The Rainmaker

by Petra Landon

  Tasia forced herself to look up, a long way up, to meet his gaze, blank now, despite the smoldering depths only moments ago.

  What have I done?

  Dangerous, dangerous man — she had sensed this from their first meeting. The hyper-awareness, the sense of being on tenterhooks all the time, the heightened wariness and constant vigilance he seemed to inspire in her — she had noted it all. But in her inexperience, she had been incapable of understanding it. Her callowness and ignorance had not allowed her to pin down the reasons for the turmoil and conflict his very presence always sparked in her. What she did possess was a well-honed instinct for survival, after a lifetime of dodging threats. It was this survival instinct that had driven her to keep her distance from him, even without grasping what compelled her to do so. He had intimidated her, but not for the reasons she’d admitted to herself. Now, as she stared up at him in the darkness, it hit her like a ton of bricks what this dance with him had always been about — self-preservation. Her instincts had instigated her to keep her guard up with him. The vacillation, the self-doubts and her dilemma had never been about the Shifters or his Pack. It had always been about him and the threat he posed to her. Added to the clamor in her head, the realization seemed to strike her like a physical blow.

  “This cannot be.” Paralyzed by dread, her voice came out in a whisper.

  He had recognized this insane, unlikely and dangerous attraction that drew them together, while she had buried her head in the sand. What had she done, Tasia despaired.

  He contemplated her, the gold eyes mysterious in the shadows, all remnants of desire banished from his face.

  “Why not?”

  His calm response served to kick the cacophony in Tasia’s head up another notch. Shaken by her epic realization, Tasia was nevertheless astonished by his blunt query. Careful, she reminded herself. Remember how relentless he can be in the pursuance of answers. Calmer now that she had finally heeded it, her inner voice had subsided, but the drumming and the bubbling noise from before drowned out her thoughts, making it hard for Tasia to formulate a rational response. What came out was an incoherent stream of broken words, driven by confusion, despair and fear.

  “I cannot … you … the Pack … protection … very grateful … me.”

  Her garbled words had an immediate and unexpected effect on him. He let go of her, like he’d been scalded, to step back, the gold eyes skewering her. With nothing and no one to hold her up, Tasia slumped against the railing behind her.

  “What the fuck” he bit out furiously, the gold eyes spitting fire. “You think I’m demanding sexual favors in return for Pack protection?”

  “No!” A horrified Tasia straightened up to reiterate vehemently. “No, of course not.”

  This was the antithesis of what she had meant by her jumbled answer to his straightforward question.

  “You would never do that” she said more calmly, aghast at his interpretation of her garbled response. He was not a man who would make such demands.

  Somewhat mollified by her vehement response, his fury seemed to abate a little.

  “Then, what do you mean?” he demanded.

  Tasia floundered for an explanation that would satisfy him. She felt ill-equipped to handle this. Of the many pitfalls she’d been warned to steer clear of, this one had never seemed real to her, never in the realm of possibility. She had never thought to be so tempted by a man, with her heart at stake in a high-risk gamble. There was nothing to do but harden her heart and give him half-truths, anything to make him walk away from her. She could not tell him the truth.

  “I …” Tasia paused, choosing her words with care this time. “My work with your Pack …”

  “Fuck the Pack.” His voice was very even. “This has nothing to do with the Pack. I’m talking about us — you and me.”

  “No.” She shook her head, wishing the noise in her head would abate and allow her to think more clearly. “There’s no us.”

  An eyebrow arched up in the near darkness. “So, that kiss in the cave …”

  Tasia interrupted him. “I didn’t kiss you.”

  He shot her a look.

  “You kissed me” she insisted, responding to that look. “Both times.”

  “No” he said unequivocally. “We’ve both been willing partners in this dance. I lead, but you’ve been with me every step of the way.”

  They stared at each other, the air between them charged with an awareness that they stood on the edge of a precipice. She couldn’t discern his expression but she wondered what he read in hers, with his night eyes.

  “Any time you’d like a demonstration, let me know” he remarked sardonically.

  Tasia flushed. They’d been leading up to this moment, she realized. This was the dance he talked about. She should have put a stop to it before. Now, she’d have to defuse it carefully or the resulting conflagration would destroy her.

  “I’ve been around the block a few times, witchling. You and I — we make our own fire, no tinder required. That’s not it. Something else has you stepping back. What is it?”

  Tasia thought furiously, through the fog in her head. “You don’t get involved with Pack” she reminded him.

  “I’m willing to make an exception for you” he said clearly.

  Tasia blinked, once. He wasn’t going to make this easy for her.

  “I did tell you once that I’d ignore my principles for the right person.” It was his turn to remind her.

  Tasia, who remembered the occasion well, said nothing.

  “Am I to continue with the Pack?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  She hesitated. “What happens if things … uh … don’t work out between us?”

  He laughed, a sound singularly devoid of amusement.

  “You’ve walked away from the Pack before. I didn’t let that stop me from going after you, when I thought you were in danger. What does that tell you, witchling?”

  Tasia couldn’t refute him. There was nothing to say. He would not let his personal feelings get in the way of his responsibilities to his Pack or to her, no matter how bad things got between them.

