by Anne Hope
“While I was in Portland working on tracking Regan and Marcus I heard about the fire. It sounded suspicious, so I decided to check it out. When I got there, I hit the jackpot. The place reeked of Marcus and Regan’s signatures.” Satisfaction contorted his features. “And theirs.” He pointed an accusing finger at Lia and Jace.
Lia’s features stiffened, but Jace’s expression remained blank. He glared at Thomas, shrugged. “It’s no secret we were in Portland earlier today. Lia used to work at the hospital, and she wanted to drop by and see the place. Last time I checked, that wasn’t a crime.”
Cal struggled to read Jace unsuccessfully. The man had one hell of a poker face. “Did you notice anything suspicious while you were there?”
Jace shook his head. “We weren’t there all that long. The building was still standing when we left.”
Cal turned an assessing stare Lia’s way. “How about you?” he asked. “Is there anything you think I should know?”
Her gaze flitted to Jace, who gave her a reassuring nod. “No,” she replied. “It’s like Jace said. I just wanted to see my old workplace.”
“They’re lying,” Thomas accused, the self-importance and indignation of youth straining his voice. “Their energy was everywhere.” That was the beauty of the Watchers’ bond. Cal’s cloaks protected his recruits from their enemies, while the special connection they shared allowed them to sense and track each other.
“Prove it.” The chair screeched as Jace shot to his feet, fists clenched at his sides.
Thomas followed suit, standing to accept Jace’s challenge, his shoulders taut with tension. “Why are you defending them? They’re traitors.”
“Enough.” Cal silenced them with a raise of his hand. The last thing he needed was for a brawl to break out in his conference room. “Thomas, you said you may know where Regan and Marcus went.”
“I was able to track their energy patterns,” Thomas told him with a hint of pride. “My instincts led me north, all the way to the Washington border. I lost them a few miles from Spokane.”
Cal’s insides suddenly hummed with excitement as the truth dawned on him. Of course, why hadn’t he realized it sooner? There was only one person Marcus could turn to for help, one person reckless enough to harbor Rogues.
He sighed, shook his head in self-reproach. “Thank you, Thomas. That will be all for now.”
That night, for the first time in two hundred and seventy years, Marcus dreamed. The images were dull and faded, like a black-and-white photograph that had yellowed with time. He stood at the back of a crowd, fighting his way through a swarm of rowdy onlookers, driven by a frantic sense of urgency. He didn’t know why his heart beat with brutal force, didn’t understand the violent pain that shredded his insides with the efficiency of a freshly sharpened cleaver. He knew only that he had to get to the front of the mob, had to stop whatever was making the masses cheer with insane glee.
An overcast sky stretched above him, a fine mist carpeted the ground, and the air glistened with the promise of rain. Ahead of him, at the heart of a marketplace still under construction, a horde of bodies gyrated with excitement, boxing him in. They suffocated him, wicked anticipation rising from their combined flesh to taint the breeze. Anger bubbling in his veins, he shoved his way through, not caring when he sent a screeching old hag crashing into the damp grass.
He hated them. Hated every last one of them. They’d taken everything from him, were about to destroy the only thing in his life worth living for. He couldn’t let that happen. He would stop them, or he would die trying.
Sunlight cut a swath through the clouds, and a slash of burning light fell to divide the crowd. It was only an illusion. The bodies still formed a seemingly impenetrable barrier before him, but the bright ray was like a beacon, beckoning him forward. Somewhere beyond the rowdy throng, he recognized the unmistakable whoosh of the ocean.
He finally made it to the front, pushed the last spectator aside and broke free from the hysterical crowd. His gaze rose to settle on the woman standing on the platform, her hands and legs bound, her delicate neck secured in a noose. A blindfold covered her eyes as sunlight spilled from above to crown her head. A golden patina of light glazed her skin, as though she were no longer of this world, as though the angels had already claimed her.
“Stop. She’s innocent. She was only protecting me.” But his plea went unheard.
