by Beverly Rae
Suspicion in his voice echoed the worry I’d seen in his eyes. “Oh. O-kaay.”
The questions I didn’t want to ask him kept pounding in my head, giving me one helluva headache. Blake had lied. Not simply by omission and not by mistake. He’d lied by choice. I had to wonder…what else had he lied about?
Granted, I’ve done my fair share of lying to my husband, but only to honor my commitment to the Society and to protect my fellow Protectors. I lied about business, but never about anything personal. “Do you love me, Blake?” The words were out of my mouth before they’d ever made it to my brain.
“Of course I do.” Blake pushed off the couch and kneeled at my feet. Putting his arms on either side of my legs, he leaned closer to my face. “Don’t you know how much I love you?”
“I thought I did.” Before Michael. Before Blondelina. Before you’d lied.
His eyes were solid black and capturing mine without any resistance from me. “I love you more than anything or anyone else. I’d fight for you until my last breath.”
One truth about me is that I’m a good judge of character. I can tell when strangers lie to me. I can also tell when someone I love is telling me the truth. Or at least I thought could. Yet even with my recent failures to recognize Blake’s earlier lies, I knew, without a doubt in my heart, Blake was telling me the truth. He loved me, plain and simple. Okay, maybe not so plain or simple, but true enough.
I sat up and hugged him to me. Forget Michael. Forget Blondelina. Forget the lies. I knew what I knew. And I knew Blake Barrington loved me. As for all the rest, he’d tell me when he was ready. I had no doubt he’d have a reasonable answer for my questions when the time was right. Until then, I’d have to trust him.
A few minutes later, however, I realized the seeds of doubt had been planted and had started to grow. With our fast and wonderfully wild courtship and marriage, how much did I really know about the man I loved? Answer? Not much. Yes, Blake Barrington loved me. But who was the real Blake Barrington?
I’m not a computer person. Don’t get me wrong. I like gadgets like Partner, digital cameras, video phones, iPods, and even some kickass video games. The more bells and whistles, the better I liked it. However, I hate sitting at a computer to do research. Usually, I get on the computer to check email, balance my checkbook, and nothing more. But I needed information and I didn’t want Partner sticking his gossipy cyber-nose into my personal business.
I waited until Blake announced he was off to bed, then stayed up claiming I wanted to research the housing market for a new client coming in from out of town. We kissed goodnight and I soon heard his snores coming from upstairs. For once, I was glad Blake snored like a polar bear with sleep apnea.
I’d done research on other people before and I knew which websites to access. Surfing through the Web for information about Blake Barrington, I kept pulling up the facts I already knew about my husband. Facts I’d already obtained during the first week we’d met.
Yup, the Internet is a wonderful invention. I’d already Googled him back then. Hey, I believe in love at first sight and falling in love in light-warped speed, but I’m not stupid. Not then and not now. Besides, what red-blooded American girl doesn’t Google her dates?
However, I did notice one thing different this time. No matter how hard I looked, the Web had no information on Blake Barrington before September, 2000. No business entries, no news items, and no birth certificate. From everything I could find—or more accurately what I could not find—Blake Barrington didn’t have a life before the new millennium.
Trying to ignore the butterflies-turned-bats in my stomach, I tried something I hadn’t tried the first time I’d scoped him out. I plugged in his name and requested the search to include sound-alike names. The computer went through its search mode, rummaging through the data out in Cyberland. I waited, telling myself everything would be all right, and hoping what I dreaded might happen, wouldn’t happen.
Demons often rose from the bowls of Hell to walk the earth by means of possessing the body of a mortal already born, bred and living on the planet. They could even repair the body if tissues, lost limbs, or other injuries had disfigured it. Yet instead of taking over the person’s life, the newly entrenched demon would take their new body on the lam, away from family and friends who might notice a difference in his personality and, especially, in his actions.
