Winter Kiss

by Deborah Cooke

  Ginger pointed out the window on the second-floor foyer. There was nothing visible beyond the glass but darkness and snow, but she knew what she’d see on a summer’s day. “They were married right out there, in Gran’s perennial flower garden, and everyone from miles around came to their wedding. Everyone danced and everyone had a good time, and everyone said that Elena was the prettiest bride they’d ever seen.”

  Delaney watched her, his eyes glinting, and Ginger heard her voice rise. “They moved into this very house.” She jabbed a finger in the direction of the back bedroom. “And they slept in that very room. Sean worked the farm alongside his parents, taking on more of the responsibility as his father became more frail. Elena cooked and cleaned alongside Sean’s mother, learning to make pickles and bread and all the thousands of bits of wisdom that Gran had to share. When Sean’s father had a heart attack shortly after the wedding, Sean ran the farm under his father’s supervision.”

  Ginger took a breath, knowing that the next part of her story was the toughest bit for her to share. “They didn’t have a lot. They worked hard and they slept well. But Gran always said this house was filled with love and respect, and that was the best part. And one day, after a number of years and a lot of disappointments, Elena became pregnant.”

  She looked up at Delaney, aware of his watchfulness, and tried to blink back her tears. “Everyone said she was rosy with her pregnancy, but they were being kind. She was sick every day. She had a hard time keeping much of anything down, and she lived in fear of losing another baby. Gran sent her to bed and cooked for her, going up and down these stairs a hundred times a day. Sean read to her at night, and though they all tried their best, there wasn’t a one of them who wasn’t surprised when Elena not only managed to hold on to that baby but went past her term. And when old Doc Stevenson delivered a healthy seven-pound baby girl that August, there was quite the celebration on the Sinclair farm.”

  Ginger swallowed and looked out the window, unable to hold Delaney’s gaze. “It was just over a year later, when that baby girl was weaned and Elena had recovered her strength, that Gran insisted the pair take a weekend for themselves. They went to Niagara Falls, joking that they’d make a brother or sister for little Ginger. They never came back.”

  Ginger took a shaking breath and pushed the tears from her eyes with impatience. “A truck lost a tire on the interstate, and that tire crossed the median and bounced right through their windshield. Their car went off the road and they were both killed instantly. It was night, they were driving late, and the state trooper thought they probably hadn’t even seen it coming. Gran thought they were trying to get home early. It was just bad luck.”

  Delaney was suspiciously silent, though Ginger could feel the weight of his gaze upon her. She didn’t want his sympathy or his compassion—she just wanted him to listen. “I respected my grandmother and I loved her with all my heart, but our life wasn’t easy and I certainly didn’t know the half of it. I decided a long, long time ago that I would never choose to have a child alone. It’s not easy for a child to face the world without both parents, without as much love and support as it’s possible for a child to have. You never know what Fate will toss at you, but you have to make choices that give you a better chance.”

  Delaney was still watching her, still silent and intent. “I won’t have your child alone,” Ginger said, just to make things completely clear to both of them. She took another deep breath. “Besides, I want what my parents had. I want that kind of love and commitment, for however long it lasts. I think that’s the kind of relationship that children should know and I think it’s the kind of relationship that is worth waiting for.”

  Delaney frowned and looked at the floor.

  “What about you? Don’t you think love is worth working for, or waiting for?”

  He shook his head, impatient with the concept. “Love is for other people.”

  “Love is for everybody.”

  “I don’t think so.” His conviction was clear and that was enough to persuade Ginger that the heat between them carried an empty promise.

  She’d have to make do without him, and without his child, somehow. She knew herself well enough to realize that she’d never manage to keep her own vow if he touched her again.

  “I want you to make me a promise,” Ginger said, and Delaney glanced up again. There was a suspicion in his eyes that tore at her heart, and she wondered what or who had taught him that love was not for him. “I want you to promise that you won’t make any choices for me that compromise what I want for my life.”

  He shook his head, his manner resolute. “I wouldn’t choose for you, Ginger. Last night, I made a mistake and I’m sorry.”

  “Promise.”

  He straightened and came to her, moving so quickly that she barely saw him take a step. He was simply in front of her, a mere hand span between them, his gaze blazing into her own. “I promise,” he said, his words resonating with conviction.

  He didn’t move closer, but simply left that increment of space between them. Ginger knew she could have touched him, that she could have reached out and claimed a kiss to seal their wager, but she didn’t dare.

  She was smarter than that.

  “You can sleep in the bedroom, then,” she said, keeping her tone resolute. “In the chair, but not in the bed. I’ll get you a couple of extra quilts.” She moved away from him, heading for the linen closet, but his softly uttered words halted her steps.

  “You trust me to keep my word?”

  Ginger pivoted to face him and squared her shoulders. She’d heard the uncertainty in his voice and knew that few people had trusted Delaney Shea. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe her trusting him could give their relationship a chance.

  Ginger was willing to try.