The trapdoor opened with an ominous creak, and she fell through, just as a light drizzle began to fall. The sound of her neck snapping rent the air like a cannon blast. Darkness spread to engulf him, and for the first time he welcomed it.
He rushed to the platform, struggled against those who fought to stop him, punched the executioner until the massive guy collapsed in a bloody heap. He pulled out his dagger and cut the woman loose, cradling her in his arms as he dropped to his knees. With a choked sob, he tenderly stroked her cheek, slid the blindfold from her eyes…
The shock jolted Marcus awake, and he jackknifed in bed, cold sweat springing from his pores. Regan’s lifeless eyes filled every corner of his vision, and his fingers tightened around an invisible dagger, his blood imbued with the frightening desire to commit violence.
A hand touched his shoulder, and for a second he was disoriented. Then the dream disintegrated, and he was yanked back to reality.
“Are you all right?” Regan watched him through heavy-lidded eyes, her hair tousled, her cheeks pink with the lingering glow of sleep.
The sight of her took his breath away. “Yeah,” was all he managed to squeeze out.
“What just happened, Marcus? You looked miles away.”
“Miles and years.” He couldn’t remember what it had felt like to dream, wondered if it was customary to react this way. Even now, the tightness in his chest persisted, as did an unsettling echo of pain and rage. “I’m not sure, but I think I just had a nightmare.”
Regan attempted to tame her wild riot of curls by raking her fingers through them. “Great. I make love to the guy, and he ends up suffering from night terrors.” She let her body collapse onto the bed again. “What’s worse is that, technically, our kind can’t even dream.”
He turned on his side to face her, his body propped on his bent arm. “I don’t understand it any more than you do. All I know is that it felt too damn real to be a dream.”
Indignation morphed to interest. “Wanna tell me about it?”
The sight of her lifeless eyes, the feel of her broken body lying limp in his arms, returned to pummel him. Probably his subconscious struggling to come to terms with everything that had transpired tonight. Or maybe it was simply the residual effects of the souls he’d allowed to pass through his system. “I can’t remember,” he lied.
She studied him for a few seconds, her unflinching gaze struggling to penetrate his defenses and delve into his guarded mind. Normally, he would’ve found her stare intrusive. Tonight he welcomed it, overwhelmed by giddy pleasure at the knowledge that she was alive.
He hooked his free arm around her neck, stroked her nape lovingly. Then he bent forward and kissed her throat, intoxicated by the glorious feel of her pulse throbbing against his lips. “Promise me something.” Remnants of the desperation he’d experienced in the dream still resonated within him. “Promise me you’ll never do anything reckless again.”
She hesitated, a shadow passing behind her eyes. Then she surprised him by smiling. “I can’t promise you that, but I can promise to let you in on the fun next time.”
It wasn’t what he’d hoped, but it would have to do. He spread her out beneath him, his mouth mating with hers, and the dream faded from his mind. All he cared about was feeling her warm body merge with his, letting her heat melt away the splinters of ice that had invaded his bloodstream, losing himself in the blissful cadence of her heartbeat.
Regan wrapped herself around him like a blanket, sheltering him, chasing away the loneliness. Completeness washed over him, and he was overcome by the insane urge to keep her folded in his embrace foreve
r, where nothing could harm her.
He felt the shadows closing in even as dawn crept forward to slowly peel away the layers of night. He made love to her a second time, with a passion he didn’t believe himself capable of, with the same kind of urgency that had driven him in the dream. It made no sense, but something inside him was half convinced that if he marked her as his, no one would be able to rip her from his arms again.
Marcus didn’t know much, but he knew one thing: he’d be damned if he allowed fate to win. This time, when the storm came, he’d be ready for it.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Kyros heard about the fire on the news. The Rivershore Hospital had gone up in flames, taking everything he’d painstakingly built with it. His first reaction was disbelief, followed by numbness. There had to be some mistake. He’d made sure the hospital was well guarded, an impenetrable fortress. Dozens of his men stood stationed at all entrances, and several of them policed the perimeter.
