by Cathryn Cade
He stared up at her, his mouth open. What the hell? Brynne had never been that strong.
Didn't matter, he'd had enough. He canted his hips enough to dig in his jeans pocket for his phone, and pulled it out. She wouldn't leave, he was calling the cops. The local sheriff did not mess around. Then he’d get past her, because a little slip of a woman was not pushing him around.
He hit the button for 911 and stood again, glaring at her. "You won't leave, I'm not gonna man-handle you. Don't need another assault charge on my record."
"911, what is your emergency?" asked a calm voice.
"I need—" Gray's voice broke off with a choke as his phone twisted from his grasp and flew through the air, into Brynne's hand. She stared at it, her head cocked to the side in that weird way, almost as if she was listening to something only she could hear.
"911, what is your emergency?" the voice repeated, faintly.
"There is no emergency," Brynne monotoned. "Sorry to have disturbed you."
She peered at the phone. It made a strange popping sound and went silent.
Gray came off the couch. "You ... how did you do that? Gimme back my phone. What the hell is going on here?"
His voice rose with each word until he was nearly shouting, looming over her with his hands clawed, ready to do ... something.
She tipped her head back and looked up at him. "I am here to protect you. That is what is going on here, Gray-son Stark."
He looked her over—thin, bedraggled, infinitely fragile, like she needed to be in a hospital bed with round-the-clock care … and maybe a burly attendant to make sure she stayed there.
"You? You can't protect yourself, much less me. And you can't stay here."
"Why not?" The phone fell from her hand to the carpet. It bounced and lay silent and dark, mocking Gray with its uselessness, and his own inability to control this situation.
"Because—" because he wasn't sure he could control himself right now.
He was pissed off, he was freaked out, and he was experiencing a whole new level of grief, which pissed him off even more.
His beautiful Brynne was back, had never really been dead after all, but she had completely flipped out. She was exhibiting some form of mental illness. God, that was probably why she'd disappeared in the first place. Her screaming at him that night hadn't been a show of spirit, it had been mental illness manifesting.
But she was also exhibiting some characteristics he could not explain, such as her freakish strength. Despite her frail, back-from-the-dead look, he hadn't been shoved like that since he was up against a drunk biker twice his size.
The front door slamming shut ... that could've been a thunderstorm blowing in across the valley. Southwest storms were much more violent than those in North Idaho. And as for his phone—dead battery ... or something.
Meanwhile, she was waiting, staring at him through her filthy hair, and the smell coming off of her was getting stronger.
"Why can't I stay?" she repeated.
* * *
"Brynne," said a now familiar voice in her mind. "Brynne. Wake now. Wake. You have arrived. You are with Grayson again. You must greet him."
Brynne blinked, wrinkling her nose in disgust. Her hair was all stuck to her face, and there was a clump of something in front of her eye.
And what was that smell? Euw, it smelled like wet, muddy swimsuits and towels left to dry on the floor instead of laundered. And it was coming off of her! What was going on? Had she passed out and ended up in the east end of the lake, where it was shallow and swampy?
Then she focused, and her eyes widened in sheer, bewildered joy.
Grayson. Gray stood before her. Tall, broad-shouldered and handsome, his tanned skin and shoulder-length blond hair gilded in the lamplight. But where were they? And why was he scowling at her as if she was something disgusting he'd discovered on the bottom of his shoe?
And what had he just said to her? Something unkind. "I—I can't stay here?" she repeated, his words echoing in her head. "But why, Gray?"
Couldn't he see that she was back—from where, she wasn't certain, just that it had been dark and cold and she'd been alone, more alone than at any time in her life.
Then the warm, golden glow had appeared, and she wasn't alone anymore. Instead, she was carried up, up and away through the warm summer night, through starlight and moonglow and dry, fragrant desert air ... to this place. And now Gray was here—her Gray.
"Why can't I stay?" she repeated, her voice shaking now, as were her legs. She felt awful, weak and chilled. Had she been ill, was that why she smelled so bad?