Much like their mortal counterparts who decide to make a new life in a new place, the demon-possessed human creates his own version of the Witness Protection Plan. Often, he fakes his death—usually in some gruesome way that doesn’t leave any remains to positively identify—and fabricates a whole new identity. In essence, he makes a new life for an old body. Strange thing, however, is how the demon usually chooses a name very similar to his victim’s name. It was almost as if some of the victim still resides inside the body and wants to retain at least a thread of familiarity with his old life.
All at once the streaming information across the page halted and listed ten sound-alike names. I ran through them, finding none of them familiar, and decided to start at the top. Somehow, I had the terrible feeling I was headed toward the bottom with both my list and my life.
“Blake Blair.” I clicked on the first name and the ever-helpful computer presented Blake’s information. “Shoot. No photo.” I kept scanning and, after the first few lines, I knew Blake Blair wasn’t the man I was looking for. “Born 1973 and still living. No demon possession here.” One down, nine to go.
The next three men were easily discounted. Each one of them had maintained a continuous presence in their birth body. No trespassers were indicated.
“You’d think I’d breathe a little easier since I haven’t found anything demonic. Maybe Blake’s earlier life information hadn’t gotten plugged into the universal database,” I mumbled to myself, knowing what I’d said wasn’t likely. The more men I rejected, the closer I came to finding out the horrible truth my gut knew lurked right over the next superhighway hill. I continued my search.
My gut is usually right. But for once, I wasn’t happy it was. Holding my breath, I clicked on the next-to-last name and let out an agonized groan. Smiling at me from the monitor was a picture of my husband. Yet the name under the photo wasn’t Blake Barrington, but Drake Barrinson. To add to my growing horror, I noted the year of Drake’s death—the year 2000.
A Rose by Any Other Name is Still a Rose—And a Skunk Is Still a Skunk.
I stared at the man leaning against the hood of a red convertible and fought to keep my tears in check. After examining the picture for several minutes and trying to conjure up any logical reason my husband would be in the newspaper—could this man be Blake’s long-lost twin?—I let my gaze lower to the headline beneath the photograph.
Local Businessman, Drake Barrinson, Lost at Sea.
Drake Barrinson was Blake Barrington. Yet did it mean Blake was a demon? Reaching for any hope I could find, I suddenly remembered Bob Morton. I’d been completely wrong about Bob and maybe, with any luck, I was wrong about Blake. Please, God, let me be wrong about Blake.
A few years ago, I ran into a mild-mannered Pillsbury Doughboy who I thought was a demon. Like with Blake, I’d scoured the Web and found Bill Marton—deceased—who looked an awful like Bob Morton. The way I figured it, Bob Morton hadn’t existed until after Bill Marton’s death. But I’d gotten almost every other conclusion wrong.
I’d found out Bob was indeed Bill, but not until I’d nearly beheaded the terrified man. More investigation revealed the whole truth. Bill Marton, wanting to escape a loveless marriage and an IRS investigation, had faked his death and reinvented himself. Presto-chango and a few falsified documents later, enter Bob Morton. Thankfully, I’d found this out before I’d lopped off his head with a chain saw. Yeah, I’d learned my lesson and also realized I could never watch the Saw horror movies again.
“Maybe Blake changed his name the old-fashioned way, legally with an attorney.” Could I let myself hope? I studied the
face of Drake Barrinson one last time and knew I stared at the face of my husband. Even if Blake was able to explain the name change and the new history, would I ever trust him again?
“Dammit all. My life just keeps getting suckier.”
It’s a good thing I don’t need much sleep because I sure didn’t get any. Hours later, I cleared the history log on my computer, shut down the computer and made my way to bed. Unfortunately, a thing like seeing my husband’s photo with a different man’s name—a deceased man’s name—has a tendency to give me insomnia.
Lying awake next to Blake gave me time to think. Time to find other excuses and time to go into deep denial. Still, I have to plead my case. How many newly married women wouldn’t have done the same? By the time the alarm clocked buzzed, I’d thought up a whole list of reasons why Drake was Blake.
“Morning, possum-pussy.”
“Yuck. Not a pretty image.” The man I loved with every ounce of my soul placed his hand on my hip and snuggled closer. I sighed and twisted onto my side. “Morning, sugar-booger.”