He sat in a diner a few miles south of Portland, staring at the small screen, listening to the newscaster insist the Rivershore Hospital had been reduced to a pile of ash. Fisting his hands at his sides, he stood and approached the television set.
“Pretty crazy shit, huh?” said a man sitting at the counter. He was middle-aged, thick around the waist, and quite content to gorge himself on a heap of eggs and sausage. “Happened last night. The place just went up in flames. As if the flood last year wasn’t enough.” With the help of a napkin, the man wiped the greasy sheen from his mouth. “At least no one died this time.”
Kyros tamped down his revulsion, tempering the slow build of rage in his gut. “Do you know how the fire started?”
“No one’s got a clue. Probably just a bunch of kids playing a prank. Or maybe a bum tossing a cigarette butt aside.” The guy stuffed his mouth with toast, then mumbled, “The good news is, whoever did this just saved the city the trouble of demolishing the place.”
Kyros’s fury reached the boiling point. Had he not been in a crowded restaurant, he would’ve crushed the repulsive man’s windpipe and enjoyed every second of it. That was one of the side effects of ingesting a soul—the ability to feel intense emotion, whether it be joy, excitement or hot, burning fury.
He walked backward to the door, his eyes still riveted to the screen, his mind racing. How had the Watchers uncovered his operation? There was no doubt in his mind the Watchers were behind this. No human could have gotten past his guards.
Outrage ballooned in his chest. Everything he’d created, gone. All the souls he’d carefully extracted, lost. His latest batch of embryos, all burned to a crisp. And what about the humans he’d gone through the trouble of abducting? What had become of them?
He had so many questions and so few answers. But he knew one thing—when he found Diane, the ugly bitch would pay for her carelessness. She had the ability to control water. She could’ve doused the fire. Why had she allowed the hospital to burn to the ground? And why hadn’t she contacted him immediately when the place erupted into flames?
Regan awoke alone in bed, her body still thrumming from the memory of Marcus’s heated touch, her pulse an erratic drumbeat in her throat. The souls she’d ingested had yet to release their hold on her, and her emotions were in a frenzy.
Memories of last night played through her mind, warming her blood, filling her with a ridiculous pleasure that was overshadowed by fear. The fear of losing the incredible connection she’d found. She knew it couldn’t last. In her world, nothing was permanent. Not even death. And yet the most secret, feminine part of her hoped things could be different this time, that Marcus’s crazy declaration of love was real, that Kyros and Cal would cease to stand in their way.
Nonsense, all of it. Just the desperate musings of a woman drunk on a man she could never have. Last night had been a dream. A beautiful, foolish dream, as insubstantial as the images that had shaken Marcus awake a few minutes before dawn.
Today, they were back in the real world, where monsters crouched in the shadows, dark prophecies ruled, and silly notions of love were reserved for people with souls.
Casting all thoughts of love aside, she got up and dressed in an efficient pair of jeans and a plain white blouse, then secured her hair in a ponytail. Before she left the room, she allowed her gaze to stray to the bed. Thoughts of Marcus exploded in her mind—the feel of his strong hands gliding over her flesh, the warmth of his mouth as it explored hers, the scent and taste of him. A hot flush swept through her system, making her skin burn.
Inhaling a deep cleansing breath, she shuffled to the door and went in search of him, unsure how he’d react when she found him. Would he pull her into his arms, greet her with a smile and a melting kiss? Or would the shutters be drawn again? Would he turn away from her, avoid her gaze at all cost?
Something inside her died a small death at the thought. She could handle anything, anything but the inevitable regret she was sure to see in his eyes once the effects of the countless souls he’d ingested wore off.
She descended the stairs, catching him as he was about to walk out the door. “Where are you off to so early? It’s barely seven o’clock.”
He froze at the sound of her voice, even though she knew he must’ve sensed her coming. Maybe that was the reason he was in such a rush to leave. “Ben’s still at Adrian’s, remember? Thought I’d go pick him up before I run out of favors.”
