White Fire: Timewalker Chronicles, Book 5

by Michele Callahan

  “Yes. I saw you there. I believed the Hunters were tracking me. But they were following you. Why?” He studied her, wondered why she wasn’t screaming, where she’d summoned the courage to face down three Hunters last night. Why Eli had shot her with poison, instead of just grabbing her. The other Hunters, he understood, if they’d touched her, their hunger would have been too powerful to control. But not Eli. That bastard had been around for centuries even before Ajax had lost his Queen. He would have been able to touch her and not lose himself in madness.

  “Hello? Did you hear me? Isn’t there some way to reverse this? Turn you back to normal?”

  Ajax crossed his arms across his massive chest. “No. My men have already tried to save me. They planted a soul stone in my chest, a stone meant to draw the evil from my body and give it back to the goddess. But it remains dead and cold within, a useless rock.” He kept his fist tightly closed around the one stone that kept him sane, that kept him from devouring her freshness and beauty. “They draw the taint from me slowly, but they cannot drink an ocean of darkness. It is not enough. It was never enough.”

  She studied him, his crossed arms and warrior’s stance. Her attention danced over his cock and he raised an eyebrow when she tore her gaze away and blushed. He had no shame and no modesty. He was power incarnate, a King among men. There was not an ounce of humility in his breast. He simply waited for her decision. Life or death. Do as he’d asked, or pay the consequences.

  She raised her hands to her face and moaned before her fingers walked up her forehead to her hair. There, they tangled with the odd collection of sticky paper and pins she’d used to keep her real hair tamed beneath the false last night.

  “Oh, God. I can’t believe this.” She turned her back on him and threw her hands in the air. She took three steps to a chest and yanked fiercely at her head, pulling the pins and paper from the dark locks, placing the remains of her disguise on the top of the dresser. She bent forward, toward the mirror, and put her fingers directly into her eyes. She removed something from them and tossed the remains into a container on the floor, mumbling about dry eyes and wondering how long she’d been out.

  “Fifteen hours, seven minutes and thirty-two seconds.”

  “What?” She lifted a strange bottle to her face and tilted her head back, placing droplets of clear liquid into each orb.

  “You wanted to know how long you were unconscious.” He didn’t move, couldn’t move, was rooted to the spot like a giant oak watching her strange rituals.

  She turned back to the mirror, pulled a small white cloth from a rectangular box, and wiped the excess liquid from her eyes. The female rubbed a little harder beneath one to remove the black remains of whatever she had used to outline her eyes and seduce the human bartender the previous night. Then she tugged a brush through her hair.

  What was she doing? Grooming herself while he stood naked and fought the urge to kill her, while he waited for her to answer his humbling and singular request for aid? He’d not asked another soul for help since he’d been a babe barely weaned from his mother’s breast. This female turned her back on him while he held a portal open and stood before her baring his dark soul, a god among men? And she was brushing her fucking hair?

  “Who are you, human?” She made no sense. She’d stood between two Triscani Hunters without flinching, spoken to Eli with no fear in her voice, had supposedly eliminated seven Hunters, and now ignored a King as if he were not even there.

  She turned around and he felt the punch of her blue eyes all the way to his spleen.

  “My name is Emma.” She looked shy now, like a newly born fawn taking its first steps in the forest. “Ring any bells?”

  “I hear no bells.”

  She sighed and tried again. “Do you recognize my name?”

  “No.”

  Her shoulders slumped and she frowned. “But what about your destiny? Your beloved Queen?”

  It was his turn to frown. “My Queen was Angeline. And she is lost to me.”

  “Angeline?”

  He nodded.

  “You’re Marked Mate’s name is Angeline?”

  “Yes.”

  “What does she look like?”

  Ajax thought of his beloved. “Her hair was black silk, her eyes like glowing amber, tall and…”

  “Stop.” Emma raised her hand to him, palm out, as if that small act would halt his ability to speak. She looked hurt, then angry. “Close that stupid portal. Put some clothes on. Seriously. I’m not cutting off your head.”