Since our first morning waking up together, we’d had this ritual of greeting each other with slightly ridiculous and often unflattering endearments. Nothing put a smile on our faces like being called a silly name. Blake, however, had made me promise never to repeat them to any other living male. Perhaps I should have asked him about any non-living male? I shoved the thought aside, renewed my determination to get to the truth this morning, and ran my hand over his cheek.
Blake copied my loving gesture. “You look like a woman who didn’t sleep well. What’s up, poopy lips? Bad dreams?”
A hazard of living the life of a Protector often meant nightmares, but they rarely kept me from getting my solid eight hours. “No. Just restless, I guess.” I smiled at Blake and ran through my plan once more.
Somewhere around three in the morning, I’d come up with a scheme to get Blake to confess his deception. Not about being a demon—which, of course, he wasn’t—but about his fleeing from a past he couldn’t handle. Worst case scenario? He was a violent felon fleeing the law. Best case scenario? He was a polygamist who’d wanted to dump his frumpy, fat first wife and hook up with a sexy young lover. (Which, by the way, was me.)
“Blakie-Poo?”
Blake touched the end of my nose with his fingertip. “Yeah, stinky-stew?”
“Stinky-stew?” I made a face of disgust.
“Hey, it’s early. Give a guy a break.”
The twinkle in his gray eyes lit a fire in my belly. “I had time to think last night.”
“Yeah? What were you thinking about?” He batted his eyes at me in perfect coquettish fashion. “Moi?”
Sometimes the man was such a ham, but I had to love him for it. “Uh, yeah, oh, self-centered one. Both me and you. And a will. You know. The thing that starts out with ‘Being of sound mind and body’?”
The twinkle vanished, replaced by a scowl. “You’re kidding. A will? Why are you spending time thinking about a will?” The scowl, however, was quickly replaced by a worried frown. “Is something wrong? Are you okay?”
Of one thing I was sure. This man loved me. The warmth of knowing real love washed through me. “I’m fine. You don’t have to get sick to have a will. In fact, having one before something bad happens is a good thing. You’re an investment analyst, for Pete’s sake. I would’ve thought you’d have recommended one to your clients.”
“Nope. I leave the money-after-death side to the lawyers and insurance agents. You know, the bloodsuckers.”
Bloodsuckers? Oh, Blake, don’t go there.
Blake pushed up to lean over me and plaster kisses on my neck. Tugging my ragged T-shirt over my head—I’m not the teddy kind of girl—he continued kissing his way down to my breasts. “Trust me. Nothing bad’s going to happen.”
I might have agreed with him except for the small fact that Protectors have a much higher mortality rate than either real estate agents or investment analysts. “Blake, anything can happen. I could die in a car wreck this morning or you could drown in a boating accident. Shitty shit happens.”
He stopped tweaking my ever-ready nipples to raise his head and search my face. “Me drown? Thanks a lot.”
“Stranger things have happened.” And I definitely knew about strange happenings. “Don’t you want to be prepared?”
Blake ignored my question and rolled over, pulling me on top of him. In one swift motion, he had my sleep shorts off me. “Jenn, can’t we stop all the gloom and doom talk and have some fun?”
I tried to keep my mind on getting him to confess his secret past, but his teeth nibbling on my tits made it a superhuman feat. True, I’m a determined woman, which is almost like having super powers, but I’m also a true patriot and Blake’s flag was flying sky high. I tugged his boxers off him and decided to salute the flag. Nothing says a girl can’t have a little fun and keep searching for answers, right?
“Sure. But why can’t you tell me about your life? For a wife, I know very little about you. For instance, what were you like as a boy? Where did you go to college? Have you been married before?” Or are you still married? “For all I know, you could have a criminal past, faked your own death, and gone on the run from the law.”
“Wow, woman, you do have an imagination. A felon on the run, huh? Not bad.” Blake lifted my hips, positioning me over his shaft. He rubbed against me and turned up the fire inside me. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I’ve led a pretty boring life. I had the typical childhood, the typical college experience, the typical six previous marriages.”