  Either way, she guessed that her trust was new to him, and another facet of his not trusting himself. She heard in his voice that it was important to him that she take him at his word.

  Maybe it was even key to making a real bond between them.

  “I do,” she said, noting only after she spoke that the words were similar to another vow couples made.

  Delaney was cold.

  Again.

  Self-recrimination would hardly keep him warm. He watched Ginger sleep and reviewed her story over and over again. He was ashamed that he’d thought even for a moment about simply sating the firestorm and not so much about the result.

  Not about the child.

  Not about Ginger.

  What was the difference between his father leaving his mother pregnant—twice—and disappearing, and what he had done to Ginger the night before? Ginger had gotten lucky, or birth control had worked. That was it. His behavior was perfectly consistent with that of his father.

  Selfish.

  Maybe he was the shard of his father’s talon.

  But Ginger knew what it was to grow up without parents and though she had known the love of her grandmother, her story—and the passion with which she shared it—made him want the same things for his own child.

  It made him believe things could be different for a Pyr child than they had been for him. It had been his brother, Donovan, who had given Delaney hope, who had been the only family he had known.

  Donovan, who had endured the same cruel awakening.

  Donovan, who now had a son and a mate of his own.

  Donovan, who now knew it wasn’t safe to trust Delaney.

  Delaney sat in the darkness and wondered about Donovan and Alex. He wondered at the possibilities.

  He reminded himself that no such possibilities existed for him.

  Meanwhile, the cold claimed his body, increment by increment. The chill seemed to emanate from his marrow, seize his muscles, and run like ice along his veins. Delaney was colder than he’d ever been and assumed that he had become too chilled in the sanctuary that morning.

  He adjusted his position repeatedly, trying to get comfortable, but no matter how he moved, the draft from the window was too ch
illy. No matter how much he tucked the quilt around him, he couldn’t get warm. He watched Ginger sleep, nestled beneath the faded quilts on her bed, her hair cascading over the pillow like spun gold. He resisted the temptation to join her there, avoided the seductive heat of the firestorm and the allure of Ginger herself, until the wee hours of the morning.

  Then the wind stirred, driving snow against the windowpane so that it tinkled. Delaney shivered at the sound and couldn’t stop. His skin was cold to the touch. His teeth were chattering so loudly that he was afraid of waking Ginger.

  And that was what drove him finally toward the bed. His intention had been to remain wrapped in his assigned quilt, not to slide beneath the covers with Ginger, but the notion didn’t survive the caress of the firestorm.

  The heat caressed his skin and he was drawn to it by a force greater than himself. A radiant glow lit between himself and Ginger, growing brighter with every step he took toward the bed. The light illuminated her features, stroked her cheek, made her look so delicate and feminine that Delaney’s heart clenched. He stood and stared, watching how the golden light slipped over the curve of her neck, the line of her jaw, the fragile curve of her collarbone, and he yearned to follow its course with his fingertips.

  He didn’t dare to touch her, but he needed to get warm.

  He peeled off his shirt and jeans, leaving them both folded on the straight chair. He deliberately kept on his T-shirt and Jockeys, knowing the cotton would be scant barrier against his desire. The clothing reminded him of his vow, though, reminded him that he could choose man over beast.

  He cast the quilt Ginger had given him over the bed, then eased beneath the whole pile of quilts. The heat enveloped him instantly, weakened his resolve, and drew him closer to the source of the firestorm.

  Ginger.

  He gritted his teeth and lay flat on his back beside her, telling himself that the heat he already felt was enough. He knew it was a lie. He thought of Ginger, her softness and her strength, her humor and her passion, and he wanted to reach for her.

  But he had promised.

  Against all expectation, she suddenly rolled over and nestled against him, fitting her curves against him without waking up.

  Delaney caught his breath at the surge of heat that raced through his body, banishing winter’s cold. When he realized she still slept undisturbed, he surrendered his fight. He pulled her closer, letting her bury her head against his shoulder.

  It was innocent to lie entangled like this. Harmless.

  Or maybe not.

  Ginger’s hair tickled his nose, teasing his senses with the scent of a floral shampoo. She was warm, so warm, and so soft. So giving. Her fearlessness stood in stark contrast to his own doubts and he wished, not for the first time, that things could have been different between them. The firestorm cast the room in gold, like a treasury filled with golden hoard, and Delaney’s mouth went dry.

  He was warm. He was home. He was at the heart of what had the power to make him happy and make his life worthwhile. She had already given him more than he deserved, but he wanted only more. He was momentarily overwhelmed by the power of his connection with Ginger, and let himself imagine that they did have a future. That they could have a future.

  Even though it could not be.

  Delaney held Ginger close, savoring the scent of her skin and the feel of her breath against his throat. He stared at the ceiling and understood fully what Magnus had stolen from him.

  He checked the resonance of his dragonsmoke ring. He listened to the steady breathing of Thorolf in the kitchen below. He heard Niall, keeping watch on the roof and murmuring to the wind. He listened harder and heard the girls stirring in the barn, their tails swishing. He felt the rhythm of the earth, the warm pulse of spring growth deep in the earth. He listened to the wind as it howled and whistled around the house, to the tinkling of the falling snow, and felt the depths of the drifts grow around the house.

