by Connie Hall
Kane felt a snap of possessiveness as he barked, “Get a grip, man. Don’t fall under her spell.”
Charles blinked and seemed to realize what’d he’d been about to do. For a moment, he looked flummoxed; then he regained his dignity. His cheeks turned red. He cleared his throat and straightened, backing as far away from her as he could and still hold the ice pack. “I’m so sorry, sir. She glamoured me. I just couldn’t help it. She’s—”
“I know,” Kane finished for him. “Real trouble.” Kane had asked Charles to tend her wounds because he feared making a fool of himself as the butler had just done. Now he regretted his hasty decision. He’d much rather have tasted her cheek than become aware of this envious feeling for her. He’d been so careful about keeping his distance from everyone. He wasn’t about to let this tiny wisp of a human rattle his defenses. No, he was stronger than that.
“Imagine if a hunting party found her, the effect she would have on us all.” Charles shifted the ice pack so it wouldn’t fall. “Cleopatra herself didn’t have the allure of this human.”
“I know,” Kane said flatly, recalling the history of the seniphs. Cleopatra had been an enchanted alpha who had almost single-handedly destroyed her own pride because every male, including humans, fought wildly to have her. They weren’t aware that when she tired of toying with them, they’d become quarry for one of her royal night hunts. This human might be as deadly. He trusted his instincts, and they were screaming at him that she was another Cleo, or worse.
Kane’s brows snapped together. He purposely kept his gaze from her, not tempting trouble, as he picked up her purse. The leather-fringed bag was as large as a briefcase and made of patchwork neon colors. One of the ugliest handbags Kane had ever seen. No fashion-conscious woman in her right mind would carry something like this. But then this woman had to be out of her mind to go after a gleaner—unless she had hoped to use her temptress powers on Ethan, which might have worked if Kane hadn’t intervened.
Kane noticed a slight tremor in his hands. He hoped it was from the wounds in his shoulder and arm and not that he was in close proximity to this human femme fatale. Opening the bag, he pulled out a rotting apple, some chunks of cheese in a baggy, a handful of hair clips of varying sizes and shapes, hand lotion, ChapStick, a pair of blue Ben Franklin sunglasses, several tampons— Charles pulled a face at the last bit of plunder. “Where the hell is her license?” Kane said.
Kane lost his patience and turned the bag upside down. A bright yellow wallet with a smiley face on it fell out. He glowered at it for a second, thinking he’d enjoy burning it when he was done with it.
Charles’s mustache wiggled in distaste. “I’m not sure it’s such a good idea to keep her here, sir.”
“She stays until I decide what to do with her.”
“But the Council, sir—”
Kane shot Charles a look that normally sent him into a hasty retreat. “Enough about the Council. I know the danger. That’s why I’m sending all of you away.”
Charles’s bushy gray brows snapped together. “But the house, sir. Who will take care of you?”
“I’m quite capable of taking care of myself. And I won’t put you in danger because of your loyalty to me. Go now, and leave with your family as soon as you can. And you haven’t seen me or this human. That clear?”
Charles made a zipper motion over his lips. “Nothing, sir.”
Kane thought a moment, then said, “And take your boys to the Rockies on me. They need a hunting vacation. So do you.” A seniph’s hunting vacation didn’t include guns. It was all shifter and nature.
Charles still looked unsure, crushing the ice pack between his hands. “At least let me tend your wounds, sir.”
“Nothing, remember?” Kane’s expression said this conversation had ended.
Charles heaved a loud sigh and gave a final nod. He would have clicked his heels had he been wearing Army boots instead of a pair of galoshes. He set the ice pack on a side table, gave Nina a distrustful but longing glance, then said, “Call me, sir, if I can be of service.”
“Thank you, you’ve helped enough.”
Kane listened to Charles’s footsteps clop through the guest house; then the back door slammed. Charles’s minivan revved up; then the heavy snow engulfed the engine noise. It had snowed six inches and was still coming down in thick gusts.
