hit Ian as he entered the house. Chayton headed for the kitchen. Ian dashed into his bedroom and slipped into a gray long-sleeve shirt and black jeans. Rachel had run with the clothes on her back. She might be cold. The notion stung like an open wound.

  Ian entered the kitchen and sat at the dining table. Chayton stood by the refrigerator, Amber’s hands clasped in his own. She glanced over her mate’s shoulder and spotted Ian. Her gaze darted as though eager for someone else to appear. The light sucked out of her eyes when Chayton told her neither of them found her cousin. Chin trembling, Amber spun toward the stove. Chayton rubbed his face with both hands and took the seat across from him.

  With a despondent smile, she walked over and poured him a cup of coffee at the dining table. “Brianna calls every thirty minutes. They plan to return tonight.” She then sat beside her mate. “Tristan convinced Brianna to leave, otherwise she’d still be here.”

  Ian cupped the mug, the hot beverage warmed his chilled fingers. Tears brimmed in Amber’s bloodshot eyes, a pink hue colored the tip of her nose, and she’d licked her dry lips a third time now. The worry had to be eating her alive.

  Amber poured her mate more coffee. “When you both were out, Brianna and Tristan explained Pure and Impure vampires, but Rachel must be different. Pure vampires are those born of vampire parents, so that can be scratched off the list. My aunt and uncle were witches.”

  Ian jolted in his seat. He placed the cup down, the mug clicked against the wood. “Your aunt and uncle, are they…dead?”

  “Yes, they are. Who told you that?”

  “Last night, I drove Rachel to the cemetery to check if her parents were buried there. Not once did she mention they were witches.” Rachel Johnson…what a puzzle. Piece by agonising piece placed together, but he was no closer to the finished picture. The woman was a damn mystery.

  Amber beamed and leaned in. “That’s a good thing she’s remembering. Did she say anything else?”

  “I’m sorry, Amber, she didn’t.”

  She sighed, he
r smile wavering. “As I was saying, the creation of Impures hasn’t occurred for over a thousand years, that’s why more Pures than Impures exist today.”

  “What’s an Impure?”

  “Those who were once human, turned by blood rituals. They’re the first generation of vampires. Tristan said when a person becomes an Impure they fall into a dead-like state for months. Once they awaken changed, they might spend weeks with a strong urge for blood, extreme paranoia, and even hallucinations.”

  That sounded a lot like what Rachel underwent. The change had to have been responsible for her strange outbursts.

  Amber continued. “A blood ritual completed their transformation, but witches have known for centuries such implementations are forbidden…as instructed by the Primes.”

  “The Primes?”

  Amber arched a reddish-blonde brow. “The original witches, the most powerful of our ranks, and the only immortal family of witches. Every law we obey is appointed by them.”

  Witches weren’t perfect at keeping their law. Amber broke a sacred law when she created a death spell to kill Tristan a few months ago. From what Chayton told him, Brianna wanted Tristan to pay for killing her sister, so she had Amber concoct a poisonous lipstick. The kiss of death failed. Ian had beamed at the idea of a bloodsucker almost dying.

  Crazy, how the story from months ago related to Rachel. She was the dead sister that motivated Brianna to seek revenge, that prompted Amber to keep Chayton captive when Brianna went missing. How on earth had she survived in the coffin for so long? “So, did someone perform a blood ritual on Rachel after her murder?”

  “I don’t know.” Amber’s frown eased as she bit into her lip. “I wonder if this has anything to do with the bottled vampire blood I found in Rachel’s old room. Who knows how long she’d been on the stuff.”

  Ian sipped his beverage as her words sank in. The hot liquid rushed down his throat before he could spit it out. “What?” he croaked past the burn in his esophagus, “she drank vampire blood?”

  Amber tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Rachel had a drinking problem, and vampire blood is an alcoholic’s dream come true.”

  “Another thing I didn’t realize about vampires. Same with sunlight. I always assumed they burned in the sun.”

  “Pures do, not enough to kill them, but it does blister their skin.”

  “And Impures?”

  “Other than expose their true age, sunlight doesn’t harm them.”

  An acrid aftertaste filled his mouth. He flattened his hands over the oak wood.

  Amber leaned close, brows puckered with worry. “What’s wrong?”

  “Sunlight never harmed Rachel, but she was frightened. I’d never seen so much fear radiate off someone. Why do you think that is?”

  Her brows drew together. “I’m not sure, but I’m eager to find out. Tristan is anxious to speak with the leader, Lord Sylvestre. Even to the vampires, her transformation is unheard of.”

  “I’m going to look for her.” With her rainstorm scent still in his house, the fragrance burned into his consciousness. If he recognised it somewhere out there, he’d find her in no time.

  Amber grabbed her purse from the table. “Chay and I can drive around, too. Don’t go in wolf form this time. I want to be able to contact you, and for you to do the same with us.”

  “Sure, I can do that. There is a set of spare house keys on the holder in the kitchen. Take them, in case you return before I do.” He paused at the sight of the sofa as he made for the front door. Remembered heat stirred in his body. Rachel’s lusty hazel eyes, her slim arms around his neck, soft mouth parting to seal over his own. So wanton. He’d desired to sink inside her and forget everything. Thinking this way about a vampire seemed perverted, but she aroused him like no other. Keys clutched in one hand, he jogged to his truck. In spite of the intense emotions she conjured inside him, she would never be his.