  He sensed a Pyr moving closer and guessed that Sloane was returning. He couldn’t sense Slayer, but he knew better than to believe they had moved out of range. They were all wounded, though, and he imagined they were drinking of the Elixir and healing.

  This was a night in which Delaney could do the same.

  He conceded to his body’s demands and to the seductive warmth of Ginger’s bed. He slept, cocooned in what he thought was safety.

  The nightmare, which Delaney had thwarted several nights running, snatched his mind as soon he had been lulled into a deep sleep. He sensed its beginning, just as it always began, and fought to wake up.

  No luck.

  The shadow began to move across the earth, its inexorable path making him panic. He had to stop it. He had to ensure that this vision of the future never came to be. Delaney struggled against his own body to no avail.

  He shivered at the cold of the Elixir claiming the planet, feeling that same cold claim his own body once again. He tried to force his eyes open but was powerless in the nightmare’s grasp. The earth was eclipsed, cast in darkness, then the light revealed the horrific truth.

  Delaney saw the earth encased in silver ice, preserved and dead.

  He heard himself roar in fury. He felt himself fly furiously toward the earth. He found the Pyr, one at a time, each one snared in the element he knew best.

  Dead.

  Quinn was blackened by fire beside his cold forge, his body crumbling to ash at the merest touch.

  Donovan was frozen in a fighting posture, encased in the ice he could command as Warrior.

  Erik was flayed by air, his carcass reduced to bone and sinew.

  Niall had tumbled from a mountaintop, blown to the ends of the earth by the wind that had long been his ally. His body was bashed and broken, tossed into a deep crevasse where only Delaney could find it.

  Sloane was drowned in the water that had given him understanding, his body trapped beneath a layer of ice.

  Rafferty was enclosed in earth, suffocated and crushed, his strength no match for that of a furious Gaia.

  Delaney found them all, each in turn, and struggled to free their bodies from the clutch of the elements. Quinn’s body disintegrated to ash; Donovan’s body shattered into shards of ice; Erik’s body crumbled to nothing with Delaney’s every touch. Niall’s body broke into parts that could never be fused together again; Sloane dissolved when Delaney tried to break him free and Rafferty, Rafferty turned to dust that could not be distinguished from the earth that held him fast.

  In trying to help his fellows, Delaney destroyed all that remained of each and every one of them.

  He struggled against the nightmare’s vision, his horror at his own failure complete.

  Then he found Ginger, her body frozen under the ice at Brush Creek, near the entry to the sanctuary. There was no spark between them, no firestorm’s light to gild her features. Her eyes were wide and staring, blind to his arrival.

  He broke through the ice, using all of his might to free her from her wintry prison. He cast thick sheets of ice to one side and the other, desperate to save her.

  But when the ice was broken and the riverbed was exposed, there was no one there.

  Ginger was gone, as surely as if she had never been.

  “A spark extinguished,” a woman declared. Delaney knew that voice, knew it as well as he knew his own name.

  He spun in his dream, seeing the house where he had been born, not truly surprised to find his mother waiting there.

  “You could have changed the course of destiny,” she said, and Delaney hated that she was right. The words settled heavily around his heart, resonant with the truth they carried. “You had the chance to destroy the Elixir, but you were”—his mother sneered—“afraid to keep your promise.”

  Delaney tasted his own failure.

  “I had expected better of you,” she said softly.

  Delaney cried out and reached for his mother.

  His hands closed on empty air.

  He spun in panic, realizing his own solitude. She
was gone. The house was gone. The earth was dead, his friends were dead, and his mate was dead. He was alone, alone with only the knowledge of his own failure for companionship.

  He raged at his own inadequacies.

  He was infuriated by the injustice of it all.

  Delaney tipped back his head and shouted in fury.

  Chapter 15

  Rafferty dozed in Erik’s living room. He felt on edge, as if something changed and demanded his attention. He wasn’t certain whether he was simply struck by Chicago’s unfamiliar rhythms or whether there were greater issues afoot.

  Either way, he didn’t sleep.

  He lounged on one of the black couches set before the fireplace. Despite the fire and destruction of Erik’s loft, many things had been replaced and repaired to the same look. This wasn’t the couch where Sophie had lounged, her white blond hair in stark contrast to the black, but it was sufficiently similar to make Rafferty think of her.

  He missed her.

  He missed Nikolas.

  Rafferty turned the black and white glass ring on his hand absently and indulged his thoughts.

  He appreciated what Sophie and Nikolas had done and why, but he missed their presences. He missed Sophie’s unpredictability and her gentle beauty. He missed her wisdom. He missed the clarity of Nikolas’s vision and his conviction in his own choices.

  Rafferty often felt that there were too many choices of varying merit, and that no decision was black and white.

  So to speak. He glanced down at the ring and the way he was busily turning it, then rose to his feet.