Kane had brought the human here for privacy. The guest house was almost a mile from the main house, and it was cleaned only once a month. The less the staff knew, the better. And now that he knew he wasn’t imagining the enchanting allure of the human, he knew he had to keep her from everyone in the pride.
He pulled out a mound of credit cards from the smiley wallet. It seemed to be laughing at him, and he frowned as he found her license buried on the bottom. The mug shot made her look mousy and nervous, but she had a nice smile. He read on: Nina Rainwater. He paused over the name, couldn’t place it, then continued. Twenty-one years old. She resided on the Patomani Indian Reservation. Well, that explained her tanned coloring—then it hit him.
He recalled why Rainwater had sounded so familiar. Fala Rainwater had just become the new Guardian. News of her reign had just reached the pride’s council. They’d had a town meeting to announce it last week. So that’s where he’d heard the name. He’d never met the Guardian, but he’d heard rumors, one being that the bloodline of the Guardian came from female Patomani Indians, more particularly Rainwater women. Meikoda Rainwater, Fala’s grandmother, had been the prior Guardian. The Guardian was supposedly the most powerful shaman alive, defender of all goodness on earth. He cocked a skeptical brow at that myth. As far as he could tell, there was no goodness anywhere, and evil was winning hands down.
His thoughts strayed back to Nina Rainwater and her formidable relatives. If one of her relatives was the Guardian, what was Nina Rainwater? There were no myths or rumors regarding her powers, but he and Charles—and Kane suspected Ethan—had felt her influence. Had she been sent here to eradicate Ethan? That would surely complicate matters. And what about disposing of her? It might bring down the wrath of the Guardian as well as the Patomani council of shamans. Not if he steered them elsewhere and removed all evidence of her.
He wished he’d never seen Nina Rainwater. He couldn’t let her go now, because she knew too much. And she’d had the ability to track Ethan quite a distance. Even Kane’s heightened senses weren’t able to trace Ethan. He gave off no physical scent; his body burned it off. And the snow had covered his tracks. But he noticed that when Ethan had cloaked himself, she had been stumped, too. Maybe there was a limit to her powers. Another mystery about her that he didn’t like. Once he got the truth out of her, he’d have to take care that all evidence of her was cleaned out, and he’d have to dump her car far away from here. He’d driven it deeper into the woods, in a ravine, and covered it with leaves and branches. A temporary fix, but not for long.
Something bulged from the wallet’s zipper compartment. He opened it and found her business cards: Happy Face Inc., Pet Psychic When You Need One, Day or Night. It had her name, email address and telephone number at the bottom. Perhaps her psychic powers had led her to Ethan. He hoped the Guardian hadn’t sent her here. Just how powerful was she? He could still feel the hypnotic pull of her charmed body.
He turned and threw the hideous purse and wallet into the fireplace. He poked it, jabbing it deep into the logs, then looked at Nina Rainwater. She was still as death, but the color had come back to her skin, and her body had stopped trembling. She looked petite and lost in the king-size bed. Her hair fanned out around her head on the pillow. Firelight danced blue highlights along the thick dark strands. Charles had tucked her beneath the covers to warm her. With all those layers of clothes on, it must not have taken long.
Kane grimaced, remembering how he couldn’t allow himself near her. Charles had put ice on the nasty knot that had formed above her brows, but it had still grown to the size of a quarter and turned purple. It looked like an all-seei
ng third eye, and he almost felt it staring at him.
He grew uncomfortable and poked the fire again, fighting the intoxicating force drawing him near her. He felt his beast growing aroused at her nearness, too. He quelled an overwhelming desire to crawl into bed and lay beside her, feel her skin against his, inhale her sweet breath again. He wanted to consume her and stop these insane cravings. He knew what a junkie must feel like, and he hated the vulnerability of it. He’d made a point of staying away from all women, human or seniph, since Daphne’s death, and he couldn’t allow Nina Rainwater to change that. No, her glamour had no power over him if he didn’t allow it. All it took was self-discipline. And he had that in spades. And once she awakened and he questioned her, he’d be rid of her for good.