  Then, something seemed to strike him. “Is it because I’m a Shifter?”

  Tasia wondered wildly if he would accept that. Perhaps his pride would not let him pursue her if he believed that she wanted no part of a relationship with a Shifter. It would make her sound like a bigot. But she’d take that.

  “Will you let this be if … if I have reservations about Shifters?” she asked hopefully.

  “Hell no.” His response was immediate and forceful. “I’ll do my damnedest to change your mind.”

  He frowned, something about her answer registering finally. “Is that what this is about — being with a Shifter?”

  Again, he was forthright with his query, and Tasia realized she could not bring herself to lie to him. Like him, she too was willing to make an exception. For him.

  “No” she admitted softly.

  There was a short silence while Tasia tried to get her jumbled thoughts into order. The wild cacophony in her head was now so loud that it drowned out everything but his voice, even the gentle lap of water against the wall and the whoosh of the wind behind her.

  “Let me simplify this for you” he said, the gold eyes holding her gaze. “Tell me what you want, and we go from there.”

  “What I want?” Tasia repeated mechanically.

  I can’t have what I want.

  “Don’t tell me you don’t know what you want.” His eyes narrowed in the darkness.

  Tasia shook her head, her eyes darting away as if to seek an escape. She’d have to walk away, she thought despairingly. She saw no other way out.

  His initial fury having abated, Raoul was starting to use his connection to her, much as he had before, when he’d been so attuned to her unspoken words. He had realized it almost immediately, taking it in stride. He wondered if she had picked up on it yet.

  “You told me once that you don’t run
away” he reminded her, picking up hints of her roiling emotions.

  Tasia said nothing.

  “If you run from me because you don’t want to deal with whatever is between us, witchling, I will come after you.” His voice hardened as a spike of anger flared in him. “I won’t stand by again while you run recklessly into the fire.”

  Tasia looked away from him. There seemed no way out of this impasse. He would not back away, not without an explanation from her. She could not give him one, not without endangering all sorts of secrets, and she was very much afraid that, unless she convinced him to walk away first, she’d eventually succumb to him.

  Talk about jumping from the frying pan into the fire!

  Raoul stared at her, puzzled by her inexplicable desire to deny that which sizzled like a living entity between them. He tried to piece together what he could sense from her.

  Suddenly, it hit him. “You’re afraid!” he muttered incredulously.

  This was the primary emotion he sensed from her, overriding everything else. He had sensed many emotions from her before but terror, the kind he sensed now, had thus far been reserved exclusively for the Clan.

  She said nothing, neither confirming nor refuting his statement.

  Jolted, he took a step back. “Of what?”

  Tasia stared at him mutely, her hesitation palpable.

  “Of me?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

  Tasia found herself at the crossroads again. She sensed that he would let this go, if she said yes. He would not pursue her, once she confirmed his hoarse and disbelieving query. It would solve her problem — for now, anyway. Yet, she couldn’t bring herself to lie to him, to have him believe that. She’d been unfair to him once, letting her own insecurities drive her away, while allowing him to believe that he’d crossed a line with her. He had been a stranger then. He was not one now. Her own heart would not allow her to do that to him again.

  “No” she assured him, meeting his eyes. “I’m not afraid of you.”

  He scanned her face, his eyes searching, his strange bond with her working overtime to unravel the puzzle. This time, he believed her, but it was clear that something had her fearful and wary.

  “What is it?” He changed tack, gentle persuasion mixed in with the usual demand. “Tell me, witchling.”

  Not immune to his plea, Tasia glanced away, her heart beating fast. “I can’t give you what you want. I’m sorry.”

  “What do you think I want?” His voice was soft, belying the look in his eyes.

  She raised her eyes to him. “What do you want?” Her voice was a whisper.

  The palpable fear in her gave him pause. What was going on, Raoul wondered in bemusement.

  “A date” he said promptly, attempting to defuse the situation.

  “A date.” She looked incredulous, as if the very concept was alien.

  “To start with.”

  She stared at him, a cauldron of desire, uncertainty, confusion and fear warring in her. The man watching her intently was able to sense some of this, but not the pounding in her head. Tasia felt like she would explode from the pain of it.

  Sensing that she was weakening, he leaned in for the kill. “Whatever you want, witchling” he promised. “Just say the word. There’s only one caveat.”

  Tasia took a deep breath. “What?”

  “Walking away is not an option. That’s non-negotiable.”

  The noise in her head was now so loud that Tasia could no longer put up a front before him. She moaned, clutching her head in her hand to sway in place.

  He looked taken aback. Through the din in her head, she heard him. “Don’t ask that of me, witchling.” His voice was grim. “You won’t make it without the Pack. I can’t let you turn your back on us.”

  Tasia felt hysterical laughter bubble up in her. He’d misunderstood the reason for her dramatics.

  “It’s not that” she tried to reassure him through the thrumming pain.

  Tasia glanced up at him with pain-filled eyes. And, suddenly, it was if everything was clear, when before, nothing had been. She stepped forward, drawn to him like a magnet. He watched her approach, wariness and tension in every pore of the big body.