  ****

  Rachel bit back a yawn as she stared at the small block letters on the Scrabble board. Amazing how children today were board-game savvy. Weren’t computers and tablets their toys? Tara was well into this round, determined not to lose for the fourth time. Her little mouth scrunched as she released a soft ‘hmm’ and focused on the letters. Poor kid tried her best to keep Rachel entertained. It was cute. But Rachel would prefer a few hours rest before going on the run again.

  “Tara, this is fun and all, but do you think you can get me soap and towels? I’d love to freshen up.”

  Tara blinked and placed the scrabble letter on the ground. “Sure. I can also see what mom has in her closet.”

  New clothing. Praise God. She’d happily burn the polo she’d worn for the last twenty-four hours. “Perfect. Thanks.”

  The child ran upstairs, her pig-tail head bobbed from side to side. Too bad a shower stall wasn’t available. Rachel traipsed around the room and sighed at the hand basin. “This will have to do.”

  Were Ian and the others on the lookout for her? She’d bet her fangs on it. To think she let the werewolf touch her…touched him in return. Even now, the fierce brush of his lips against her own still shot tingles down her spine. Ian should make her sick. He betrayed her. Instead, her body infused with pleasure at the memory of his gentle fingers along her spine, brushing her cheek, caressing her sex.

  A door slammed shut. She spun around. Tara returned, arms raised high, holding a stack of three bath towels topped with a bar of soap. Rachel rushed forward to help her with the load. “This is great. Thanks so much.”

  The little girl skipped to the spot she occupied a few minutes ago. Back to hemming and hawing as though the game had never been interrupted.

  Rachel cleared her throat. “Do you think you can come back in ten minutes with the clothes?”

  Tara glanced at the game, then back at her.

  “Once I’m done, we can finish the game.”

  With a grin, the girl dashed upstairs. Rachel hoped she could count ten minutes.

  Rachel stripped down and turned the taps at the sink. Unwrapping the soap, she lathered herself from head to toe, loving the jasmine fragrance. Although, she tried hard not to spill water along the floor, the small area around the sink became drenched. Two towels soaked up the mess. She dabbed herself dry with the last one before tucking it under her arms. Movement from the basement door caught her attention. Tara groaned from the top of the stairs, and struggled to drag a cardboard box.

  “Careful.” Rachel climbed the steps and once again helped the child. “What is this?” She gathered the box and inspected the array of colors peeking out.

  “My mom doesn’t wear these anymore.”

  ‘Maternity’ marked the side of the box with a black marker. “Great,” Rachel whispered. Inside lay folded pregnancy jeans and nursing dresses. Shaky laughter filled the space. How the hell could she wear any of these items without them falling to her ankles, or looking as if she donned a parachute? So much for burning the polo.

  Beneath the last pair of stretch pants, sat a pair of black tights and a lace top. The tags made no mention of maternal wear. These items had to have ended up in the wrong box. Or maybe the chic outfit was a sad reminder of Tara’s mother’s once carefree single life? Either way, it turned out in Rachel’s favor. She released a soft whistle as she held up the sexy plunge-neck top crafted of navy lace. Just my style.

  Rachel bit her lip. Did she remember her own personal flair in clothing?

  Tara observed her, head tilted, a small giggle left her lips. “What was that for?”

  “Nothing.” She cleared her throat. “This should do me fine. Do you think it’s too much trouble if you find me a pair of shoes?”

  When Tara left again, Rachel slipped into the faux leggings. The black material appeared painted on, accentuating lithe hips and firm dips of muscle beneath her buttocks. “Talk about a second skin.”

  She snaked her arms into the long sleeves. The fitted blouse had a beige under-layer which made it appear as if she wore sheer lace. A bit dr
essy for an escapee outfit, but what the hell, she looked good, might as well run with it. Finger-combing her knotty hair, the locks fell over her shoulders in tangled waves. A list of things ran through her mind. First, she had to leave here and find blood. Blood bags were less complicated than from a living source. It also helped with the guilt. With any luck, a hospital was nearby.

  Second, she had to keep an eye out for the enemy. Those bastards could be anywhere. And third, she needed a way to contact her family. Perhaps Tara’s mother had a laptop upstairs. If Rachel could do a search on her family name, maybe information about her sister might come up. Since her family were witches, they might be able to stop Ian and her killer. But that could also mean hurting them.

  Ian…harmed? She blinked back the threat of tears and stared at the ceiling. No. Who cared what happened to him. After all, he didn’t think twice about handing her over to the enemy. If only she hadn’t fallen for his deceptive ways. He’d been so persuasive. How could he pretend to show her kindness and seem so genuine?

  “What do you think of these?” Tara shouted from the top of the stairs with a pair of stilettos.

  “I might need something more comfortable.”

  Tara’s young bright eyes widened. She gasped, smiled, and slammed the door. Minutes later, she returned with a pair of black ankle boots that had a small wedge heel and worn sneakers. Rachel tried both on. The ankle boots were just as comfortable as the sport shoes…and they looked better. “I’ll stick with these.”

  A sure burn engulfed her throat, followed by an insistent stomach grumble. Rachel froze on the spot. No, no, no. She hoped she’d have lasted at least until nightfall.

  Tara’s chuckle broke Rachel out of immobilisation. “You must be hungry.”

  Trembles attacked Rachel. She backed into a corner. Forget the hunger. Think of something else, anything else.

  Tara’s sweet voice sounded in the background. “Did you hear me?”