But what to do with her in the interim? He couldn’t stay here and be this close to her. He jabbed at the fire again and scowled at the spitting flames that consumed her purse and blackened the smiley face on her wallet. Abruptly it occurred to him what he could do with her.
Nina awakened, her forehead pounding. Moldy dank air filled her senses and drew her brows together. A pain shot through her forehead. It all came back to her now: being chased by the seniph, bumping into the limb.
She reached up to rub her forehead but found her hands bound with duct tape. Her knees and ankles, too, mummy-style. Then she recalled the seniph chasing her. He must be holding her prisoner. Dread gripped her, and her eyes flew open.
Overhead a hazy dim bulb burned from a bare socket. It hung from a bare rafter in the center of the room, throwing dim golden shadows around her. She was in a dungeon—no, there were shelves and shelves of wine bottles packed around her. A wine cellar?
She raised her head and noticed she was lying on an old army cot. Someone had thrown a bunch of blankets over her—not very clean ones, either. They were moth-eaten and grease-stained and looked as if they had been down here longer than the wine. So her captor had tied her up in this horrible place, but worried about her comfort. How thoughtful.
She guessed she should be grateful she was still alive. That really didn’t make her feel much better—especially now. So much for positive thinking.
Something rustled and chattered near her. The sensations of insatiable hunger and curiosity filtered into her thoughts. She shifted her gaze to the floor as two small creatures scurried beneath the cot, their long tails swishing, their feet making a delicate pitter-patter on the brick floor. Rats. The least of her worries.
The resourceful little rodents tested the legs on the cot to see if it would hold. Rats weren’t so bad. She was always finding them and nursing them back to health. They were intelligent creatures and appreciative and always sad they wouldn’t be able to talk to her anymore when she released them back out into the wild. She’d also helped rat owners when their pets were going through some emotional trauma. Most of the time they were just plain lonely and the installation of another rat into their cage did the trick.
It was the were-rats you had to watch. They marauded through urban areas at night. When they shifted, they turned into city rats as large as labs, but not as friendly. They’d grab humans in a minute and pull them down through a sewer drain and make a tasty meal of them. Lord help anyone who ventured down into their sewer territories uninvited. If she had to go down to discover the source of a shiver, she had to clear it with the local “king” first. And each city had its own monarch. It wasn’t a pleasant experience dealing with were-rats. Regular rats received most of the blame for the damage were-rats left behind. Didn’t seem fair. Maybe man would one day recognize his ignorance.
The industrious rats found a way to lever their bodies against the wall and the cot legs, then clambered up beside her. They reared up on their hind legs and sniffed the air for her fear. When they found none of the usual human dread that accompanied the sight of them, their eyes gleamed and their whiskers quivered. Their curiosity overcame the last of their reticence, and they crawled cautiously toward her.
“That’s right, come on,” Nina cooed, though she knew they couldn’t understand her yet. If it had been their spirits she was communicating with, it wouldn’t have been a problem, but in their present living state she had to touch them to give them an order they couldn’t refuse.
One of the rats grew bold and edged along her legs and sniffed the blanket covering her legs and thighs. The other followed, its pink nose twitching. Brave One scampered up her leg and hopped onto her stomach.
She opened her fingers as wide as her bound wrists would allow and grabbed the rat by his neck. Gotcha, my friend!
He struggled in fear for a second; then her thoughts worked through him and he became pliant. She gave him a mental order. His free will balked for a nanosecond; then he relaxed and began gnawing on the duct tape between her wrists.
The second rat, a female, very pregnant, couldn’t stay away. Mrs. Rat crawled up Nina’s hip and perched in the hollow of her stomach. Hello to you, too. Nina stroked the rat with her index finger, and it looked content and a little dreamy-eyed. Join your partner, thank you. She felt the rodent’s will become her own, then released it.
The female scrambled down her legs and paused near her ankles. She felt a light tugging as the rodent chewed on the duct tape.