  She marched past him and out her bedroom door. Her clipped words echoed from the white walls of her apartment as she stomped her way through the hall. “Stupid Bran. This is bullshit. My whole life. I can’t believe I saved myself for him. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.”

  Chapter Four

  Emma finished up in the bathroom, the sparkle of minty toothpaste fresh on her tongue, and then headed for the one place she knew would keep her sane, her kitchen. She grabbed her favorite omelet pan and set it on the stove. Eggs. Onions. Cheese. Parsley… She gathered ingredients from the inside of her black refrigerator like a worker ant on a mission. Her small kitchen was L-shaped, the cabinets up top white, brown below, and black appliances. It was like whoever had decorated the place couldn’t make up their mind. None of it matched the oak hardwood under her feet. A jigsaw puzzle where none of the pieces fit. Kind of like her life.

  Whatever.

  She glanced at the clock on her microwave and sighed. At least he hadn’t lied about that. It was a few minutes after noon. Fifteen hours sounded about right.

  Tears burned behind her eyelids, but she refused to let them fall. Yes, she wanted to cry. And scream. And beat that idiot in her bedroom with a frying pan. No, not him. It wasn’t his fault that Bran had spoon fed her bullshit her entire life, or that she’d swallowed every bite, dedicated her life to fulfilling his vision for her, sacrificed her own desires and dreams to serve this great preordained destiny. Hell, she’d buried her dreams so deep she wasn’t even sure what they were anymore.

  Ajax’s Marked Mate? Future Queen? The one woman alive who was destined to be that big, black beast’s one true love? Hah!

  He had no idea who she was. There was no spark of recognition. No zing in his system. No desire in his eyes when he looked at her. No interest in her at all, other than as a means to an end. He needed her to help him kill himself.

  No freaking way. Big boy Bran could do that. She’d eat, then she’d break down and call that lying asshat. She could use telepathy, but then he’d know where she was, and she’d lose her only bargaining chip. No, she’d call him with a disposable cell phone and then make darn sure she was gone before he arrived. Bran could just come get his big, bad King. He could cut off the stupid Immortal’s head. She wouldn’t do it.

  She couldn’t.

  First, the thought repulsed her. But second, despite it all, she wanted him. Her body was lit up like a firecracker on the fourth of July. He was black as tar, claimed by the darkness, a freaking Hunter, and all she could think about when she looked at him was tasting him, getting him in her bed and letting him rub that giant body all over every single bit of her skin. Kissing him. Digging her hands into that hair and tugging his head to her breast…or lower.

  “Stupid.” She banged the bowl down on her countertop and started cracking eggs. The first one exploded in her hand and she braced her palms on the counter to take two deep breaths. She could do this. She could cope. So, Bran’s fantasy filled version of her personal Prince Charming was a lie. She would move on. At least she could find someone else now, another man. Finally she could look for a man to have sex with and not feel like she was cheating on a ghost.

  “What are you doing? And how do you know Bran?” Ajax stood in the hallway. He’d put some form of undergarment back on that looked like a knee-length version of black stretchy shorts. Thank God. Because she could not deal with him naked another second. He had his sword strapped to his back, just barely peaking over hi
s shoulder where she could see the tip of the hilt. His hands were in fists at his side, and he didn’t look happy. Well, he could just join the freaking club.

  Spandex and steel. Bare feet. His nude chest and shoulders godlike. He looked like a ripped professional athlete made of black glass. All power, no bend.

  She had an alien Immortal King in her kitchen, and he looked like a character out of a bad comic book. The whole look should have been laughable instead of sexy. Really. Which just proved how messed up she was in the head. She kept her mouth shut about it and answered one of his questions. “I’m cooking. Do you want an omelet?”

  “Why are you cooking?”

  “Sit down.” She nodded at the tiny two-man table she used to eat her meals.

  “Emma? I don’t have time for this.”