"Because you stink," her lover said, his lip curling as he gave her a look that was filled with distaste. "Brynne, you're obviously not well. Listen, why don't you go have a nice, uh, warm shower—make it a long one. I'll wait here."
He was stepping back, and the look on his face, the stiff stance of his strong, lean body, the harsh set of his mouth said he wanted her gone now.
With a moan, Brynne shook her head. No, no, this was all wrong. This couldn't be right—what was happening to her?
"Oh, no," said her secret voice, the glow brightening until Brynne was warm again. "This is not going according to plan. Brynne, go back to sleep. All will be well. Sleep now."
Brynne let go, and let her secret voice take over.
* * *
Gray watched Brynne warily. For a moment there, she'd looked so lost and hurt, he'd nearly opened his big mouth and told her not to fret, that he was here and everything would be okay. But now she was back to giving him the strange look that raised the hairs on the back of his neck. He needed to get to the neighbors and use their phone to call 911 the minute the shower went on.
Brynne cocked her head again, retreating a step.
"I perceive that this odor and appearance may be offensive," she said, the raspy, flat voice back. "I will utilize your shower."
"Great. Towels are clean, just changed them out today. Just toss your clothes in the hall—no, make that the garbage. I'll ... find you something to wear."
Without another word, she turned and walked away along the short hallway, paused to peer into the dark bathroom, then walked in. The door shut behind her, the light went on.
Gray listened, not moving or breathing. The moment he heard the shower hissing quietly behind the closed door, he picked up his phone and shoved it into his pocket, then headed for the back door.
He was outside, across the narrow strip of back lawn, and vaulting over the fence to Topper's back yard in a moment.
Strangely, his Gran's neighbor was waiting for him on her back porch. He was up her steps and lifting a hand to knock on her door when Topper appeared from the deep shadows, the light from his porch glinting on her hair. "Hello, Grayson."
"Christ!" He skidded to a stop, his hands up before him, then blew out a hard breath. "Whoa, sorry, you startled me.” He blinked and looked again. Was her hair purple? Yes, it was. It had been a sort of pale tangerine yesterday.
“Listen, I need your help."
She gave him a bland look. "Tell me."
"Hard to know where to begin," Gray said, shoving a hand through his hair. "Ah, my old girlfriend just showed up. She's been ... gone, for months. We all thought she was dead. Now she looks like a—a ghost, she's filthy and she's talking nonsense. I need to use your phone to call the sheriff and the EMTs. She needs to be somewhere ... safe."
Somewhere they'd look after her, treat her like gold and somehow find the old Brynne and bring her back. She may have been annoying as hell, but she didn't deserve her present state.
Topper came closer. She put a hand on each of his arms, giving him a look of sympathy. "Grayson," she said. "I'm afraid I can't do that."
"What?" he jerked away from her. "Why not? You won't help an innocent girl who's mentally ill?" Jesus, he'd always known this woman was eccentric, but he'd never taken her for cold-hearted. "Never mind," he said, his lip curling. "I'll go find someone who doesn't mind getting involved."
>
And he had to hurry, he couldn't leave Brynne alone too long. She might hurt herself.
"Grayson," Topper snapped, frowning up at him. "That is not it. I will gladly do all I can to help the two of you. And so will others here, including the sheriff—although he does get rather heated about bringing trouble here. Not that you could know about this particular trouble, of course."
He turned back to her, shaking his head. "What the hell are you talking about? Are you gonna help or not?"
She lifted her hands, and he blinked. Were those little sparkles wafting from her fingers? No, of course not. And her hair must’ve had that orange streak in it already—it couldn’t have appeared just now.
"I mean, dear man, that you must keep your Brynne very close. Or more correctly, let her keep you close. I'm not sure why—the three fates didn't divulge that much—but I do know it's the only way you'll be safe."
“Brynne’s in danger?” Gray was already moving back down the steps, alarm prickling through him. Had someone followed Brynne here? Someone who wanted to harm her? Hell, maybe they'd even had her imprisoned somewhere, and she'd gotten loose.