Trying to listen while he stroked me was a skill all its own. “I’d still like to hear about—hey, six marriages?”
His hands fondled my breasts and I decided I couldn’t wait any longer. Lifting my bottom up, I grabbed his shaft and slid it into me. We moaned in unison and he pulled me down to take a nipple into his mouth. I promptly forgot about the six marriages joke—I hope!—and concentrated on fulfilling the need in each of us.
Sex before meeting Blake was just sex. But sex with Blake? Now that was mind-blowing, earth-shattering, life-changing, amazing sex.
We rocked together, his hot mouth devouring my breasts as I clenched and unclenched, pulling him deeper inside me. His hands, first on my breasts and then on my ass, molded my body to him, making me his with every touch. His words of love poured over me, almost tangible in their strength.
“Jenn.”
My name never sounded so sweet. With Blake loving me, I was more than I could ever be alone. I wanted to give him as much as he’d given me in the sound of my own name. “Blake.”
With the morning sun filtered through the blinds, we renewed our devotion, our trust, and our love.
***
Most people love weekends. Saturday and Sunday gave them two whole days to play sports, make love any time of the day, or catch up on doing nothing at all. I hated weekends. Weekends meant open houses, last-minute calls to show a home, and catching up on the endless paperwork I’d neglected throughout the week.
Yet no matter how much my job as a realtor interfered with my free time, I always managed to carve out downtime with Blake. Except today. Today I needed all the extra time I could find to meet with one of my Otherworld informants.
Pulling on my power suit for the open house I had to man this morning, I struggled with my own special demons. Granted, informants were valuable in helping a Protector with information about the evil activities happening around town, yet a part of me would never get used to dealing with these scumbags. How much could I trust them? After all, if they’d sell out their own kind for money or favors, how much faster would they sell out a Protector?
But I’d run out of options in locating Michael and his cohorts. Even Partner couldn’t find him, which meant Michael had gone undercover into the gritty, dirty Otherworld. I was desperate and knew I’d run out of time. I had to find the Bracelet before the High Demon found it first. My questions about Blake would have to wait.
The
open house went smoothly without too many lookie-loos taking up my attention or zombie housewives attacking me. By the time my afternoon replacement arrived, I’d managed to wrap up my paperwork and text-message a love note to Blake. I tossed the house keys to the second shift, and was off and running toward the rendezvous location.
“A gargoyle? Damn, darlin’, how do you stand it? Those things smell worse than a stall with a foot of manure.”
I popped Partner into my pocket—an action fast becoming a habit—and scoured the perimeter of the picture-perfect neighborhood park for any sign of my informant. “I gotta do what I gotta do in this job. No thanks to you.”
“Can I help it if I can’t find your brother-in-law? I don’t know why you don’t force Blake to tell you where he is.”
I headed toward the grassy center, skirting the taller bushes to avoid a possible ambush. Hungry, vicious gnomes loved hiding in bushes, waiting to attack the unsuspecting park jogger. In fact, over half the dog bites joggers reported to the police were actually bites from a faster-than-the-eye gnome. Strangely, no one ever noticed the difference in the teeth marks.
“Oh, sure. I’m going to make Blake tell me where his ghoul brother is. Can you imagine the conversation? ‘Blake, honey, I need to find your brother. Why? Oh, no biggie. He might have the world’s most powerful weapon in his hands and I’ve been ordered to recover the weapon at any cost. Oh, and if it means exterminating your brother and his friends, then sor-ry. By the way, what would you like for dinner, honey?’”
I smiled at an elderly couple as they walked past me. Without letting on, I kicked a gnome away from their heels. Those irritating things were always underfoot. “‘Oh, and by the way, Blake, did I forget to mention? Michael’s a ghoul and I’m a member of a secret society sworn to protect mortals from evil supernatural creatures like demons and flesh-eating mummies.’ Yeah, he’ll definitely out his brother then.”
“Darlin’, there’s no reason to get your tail in a bunch of knots.”