  Like a zombie, she reached forward mechanically to place her palm over his heart.

  “Witchling” he warned, his hands curling into fists by his side. “Don’t touch me unless you’re ready ...”

  “Your heart.” She met his eyes, her pupils dilated in shock.

  Warned by the evident signs of her distress, he stopped, to inquire cautiously. “What about it?”

  “I can hear it beating.”

  He cocked his head, clearly puzzled by her words.

  “In my head” she explained. “I can hear every beat.”

  His brows drew together in a frown. “What do you mean?”

  “And your blood. I can hear it pumping through your veins …” She faltered, withdrawing her palm from him to take a stumbling step back. “I can smell it, too.”

  Too flabbergasted to say anything, Raoul stared at her incredulously.

  “The ebb and flow of it, like a bubbling stream” she murmured, her eyes glassy and unfocused. “That’s why I couldn’t place it before. The smell — it has a metallic taste to it.”

  Tasia staggered back. With the discovery, the cacophony in her head seemed to go silent. Almost as if once she’d recognized it, her subconscious had banished it like pesky white noise into the background. But for Tasia, instead of solace, the discovery had only wrought terror.

  “What’s happening to me?” she cried, a toxic blend of anguish and terror roiling in her.

  It jolted Raoul from his stupor. He stepped forward, instinctively trying to reassure her.

  That single step was enough. Her hands reached for his tee, to clutch it weakly over his heart, her eyes meeting his disbelieving ones.

  “It’s like the nightmare” she whispered despairingly. “I’m … I’m becoming a Shifter.”

  Raoul took a deep breath. Dumbstruck himself, he nevertheless sensed that she was at the edge of hysteria now.

  “Witchling” he chided calmly. “You know as well as I do that the Wyr gene is inherited. No one can transform into a Shifter. It’s impossible. There’s another explanation for this.”

  Tasia blinked, the calmly delivered explanation getting through to her. He was right, she realized. There was no way for anyone to transmutate into a Shifter. One was either born a Wyr or not. There was only one group of Chosen who did not inherit their gene at birth.

  Raoul watched her mull over his explanation, only for her panic to sweep back in full force.

  “Blutsauger” she muttered hoarsely, beside herself with terror. “I’m turning into one!”

  Distraught, she slumped, her entire body shaking. Her clasp of his t-shirt was the only that held her up.

  “How can you turn into a leech?” he attempted to reason with her.

  She shook her head, agitated and in the vice grip of blind panic. “I was bitten by one.”

  “That was months ago” he pointed out. “Why would you transform now?”

  “No, no” she cried, with rising hysteria. “I can’t become a Blutsauger.”

  Her wild eyes swung to him. “You have to promise to stake me, if that happens.”

  “What?” he burst out.

  “You can do it” she said frantically. “You’re strong enough to subdue me.”

  Her desperate cry was like a douse of cold water on him.

  “Listen to me.” He reached for her, to clasp her face in his hands, trying to get her to meet his eyes.

  Tasia shook her head, too terrified by the prospect to pay him heed.

  “Witchling” he said fiercely, the long fingers sliding into her nape to hold her steady. “Look at me, witchling.” The commanding voice lashed at Tasia, refusing to take no for an answer. “Look at me.”

  Tasia’s wild eyes swung to him. The compelling gold eyes held her captive, making it impossible to look a
way.

  “What am I, witchling?” he demanded.

  “Alpha” she said slowly, her eyes on the fierce gold eyes.

  “I’m a Wyr” he reiterated, drawing out each word carefully. “There’s one group of Chosen we can distinguish by their blood. I can smell a leech in the air.”

  Tasia blinked, her eyes flickering, the wild look in her disappearing slowly to be replaced by confusion. He held on to her, the glittering eyes refusing to let go and his grip making it hard for her to look away.

  “If you were a leech” he pointed out, every word spit out with deliberation. “I’d know.”

  Calmer now, Tasia breathed a little easier.

  “You’re not.”

  “It doesn’t take nearly four months to transform into a leech” he added, calmly laying out what they both knew about the Clan. “The gene is too powerful to lay dormant for that long. Any transformation happens within forty-eight hours of a bite. You and I both know that the leech at the nest had no time for more than one bite of you. That single bite was enough to poison him.”

  Tasia stared up at him, trying to process his words. His assurance that he couldn’t smell the Clan in her had helped steady Tasia for now. But the Alpha was only partially right. While a Blutsauger’s bite was the only way to create a member of the Clan, Tasia suspected rather grimly that it did not apply to her. With her unusual heritage, there might be a second way to transform into what she feared the most. Her people had history, when it came to this. But for Tasia, there was a more immediate concern.

  “I …” She paused, her lips quivering.

  “What?” His voice softened.

  Tasia raised vulnerable eyes to meet the gold gaze, fiercely focused on her. “I’m afraid …” Her voice petered off, her grip on his tee tightening convulsively.

  He stared down at her in the darkness.

  “What are you afraid of?” This time he was less exigent, and more reassuring.

  Tasia sighed, not yet ready to say aloud what truly terrified her.

  His voice softened again, part command and part plea. “I won’t let anything happen to you. Tell me, witchling.”