by Livia Quinn
Talk about highs and lows. Was it any wonder she would turn to her calm, composed, self-possessed friend, Montana. Without those qualities, in her line of work, she’d go willy-nilly through the male population of Destiny annihilating each of them on their inevitable bad days. Montana and Dylan had been her closest friends for years, but after what happened recently, the relationship with Dylan was a big question mark.
Tempe walked across the patio to the rustic front door. The place must have been built to accommodate giants, with an arched entry almost as big as a castle’s. With her hand raised mid-knock, menori, Tempe’s inner storm perked up as a thump sounded against the door from the inside, followed by, “I’ve got you this time.” Montana’s voice.
Then the deep rumble of a male voice, “Not for long, lassie. Attack.” Then, a clash of metal sliding against metal. Swords! Several strokes and parries could be heard as the opponents bumped against the walls. A chair toppled and Tempe thought a lamp fell over, but it didn’t stop the momentum of the fight. Was Montana being threatened, or was she a willing participant? Surely, not in her own living room. Still, she did like her warrior arts…
Menori bristled, ready to unlock Montana’s door, preparing to fight. Her energy sped through Tempe’s veins and pushed power to the water and air filled cells of her body, but the results were sluggish.
A clank, followed by another sliding rasp of metal, and then the obvious indication that Tempe was intruding, “You have the most beautiful breasts.” The heavy Scottish accent gave a clue as to Montana’s guest.
Montana’s throaty laugh filtered through the walls easily. “Maybe I’ll allow you to pleasure them someday, warrior.”
Tempe’s eyes flew open. Montana not only had male company but was engaging in some kinky sword-fighting foreplay. At least that’s what all the sighing and rhythmic wall banging usually meant. She’d never known Montana to hook up with a man, even assuming she might not “do” men. That gave her another little jolt, followed immediately by guilt. There was no one she’d rather see take “the fall” than Montana, Ms. What-do-I-need-man-for, Dinnshencha.
Tempe smiled. You go for it, my friend. If anyone deserved a special man in her life, it was Montana who championed women with no concern for the cost to her own personal life. She didn’t think it was a conscious decision Montana made, just a product of her nature. Tempe turned away from the door, to allow menori some distance, and Montana her privacy.
Tempe was tired of being let down, time after time. At a young age, with their father “dead” and their mother seemingly disinterested, Tempe had learned to rely on no one but herself for River’s care. Then River had gone missing and she met Jack. He’d opened his door to sign for a package, and when their fingers met, something indescribable happened. Not to mention, there’d been all that tanned muscled glory, the water droplets from his hair and that little dollop of shaving cream trailing down his broad chest…
Jack, who had come to Destiny thinking he’d found a plain ol’ Mayberry-ish small town to bring up his daughter, had surprised them all. From the time he’d seen Tempe unlock car doors with just a look, to his witnessing the full fury of her volcanic thunderstorm (he’d called it “beast mode”), he’d somehow managed to come to terms with Destiny’s secrets and the existence of all kinds of creatures with intelligence. POPS, he called them— people of power.
She’d honestly expected him to take off but instead, he’d had nothing but praise for the community’s support for their own and for his teenager, Jordie, their newest basketball star. His newfound acceptance of the extra-normal in Destiny had been put to the test last night though, when he’d overheard Aurora say that Jordie was a budding Paramortal. That was like saying, Welcome to your worst nightmare, Jack but he’d even reconciled himself to that after Tempe compared Paramortals to being in the military and defending the weak like he’d done his entire life. He was such an alpha hero.
They’d spent three memorable hours together, making love and, Tempe thought, building a foundation of trust. He’d not only taken the bizarre occurrences in his bedroom in stride but seemed to get a kick out of the whole experience. Then her coach had turned into a pumpkin. It just took a little longer than expected.
Wandering back down the lane from Montana’s, she wondered what had transpired after she left Jack’s. Jordie was at her grandparents’ so if Georgeanne had been able to entice Jack back into his bed… no, she wasn’t going there. Making sure she had the hem of the gown scooped up off the pavement, she started walking.