You’re good little soldiers.
They seemed content with the praise.
She decided to take advantage of them once more and asked, Where am I?
Van Cleave mansion, Brave One answered.
Good eating in the winery. Lots of grapes. Tasty, not like this nasty tape.
Sorry. Is the owner a seniph? She prayed the answer would be no, but she had a gut feeling her prayers were futile.
Yah-uh. Kane Van Cleave. We don’t go near him. Seniphs aren’t good. Make us afraid. We stay down here.
We don’t want to die. Can’t, can’t, can’t. Mrs. Rat’s thoughts broke into the conversation.
Her captor’s name was Kane Van Cleave. Her stomach clenched at the thought of him. She grew impatient waiting for her liberators to finish their job and asked, Are there windows down here?
No, no, no. Only one way in and out for humans—the stairs.
In a few minutes, the rats freed her. Nina jerked off the rest of the tape, stretched her wrists and her ankles, then rolled off the cot and pulled down her sweater.
She watched the rats scamper off into the shadows.
Now to escape without detection, hopefully. She found the staircase, eased up the stairs and reached the door. Gently, she tested the knob.
Locked.
She headed back down, hating that she was losing precious seconds. After a frantic search, she came up empty-handed. She had to elicit the rats’ help again. They pointed her to a cabinet that held a bucket with old tools. She grabbed the flat-head screwdriver and sneaked back up the stairs.
After some careful twisting and jamming, she paused and listened at the door.
Nothing.
She eased the door open only wide enough to peer through.
Four gas sconces burned in a long hallway that seemed to stretch on forever. The ceilings had to be twenty feet in height. Dark mahogany wainscoting covered the walls. Beautifully carved rosettes and lions in different poses decorated the paneling. Gilded laurels and vines of flowers outlined the ceiling tiles. She could see a window at the end of the hall. Not just any window, but a massive arched thing at least fifteen feet high. It would have looked at home in a castle. Elaborate stained glass covered every inch. A huge letter V slashed across the middle, cleaving the glass into thirds. Ivy crept along the V and formed weird hieroglyphic-looking symbols. The darkness behind the window didn’t do the work of art justice. She wondered how late it was and how long she’d been down in the basement.
The opulence and size of the mansion lent it a hollow, uninviting feel that consumed everything, that seemed to say, “Enter at your own risk.” Nina much preferred her grandmother’s tiny rancher, where she had grown up. This place was too formal and austere, and, wh
at was even worse, Kane Van Cleave could be lurking somewhere in this place.
She gulped, then made sure the coast was clear and quickly opened the door, hoping the hinges wouldn’t creak. They moaned, but softly. Her shoes hissed on the Persian hall runner. Gritting her teeth, she tiptoed down the hall.
She could only turn left into another hall. This mansion felt like a giant labyrinth with no escape. A kingdom for a window she could open or a door leading outside, she thought ruefully.
She reached the sleeping quarters. All done just as lavishly as the rest of the house and in varying colors. She passed a blue, green, lilac and pink room.
She paused at the end of the hall and ducked in a yellow and gold room. She didn’t dare turn on a light, but from the hall sconce she could see it was a beautiful room, with brocade gold and yellow curtains and a four-poster mahogany bed with a canopy that matched the drapes. The posters were as large as her waist: hand-carved and museum-quality.
She hurried past an armoire and matching writing desk; they looked as if Marie Antoinette herself had used them. She paused before the windows, miniature versions of the hulking stained-glass window she’d just seen. She gazed outside. At least two stories up. It had started to snow, too. She could see the flakes within the globes of lights that stretched along a vista of manicured lawn and an English garden. Was this the front of the mansion? She tried the latch.
Locked or frozen from age and lack of use.
With a heavy sigh, she gave up and returned to the corridor. In minutes she reached the end and another set of stairs, much grander, wider and spiraling downward. She peered over the carved railing. The staircase swept into a huge entrance hall, the likes which could make Donald Trump jealous.
