Guardians of Summerfeld: Full Series: Books 1-4

by Melissa Delport

  It wasn’t what he wanted to hear, but Rafe couldn’t argue with her logic. It was ironic that after years of treating her with indifference, the first real emotion he experienced toward his sister was a fierce sense of pride.

  Chapter 5

  Genevieve lay beside Drake, listening to the steady sound of his breathing, a frown creasing her usually smooth forehead. She had arrived earlier than she had admitted, searching the entire town for Drake. Only when she had become suspicious had she made her way to that bitch’s house and finally found him. Genevieve had stayed out of sight as he stalked out of Quinn’s home in a rage. Drake was an intense person, but was not prone to emotional outbursts. It was one of the things Genevieve found so attractive about him – she could never really get under his skin. And yet this simple, unremarkable woman seemed to have done just that. Genevieve felt an overwhelming hatred for Quinn. First the attack, now this. Her fingernails dug into her palms. Quinn would have to be dealt with, permanently.

  Two blocks down, Quinn tossed and turned in her bed, willing herself to sleep. She had a queasy, unsettled feeling in her gut. The fight with Drake had affected her far more than she wanted to admit. It was frightening how important he had become to her in such a short space of time. She felt like she knew him well, and, at the same time, not at all. Heaving a sigh, she rolled onto her back staring at the ceiling in frustration.

  A noise downstairs distracted her and she sat bolt upright, her ears pricked, listening intently. She heard it again, a soft thud, followed by the sound of footsteps. Someone was inside her house. Rolling deftly to the side, Quinn grabbed her stake from the bedside table and then leapt off the bed in one swift movement. She was wearing only Tristan’s coat over a pair of bikini bottoms and a vest, but that was the least of her concerns. Making her way soundlessly down the stairs in the pitch black darkness of the house, Quinn heard nothing but the sound of her own heartbeat ringing in her ears.

  She paused, a few steps from the bottom, straining her ears. The next second someone moved below, coming towards her and Quinn flung herself forward, her body colliding with the intruder and knocking them both to the floor. The stake clattered out of her hand and Quinn rolled in the direction of the sound, desperate for a weapon.

  “What the hell?” a shocked voice rang out and she stopped, her racing heart slowing slightly.

  “Tristan?” she fumbled for the lamp on the table and finally found the switch. Flipping it on, she found Tristan sitting near the base of the stairs sporting a spectacular lump on his forehead.

  “Oh my God!” A nervous giggle escaped her as she made her way back over to him. “Tristan what are you doing here?” she offered him her hand and pulled him to his feet. “And how did you get in?”

  He clutched his head, wincing as he felt the lump.

  “You gave me a key, remember?” he pulled it from his pocket and dangled it in front of her. Quinn settled him on the sofa and ran to the kitchen to get a bag of frozen peas.

  “Here,” she pulled his hand free and placed the bag on his head. “You’re going to have a headache.” She felt inexplicably happy to see him, as if by simply being here he had chased away all her melancholy.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked, taking the bag from her and pressing it down himself. “You didn’t hide the crystal here, surely?”

  “No, of course not,” she lied. “I just came to see Sarah. I wasn’t far and I thought I’d stop by for a couple of days. But... why are you so surprised? Didn’t you come here looking for me?”

  “No,” he admitted. “In fact, now I feel a bit embarrassed, actually.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I came here to be closer to you... without actually being closer to you,” he grinned sheepishly. “Does that even make sense?”

  Quinn gestured at his coat, which she was still wearing because it smelt of him, and she shook her head.

  “Yeah,” she admitted. “It makes sense.”

  “It looks good on you,” he mused, his gaze falling to where the coat fell open, exposing her concave belly. Quinn quickly pulled it around herself.

  “Do you want something to drink? Something to eat?”

  “No, I’m fine,” he declined.

  “Well I guess you can stay in the spare room,” she offered politely, getting to her feet.

  Tristan followed her up the stairs to the double room that had been intended for Jack and Ava – the same room he had shared with Rafe. Quinn wasn’t sure what to say as the tension mounted between them. She was suddenly anything but tired, but they were both too embarrassed to speak.

  “If you need anything, just help yourself,” she murmured shyly.