What the— and wound up at Dylan’s.
Chapter 2
That’s what feeling sorry for yourself and not watching where you’re going will land you—at your ex-lover’s house where you lived until two years ago, when you caught him, to use an over-used cliché, “in the arms of another”.
You know more now, she reminded herself.
It doesn’t make me like it any better, she told herself’s self. The bottom line was, they had baggage. Still they always seemed to cycle back to each other at work, as friends… and… no one could cheer her up quite like Dylan.
She looked at the well-maintained cottage. Painted a pale gray with burgundy trim, it was a small dwelling but with high ceilings that could accommodate Dylan’s eight-foot Finrir. The flowers she’d planted when she lived with him had not been replaced. A ten-speed bike leaned against the front wall of the porch, but the garage was closed so there was no way to tell if he was inside. She walked up the steps to the door.
The reasons for his actions had been complicated and not entirely his fault. He’d been appointed her guardian until she went through the quickening. He’d apologized for hurting her, all of them had. Her friend, and mentor, Aurora, had been in on the secret of her father’s non-death, as had all the Paramortals, bound by some plan that would supposedly keep her and River safe until her quickening. Great plan. River had been kidnapped and everything had changed.
Tempe knocked on Dylan’s door. “Dylan.” What was she going to say? What would he think? She pushed the buzzer and listened. He wasn’t home. Dylan’s bike practically shouted to her sore feet, “Take me!” and eyeing a roll of pink flagging on the air conditioner she made her decision. She wound the stretchy plastic around her waist, corralled the fluffy fabric and tied it out of her way. Gingerly placing her bare feet on the pedals she took off, pulling out her cell phone. Sometimes you were drawn to old habits even though you knew it wasn’t the best path. If he turned that charm on her tonight, what would she do? Was there any spark left? Tempe, you’re pathetic.
After what had happened at Jack’s, she wasn’t herself. She knew it, but she still dialed Dylan’s number. It went straight to voice mail. Montana had company—that still blew her away—and Dylan was Zeus only knew where.
Wait! Why hadn’t she thought of Kat, her mysterious friend, who worked nights from home and slept during the day. Kat lived at the edge of the swamp, in a refitted out-of-service hearse, of all things. She was a financial planner and also worked for the newspaper as an archivist. Nighttime suited her since she was a shifter, a huge black cat, like a puma or panther. Tempe’d never asked because Katerina was protective of her past, but she’d seen the cat a few times.
The hearse was limited on space, but Kat didn’t need a lot of room for her wardrobe since everything she wore was black, black glasses (even at night), a black trench coat, black gloves and under it all what looked like a black, no kidding, cat suit. Jack called her 003. He thought she was on the run from somewhere or someone. Tempe just hoped Kat wouldn’t mind some company. She hadn’t actually visited her hearse before.
She reached into the bodice of the gown for her cell phone and steering the bike with one hand, dialed Dylan’s number, once again getting his voicemail. Trying to maintain her balance and waiting too long to get her thoughts together cost her a chance at leaving a message.
Should she call back? What would she say? I know it’s early but I just wanted you to be the
first to know, Jack’s ex showed up and it looks like it’s over. Right.
Remembering her early morning coffee with Arabella the day before she mentally composed a new message. I wanted to talk to you about something Arabella and I… sensed at the swamp yesterday morning. Oh, and there’s this new guy in town I wondered if you knew anything about. And by the way, I stole your bike since Jack’s ex showed up, and I was on foot.
She decided a simple message would be much better. Call me. As she arrived at Kat’s, the bike’s front tire twisted on a loose rock and her foot slipped off the pedal. She grabbed the handle with the phone in her hand, and accidentally re-dialed.
Two things happened at once. She spotted the familiar SUV parked just beyond the former funeral transport, and someone’s cell phone started ringing inside Kat’s home. Zeus’ stray bolts! She had to get out of there.