  Hysterical laughter bubbled up from her throat. No time? Was he fucking kidding right now? “We’ve got an eternity. Trust me.” She dropped the remains of the broken egg in her sink and reached for another. “Sit down. I need to cook breakfast. Then we’ll figure out the next step.”

  “We should leave. Why are you cooking?”

  “So I don’t cry.”

  He appeared to have no answer for that. “Listen, human, you will come with me through the portal and…”

  She’d had it. “Stop. Talking.” She cracked open her sixth egg with laser-like precision, looked at the size of his chest and cracked too more. “I’m pissed off at you right now. I know it’s not your fault, but I’m still pissed. So just sit there and let me cook, or try to kill me. Right this second, I don’t really care which. I can feed you, or I can fry you. Your call.”

  He sat. Thank God. He sat in silence, his gaze boring holes in her back as she ignored him and continued moving around her kitchen. She made them both an omelet, his double the size of hers, and poured two glasses of orange juice. She placed everything on the table and sat down to eat.

  He didn’t move, just watched her like a frozen statue. She knew she was baiting a bear, but she just couldn’t resist.

  “Eat.” She reached across the small space and nudged his fork a bit closer to him. “Go ahead. It’s not poisoned, I promise.” She took a bite and rolled it around on her tongue before swallowing. “It’s good.”

  She ignored him again after that, content to focus her complete attention on the masterpiece on her plate. She’d perfected the recipe years ago. It was her go-to favorite when she was stressed out or too tired to make a big meal. Although, she usually had some kind of fruit with it, and some toast.

  The giant moved. He picked up his fork and took a bite. She kept her head down and smiled.

  Her happy glow lasted all of three seconds.

  “Are you Bran’s Marked Mate?”

  Her fork froze halfway to her mouth and she kept her face down to try to hide the blush of heat she felt spreading up her neck to her cheeks. Damn Immortals and their hearing.

  “No.”

  “Then to what did you refer when you said you saved yourself for him?”

  Emma chewed her eggs slowly. Swallowed. Took a drink of orange juice. Was she really going to have this conversation with him?

  No. She wasn’t. As of a few minutes ago, the status of her virginity, or lack thereof, was none of his business and never would be.

  “It doesn’t matter. I’ll call Bran as soon as we’re done eating. He can take you wherever you need to go. He can lock you up and chop off your head, if that’s what you need him to do. I can’t do it.” She looked up, held his gaze and allowed the sad truth to shine in her eyes. “I can barely lift your sword to start with, and…I. I just can’t do it.”

  His plate was empty. The orange juice, gone. He sat like a sad stone statue with his fisted hands resting on top of her tiny table. A King at a child’s tea party. It was impossible for her to gauge his reaction, any subtle ticks in his facial expressions were lost in the stone-like appearance of his flesh.

  But she could imagine his pain. He was in bad shape, and he was trying to do something about it. She got that. She just couldn’t do what he wanted her to do. And his poor Angeline? What of his Marked Mate? Bran had told her nothing about the Queen. Hell, this was the first time she’d heart that this woman existed. Was she truly lost to Ajax, as in dead? Or just lost somewhere in time? Lost somewhere Ajax couldn’t find her? And did it matter which, when his heart was so obviously broken?

  She reached across the table to place her hand over his. “I’m sorry.”

  Energy shot up her arm where their skin touched, like she’d just grabbed a live electrical wire and the flow of electrons was crisping her insides in one hot flash.

  Lightning striking her flesh.

  Emma fell from her chair and crumbled onto the floor, aware that convulsions racked her body but unable to stop them.

  She couldn’t wait for the phone. Her telepathic scream was aimed at the one male she knew would hear her, a male who’d been as much a father to her as her own.

  Bran!

  <><><>

  Heat burned through his flesh at her touch, not the heat of burning wood or the sun on his face, but scalding pain, as if his entire body had just been dropped in boiling water. And Emma? She was in convulsions on the floor, her mind screaming Bran’s name so loudly every Immortal on the continent would hear her.

  What was happening to him? Was this how she’d killed the other Hunters? This pain in his flesh?