He scanned the night beyond their back yards, but saw nothing but the faint line of the mountains against the starry skies, and the lights of a few vehicles out on the state highway through the valley.
"You think someone followed her here? Have you seen a strange vehicle, or strangers in the street?"
"No, dear. Not yet, but you are still in danger." Topper waved her hands impatiently at him. "You've come here to hide, but this kind of trouble cannot be shaken so easily. Now hurry back home. She will no doubt explain everything."
Gray shook his head. "Topper, would you just call the sheriff?" Meanwhile, he'd go home all right—and get his pistol. No one could've followed him, surely, but they could've followed Brynne. Later, he'd worry about how this woman knew he was here to hide out.
"Yes, dear," Topper smiled at him, suddenly agreeable. "If necessary. Hurry home."
Gray vaulted the fence again, and strode back across his Gran's small lawn. By the light of the porch, he pulled out his phone, opened the back to remove the battery, slid it back in and tried to power up his phone. Nothing. Just figured it would die now—it was that kind of night.
Hell, it'd been that kind of month.
When he walked in, he stopped short.
Brynne stood in the middle of his kitchen. She was scrubbed clean, her hair still in a tangle with some strange bits in it, but at least it was shoved back out of her face. She looked wan, but lovely, her eyes bigger than ever in her pale face.
She was also very naked.
CHAPTER FOUR
"I do not have appropriate garments," Brynne said in that weird voice.
"Come with me," he said, yanking his gaze with a mighty effort from her bared curves. "I'll find you something to cover up."
Because he couldn't think when all of her was on display, or when his body was reacting to the sight of her pretty breasts, and the sweet little triangle of light brown curls between her thighs.
He groaned, turning his back and adjusting himself in his jeans. Down boy. Just keep her talking and get a handle on whatever the hell was going on. Made it little tough to guard against danger when he had no idea where it would come from.
In his bedroom, he grabbed one of his old tees from a drawer of the old oak bureau. A faded blue, it bore a Seahawks logo on the front. He turned and stopped short. She stood close behind him, all of her within reach.
He looked away, gritting his teeth, and held out the tee. He didn’t turn back until out of the corner of his eye he saw it fall around her slim thighs. Next, he handed her a soft corduroy shirt in gray. "Here, put this on, too. You, uh, need to stay warm. I'll grab a pair of socks for you."
The corduroy shirt hanging around her like a robe, she took the pair of wool socks from him, and then gave him a blank look. "What do I do with these?"
"Put them on your feet," Gray said, fighting to keep his voice low and calm, even as his heart cracked open another notch at this further evidence she was not all here. "You always go barefoot, and then complain your feet are cold, remember?"
She said nothing, but perched on the side of his bed and pulled the socks on. She got the first one wrong with the heel up, and Gray pushed her hands aside and straightened the sock on her slender foot and ankle, then took the other sock and motioned for her to lift that foot. She did, and he pulled the sock up for her. Her skin was silky, cool and clammy. His socks were much too big, the heels riding up her ankle, but they stayed up around her calves.
"Socks," she recited, peering at her raised foot. "Also known as stockings. Worn with shoes."
He straightened, not sure if he wanted laugh or cry—maybe both. "Right."
A low grumble of sound emanated from her middle. She peered down at herself, her chin back, hands flying out. "What is that? It feels very ... strange."
She looked up at him again. "This body is experiencing discomfort. Inform me of what it needs."
Gray shoved both hands into his hair and held onto his head, pressing on it as if he could wrest some sense from this situation. He couldn't.
She sounded like a character from a that TV show of hers—one of the stranger characters. Like that episode with aliens. And maybe that explained a lot—she was suffering from some mental breakdown, so she fell back on a favorite fantasy. He just hoped she wasn't waiting for the brothers to join them.
Her stomach growled again, louder, and Brynne swayed, her face going paler than ever.
Gray gazed at his girlfriend. His freakishly strong, tech-destroying, dead-looking girlfriend.