Before she could turn the bike around and emulate a streak of lightning leaving the campground, the rear door of Kat’s “home” opened and Dylan’s long lanky frame unfolded out of the boxy black hearse. He tucked his shirt into his pants, zipped up, and ran his fingers through his tousled black hair.
Tempe didn’t think she’d ever seen Dylan look tousled. He was followed by the dark clad figure of Katerina. Tempe shook herself out of her shocked stupor and ended the call. Dylan peered at his phone, read the caller ID, and slipped his phone back in his pocket. Then he took Kat’s hand and pulled her to him.
Moonlight illuminated them as their kiss grew more intimate. Tempe didn’t dare move an eyelash. They might hear her—or not—they were pretty wrapped up in each other. If she didn’t move or clear her throat or something, they would eventually discover her standing there, watching them.
There was no help for it. Dylan caught sight of her over Katerina’s head. He was good. Kat may have felt him stiffen, but to Tempe he appeared unaffected, as if he was caught in his lover’s arms every day. Well, hello, he was! By Tempe, at least.
“Tempe,” he said, setting Katerina away from him.
Tempe heard a disgruntled snarl. Oops. “Uh, I… sorry, I’ll just go now,” she said, and dismounting the bike on one side, turned the handlebars away from the hearse. Dylan made a sound, and she looked back over her shoulder just in time to see Kat in her black puma form rise onto her back legs and take a swipe at Dylan with one large paw, claws fully extended.
Dylan dodged it, luckily for him, and shouted, “What—”
Tempe yelled, “Kat!” to distract her from pouncing on Dylan, which looked like her intent. She turned a hot golden glare on Tempe, and with a roar, leaped over Dylan’s six foot four inches and disappeared toward Lightning Bayou.
Tempe shrugged, “Sorry. Was that your first fight? I guess I should have called first.”
Dylan had been watching Kat’s path toward the bayou, but now turned his narrowed gaze on Tempe.
Something niggled at Tempe’s memory as Dylan walked toward her, something about Kat’s appearance. As the cat sailed over Dylan’s head, a feature that hadn’t been part of Kat’s nature before was captured by the moon’s rays—a full lion’s mane.
Chapter 3
“After the ball was over… Sweetheart my love, my own…” Montana’s raspy alto crooned as she twirled from one object to another in the large great room. The place was a shambles, chairs overturned, her ancient displays catty-wumpus on the walls, cushions everywhere, and wine glasses on their sides by the couch.
If she were human she might have said it was the wine that started it all…
She’d had several glasses of wine before Elder Rawlins announced him at the ball the night before. Seeing him, she’d been enamored, wasted, mesmerized, in heat. From the tips of those beautiful and deadly swords to the armored shoes, not to ignore the fine muscles, the black silk of his luscious hair falling to his shoulders, nearly covering the winged tattoos… she’d wanted him.
She hadn’t wanted to want him. If she hadn’t known better she might have described herself as a bitch in heat. Everyone else, every thing else—the music, the food, her friends—all of it had faded away. She’d been locked on the Dark Knight, as if the huge ballroom was empty—the ball, their own private affair.
Montana ran his name across her lips, “Conor de Sept Flambé… the Knight Flambé… Conor.” Montana was not a woman who experienced shyness or false modesty, and especially not guilt over her instant attraction to any being. It was instinct—what Tempe or the humans would call hormones, but hormones weren’t an issue for Dinnshenchas. They didn’t exist, and would quite get in the way of one’s tasks.
Now desire… that was a whole other animal. The Knight pinged her desire like a proverbial arrow through the heart. Who’s arrow—Cupid’s? Oh, no, not going there. This was lust, pure and simple, and half of it was for the damn swords.
She’d been unable to break the compulsion to track him wherever he went. At the bar, a short curly headed blonde in a purple Maid Marian costume had flirted shamelessly, relentlessly, trying to draw him into conversation. With her baby-blues locked on him, her hands had fluttered up to illustrate her words, but his dark head turned and his black eyes sought out Montana’s, and held. There was no question in them, no suggestion, no feigned interest. It was a look that said, I’m putting up with these inane humans, but I’m here for you—just say the word.