Why wasn’t he turning around to look at her? His shoulders were stiff, his posture guarded. Regan’s heart shattered. She was a goddamn idiot for ever having entertained the notion of a welcoming kiss. Marcus was back to being Marcus, distant and terse and about as emotionally accessible as a stone monument.
“He might still be asleep.”
“Adrian always gets up at the crack of dawn.”
“I was talking about Ben.”
He finally pivoted on his heels to face her, and the expression in his eyes was like a sharp slap. He looked at her as though she were a stranger, as though he hadn’t spent the night making sweet, passionate love to her. “That’s all right. I don’t mind waiting.” His voice was as tense as his features.
Regan’s spine turned to ice. She swallowed past the lump in her throat, fortifying herself against the inevitable onslaught of pain. “Don’t let me stop you.”
Marcus’s construction boots struck the walkway as he made his way to Adrian’s house, the repetitive thud echoing in his ears. He shouldn’t have walked out on Regan that way, shouldn’t have been so curt with her, but something inside him had hardened to stone at the sight of her. Not because he hadn’t been pleased to see her. Not because he hadn’t wanted to yank her into his arms, feel her soft curves mold to his body, taste her sexy-as-sin mouth.
Despite what she probably believed, he didn’t regret making love to her last night. What had shaken him was the dream that had followed. The chilling image of her deadened eyes had stubbornly imprinted itself in his mind, and as hard as he tried, he couldn’t chase it from his thoughts.
It was just a dream, nothing more.
And yet some buried consciousness inside him recognized it as truth.
Ben wasn’t the only mystery he needed to solve.
He walked past Adrian’s door, kept going. Regan was right; the kid was probably still asleep. Might as well make good use of his time and head over to the computer room. There was no point idling in Adrian’s kitchen for an hour getting psychoanalyzed.
The place was deserted, which suited his purposes just fine. He didn’t want anyone poking around in his business, especially if the dream proved to be nothing more than the product of an overactive imagination.
He didn’t have much to go on, only a few faded images hovering in the recesses of his mind. Images that were vaguely familiar. The two-story Georgian-style brick building that had loomed behind the hanging platform taunted him. He knew that place, had been there before, a long, long time ago.
Taking a seat at one of the computer stations, he searched his memory fo
r a clue. He recalled a marketplace under construction, the clamoring sound of the ocean, a redbrick building with a gilded grasshopper weathervane on top…
He quickly typed in a search key. How many historic buildings could there be with a gold grasshopper crowning their roofs? Apparently not many, because a list of websites promptly appeared, all featuring Boston’s famous Faneuil Hall. It looked different now, larger and more imposing, but the weathervane was one in the same.
Built between 1740 and 1742, the building once graced the shoreline, before several landfills were constructed along the Boston waterfront. Now he knew why the place had looked so familiar. That was where he’d awakened after he’d turned, back in 1742. His first memory was in Boston, standing naked in a patch of scorched grass, his clothing reduced to a pile of ash at his feet. Someone had attempted to burn him, dead or alive he wasn’t sure.
He remembered nothing of what had transpired before. All he recalled was a yawning emptiness, coupled with an unrelenting hunger for death and violence. He’d gone after the townsfolk with a vengeance, cutting them down as they’d slept, stealing their souls before their bodies had a chance to grow cold.
Was it merely a coincidence that the first dream he’d had since his human days was set in the exact location of his rebirth? Was his subconscious weaving the past and the present together, creating a fictitious new reality? Or could there be more to it? Could an old memory be attempting to reassert itself?
Since Marcus didn’t believe in coincidences, he placed his bets on the latter. He spent nearly an hour searching the Internet for information on hangings that took place in Boston in 1742, came up empty-handed. If a woman had been hanged that year, he wouldn’t learn about it on the Web. Most likely he needed to consults history books or old court records, assuming they still existed.
He shot a glance at his watch. For the time being, the mystery would have to remain unsolved. Right now, he had a seven-year-old to pick up and an irate woman probably wearing a vicious hole in the rug back home.