She was here now, and whatever the hell she'd been up to, she obviously had not been taking care of herself. Since Topper refused to help him for her own reasons, until he could get to another phone, or alert another neighbor to call the sheriff and ask him to bring the EMTs with a strong sedative, he couldn't let Brynne faint on his carpet.
"You're hungry, at a guess," he said. "You never did eat enough to keep a chihuahua alive—from the looks of you, that hasn't changed. C'mon, there's food in the kitchen."
He held out his hand, but instead of waiting for him to lead the way to the kitchen, she gestured sharply for him to wait. "I will go first."
She was consistent, at least. She walked past him, pausing for a moment at the hallway leading to the bathroom, bedrooms and his studio, doing that weird head-tipping thing again. God, he hoped she wasn't about to stop the refrigerator, or blow up the microwave. He snorted at his own imaginings. She hadn’t done those other things—his phone dying was just a coincidence.
She was mentally ill, that was it. He looked from her to the front door, and calculated his chances of getting out and away to wait for the sheriff on the front porch. Then he looked at her thin frame in his enveloping shirts and sighed. No, he'd feed her first, then he'd go.
But he did open the drawer of his nightstand, pull his Ruger and slide it into the back of his jeans, then pull his tee over it. Nice thing about flying FBI Air, he'd been able to bring it in his duffel, with some ammo and neither of the agents had said a word.
Brynne stepped into the lighted kitchen, and surveyed it. "It is safe," she pronounced.
Gray rolled his eyes as he moved past her. "Yeah, could've told you that. Listen, whatever game you're playing, just drop it. Sarah Conner, you're not."
“I do not know this Say-ra Con-ner. Is she a friend of yours?”
Gray ignored the question. This was not the time to explain one of his favorite old movies. He opened the fridge, pulled out the supper from the cafe and set it on the little Formica table under the window, then grabbed a couple of plates and forks from the cupboards, and set them out as well.
As he opened the containers, the fragrance of good Mexican cooking wafted out. The plump enchiladas were swimming in red sauce, a mound of rice and chicken to one side. He shoved the container toward Brynne and opened the salad, which looked fresh and
green. "Here, eat."
She looked from him to the supper, and swallowed, her throat working above his shirt. "Okay, Gray-son."
She leaned over the enchiladas and opened her mouth. Gray moved in instinctive protest, only for the words to freeze in his throat ... as a big bite of enchilada floated up out of the container and through her parted lips.
She closed her mouth, chewed, and her eyes widened. "Mm-mm," she said in approval. Another, even bigger bite floated up toward her mouth.
Gray sat frozen, watching, as she steadily consumed half the contents of the container. Definitely peyote in his beer—had to be. Because otherwise, he was the crazy one here. This kind of stuff did not happen.
She eyed the second half of the supper, licked a stray bit of sauce from her lower lip and looked up at him. "This is very ... satisfying. Why do you not share it? You have already consumed your daily ration?"
"Ahh ..." he managed, any coherent speech frozen in his brain. "N-wha ..."
Brynne looked from his face to the container, to the table with plates and utensils. "This is not how you consume nutrition," she said, her voice quieter. "Oh. Pardon me for startling you, Gray-son. I will study your human nutritive habits and learn an alternate practice."
She closed her eyes, and Gray eased his chair away from the table, ready to move for the back door. Only to see Brynne's eyes open, her blue gaze fixing him in place.
"I comprehend now," she said in her flat, growly voice. "You humans utilize your prehensile digits and utensils. I will do so from now on, Gray-son."
Gray stood so fast the table rocked. "Enough!" he roared. "Brynne—that's enough of this—this whatever the hell you're into. Just stop."
"Sit down, please," she said. "I will ... explain."
Gray raked a hand through his hair and gestured. "Explain what? What the hell is going on with you? You're ... acting really weird. Doing all this strange stuff. Where the hell have you been—magic school or something? Vegas? Been hanging out with some gamblers and loan sharks, who dumped you in a—a reservoir or something?"