Her eyes had flared sending one eyebrow arching up, as she swallowed. Had he spoken to her telepathically or was her warrior soul hearing his? She didn’t know. She was definitely intrigued though. She realized if it hadn’t been for him she would have left by now, having only attended anyway for the charity, which was important enough, critical enough to the lives of her families, that she put up with women like Jane and irritating males like Dick. Right now she felt the distinctive urge to twist one curly blonde’s head around and point her in the direction of the young redheaded Pirate across the room who couldn’t seem to take his eyes off her.
Instead, the little ninny was trying to gain the affections of the Knight Flambé.
Go away, Sweetie. He’s a thousand times more man than you could handle, she’d thought. Then the inexplicable happened. He bent over, those large metal-cuffed hands coming down delicately (so gently Montana groaned) on the short blonde’s shoulders. His head bent slowly toward hers—no! Surely, not. Montana punched out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and almost transformed into D-mode—when he suddenly turned the young woman, pointed at the redheaded man, and whispered in her ear.
The girl’s eyes widened when Blackbeard, well, Redbeard broke into a smile, beaming on her like sunshine. The Knight gave her a gentle shove as if launching a boat away from the shore, the momentum sending her floating across the floor, like a dingy in the pirate’s fleet as she drifted toward the mother ship. When she arrived, he took her hand, brought the little boat into port, linked her arm over his and led her away, out of everyone’s view. She’d never even looked back.
Montana had felt the Knight’s gaze on her then. She met it, wondering—had he merely suggested or enlightened the young woman about the interest of the auburn haired man, or had he hypnotized her? She raised a brow again in question. The corner of his mouth may have canted up just a tad. She saw the answering complimentary sparkle in his black eyes, as if saying, She was just a child. You know she’s not for me.
Rare self-doubt had slithered down Montana’s spine then and she’d turned away, walked to Aurora’s table, and flopped down in the chair next to her. She’d been sipping soda with her wine all night for the indigestion that still lingered from eating that horrible troll’s foot. She pushed the glass away and plopped her chin on her palm.
Sulking wasn’t like her. She pretended, tried to be interested in anyone else in the room; even made a pretense of conversation with a couple of Aurora’s customers, but her eyes traveled back faithlessly to the bar where a pair of black eyes behind an eerily organic looking mask tracked her movements like a raptor. She turned to find Aurora studying her.
“What?”
Aurora’s angled brow needed no real interpretation, but she confirmed it anyway, “Don’t look at me, I warned you.”
Chapter 4
For the rest of the evening, no matter where she was, if she turned her head, and looked across the expanse of revelers she’d find his eyes fastened on hers, as if he’d been waiting for her to turn. Once, she turned back toward the bar but it was oddly clear, only Flambé standing there, framed by the oak counter, one of his swords standing in front of him on its hilt, the tip nearly reaching the Knight’s chest. He’d been cleaning it, shining and stroking the deadly edges with a cloth, so intimately acquainted with them that he wasn’t even watching.
His attention was all on her, the rims of his eyes lined like a predator’s, causing her to shiver briefly, but if that look was for her, he should know she was not prey. By her very nature, predators were her enemy. And still she felt the pull of pure heat as if they were connected in some way.
Sometime after Tempe and Jack left, the orchestra had suddenly stopped playing the zydeco music and the unlikely strains of a minuet had filled the room. Everyone looked up in surprise. Then as it had when he entered, the crowd split, giving the swordsman a wide berth as he strode purposefully across the ballroom floor toward Montana’s side of the room, his gaze locked on hers the whole way. Surely… she broke the contact to search the area around her, but there was no one nearby. He was coming for her. Her Dinnshencha reared up, readying for this formal meeting. It seemed impossible that she hadn’t actually met him yet.