  No. If she’d wished him dead, she could have used his sword. He would not have resisted. She’d have gone with him to his prison and cut off his head, not cooked for him, fed him, talked to him without fear.

  “I can’t stop it. I can’t hold it in.” She was whispering now, tears streaming down her face to splash on the floor as she looked at him, her head flat on its side, her cheek pressed to the cool wood. “I can’t hold it.”

  Ajax slid to the floor and crossed to her on his hands and knees. When he reached out to touch her, she recoiled.

  “Let me help you. What can I do?” He was still in pain, but he had centuries of experience coping with it. She, evidently, did not. Her pain bothered him, made him feel helpless and lost, like he was losing Angeline all over again and could no nothing but watch. “Emma. I beg of you. What can I do?”

  “Run.”

  “I don’t run.” He reached out and took her hand in his, relieved when she didn’t pull away. Even more relieved that whatever reaction her touch had caused the first time, did not repeat.

  Then her hand started to burn in his, a strange white fire the danced over her flesh and jumped to his.

  She sobbed, her eyes glued to the vision of their linked flesh. “God. I’m sorry. I tried to tell you.”

  The small whispers of flame rose in a flash, then spread to cover her entire body as if he’d poured fuel on her skin. But she didn’t burn, her flesh did not wrinkle and shrink, did not turn black or become ash. She simply burned, like a wick in a lamp, the instrument, not the fuel.

  He was the fuel. The dark souls that normally raged within him whimpered in fear and fled from the power that flowed into his veins from their joined hands. The fire chased them inside his body, roared through his cells like a blowtorch, devouring them one by one, consuming their power, their energy, their existence.

  Would there be nothing left of him?

  The flames leapt and danced, nearly reaching the ceiling of her kitchen.

  This was how she’d destroyed the Hunters. This was the reason Eli hadn’t dared to touch her. This white fire was the reason she stood before three monsters without fear.

  She was a goddess incarnate, a Mater Mortis in truth, and not because an Immortal mother had transferred a weapon to her hand, but because she was the weapon. Every cell in her body created the fire, directed it, and controlled it. She was death for the forbidden sons, for Droghan and his entire army. For every Triscani who walked in the dark.

  A human.

  No wonder they wanted her.

  He lay down on the floor
beside her, his face inches from hers, their hands entwined, and he bled power, let her fire burn the darkness from within him without resistance. He was vaguely aware of a portal opening, of Bran steeping through with his sword drawn. Ajax ignored him and remained on the floor, staring into bright blue eyes, glazed and filled with regret and pain.

  I’m sorry. Her soft apology entered his mind as she continued to burn, continued to devour him with her flames.

  Do not apologize. This is better than cutting off my head.

  She smiled, a tiny smile, a nearly imperceptible lift of one corner of her mouth. Are you making jokes right now?

  Yes.

  While I’m killing you?

  He stared into her eyes, all levity gone. I am not so easy to kill.

  She sighed as the flames lowered from the rafters to just a light glow around both of their bodies. Were they finished with him? Or resting for round two?

  He looked at their joined hands, at the fire that danced over his flesh, surprised to see that his skin tone had returned to that of a normal male’s, their entwined fingers a sight that fascinated him and held his gaze.

  The fire began to recede. He felt its departure like a lover’s caress as it moved from his feet, trailed up his legs and hips, teased his cock and rode higher, like a horse heading for the barn. The closer it got to going home, to her, the more earnest its effort to return to its master.

  As the last lingering lights danced from his hand back to hers, a strange burning remained on his ankle. He ignored it, content to lie still and stare in wonder at the female who had just saved his life.

  The dark souls were gone, his own soul cleansed by her power. He could rise and function. He could search for Angeline. He could challenge the Itaran Queen’s reign and take his rightful place among his people.

  All because of a human female.

  The last fire went out and she lay, panting and stunned, her hand clenched his in an iron grip, almost as if she sought comfort from him.

  He looked into eyes as blue as sapphires and raised her hands to his lips. A kiss of gratitude all he could think to bestow upon her at the moment.