  Back in her own room she had just pulled the covers over herself when there was a gentle knock on the door. With butterflies doing the conga in her stomach, she walked over and opened it.

  “There is something I need,” Tristan’s eyes were dark and sombre.

  “What is it?’ Quinn asked, already knowing the answer.

  The words had barely left her lips when his mouth claimed hers. Quinn didn’t want to think – she didn’t want to remember all the reasons why she shouldn’t be doing this. She didn’t want to acknowledge the part of her that secretly wondered if this was simply the best way to drive all thoughts of Drake from her mind. She didn’t want to feel anything but Tristan’s hard, lean body crushed against hers. Wrapping her arms around his neck she clung to him in wanton abandon, making it crystal clear that this time she would not resist him.

  Quinn woke in the morning with the groggy, sated feeling only a night of rampant lovemaking brought. Stretching languorously her hand encountered Tristan’s shoulder and she turned sleepily towards him. He pulled her closer, still lingering between sleep and wakefulness and she wriggled against him.

  “Good morning,” he murmured, his eyes still closed.

  “Morning,” she mumbled into his shoulder. When she pulled back, his eyes were open, clear blue as the sky through the window behind him.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Good,” she admitted, and he looked relieved.

  “We should talk,” he offered and Quinn nodded. They would have to discuss what had happened, but she needed a clear head.

  “I’m going to take a shower.”

  As she hopped out of bed, Tristan followed her progress, enjoying the glorious sight of her naked body. “I’ll meet you downstairs in five,” Quinn grinned, before stepping into the bathroom and pulling the door shut.

  Tristan pulled on his pants, discarded at the foot of the bed, and made his way downstairs. Putting the coffee on he replayed the previous night’s events in his head. He had made love to Quinn before, but last night had been different. She was more passionate than he remembered, but there was something else, something he couldn’t put his finger on. It was almost as if her body had been more invested than her heart. He was still reminiscing when she burst into the kitchen like a breath of fresh air.

  Handing her a cup of steaming hot coffee, he followed her into the living-room.

  “So,” Quinn began, “let’s talk.”

  “I love you, Quinn,” he announced, so out of the blue that she almost sloshed her coffee down her white T-shirt. “Don’t say anything,” he held up his hand before continuing, “I don’t want you to say anything. Not now. This situation is complicated and I know you’re confused. There is so much to consider – I’m confused too. But I’m not confused about that. I love you. I just needed you to know, no matter what happens.”

  Quinn felt a warm sensation blossoming in her belly and spreading through the rest of her body. Tristan loved her. He was right – it was complicated, and Quinn still wasn’t entirely sure if they could ever make it work; but he loved her, and for now, that was enough. Perhaps once she had avenged Avery’s death she could put her sister’s memory to rest once and for all and move on with her life, with Tristan. She wouldn’t make him any promises, but she owed it to him to tell him the truth. He had
loved Avery, too and he deserved his own closure. Taking a deep breath, Quinn made her decision.

  “I’m going to find Avery’s killers,” she told him. Her response was nothing he had expected and he gave a start of surprise.

  “How?” Not why, she noted, and she completely understood. They both knew why. She had been taken from them, and if there was any chance of justice, they would both take it.

  “You’re not going to like it,” she murmured, “but I need you to trust me.”

  Tristan’s response to the fact that she was working with a vampire was suitably outraged.

  “You can’t trust them, Quinn! Have you completely lost your mind? They’ll kill you!”

  “It’s not they,” Quinn insisted, “it’s he. And he won’t hurt me. He saved my life, Tristan.”

  “It’s a trap! Do you really think that a vampire would help a Guardian? We’re the ultimate prize – he’s just gaining your trust to make it easier.”

  “I trust him,” she said firmly, “and you’re going to have to trust me.”

  She could tell he didn’t like it. The thought of Quinn colluding with a vampire obviously made his skin crawl, but Tristan should know her well enough to know that she would not be dissuaded. She was just as stubborn as her sister had been – even more so.

  “I want to meet him,” he fired back eventually.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” she promised, but she seriously doubted that Drake would tolerate a third party getting involved in their arrangement. He was barely even speaking to her. “There’s something else,” she added, her stomach turning as she braced herself to ask him the question she had been dreading. “You found Avery’s body?”

  “Yes,” he nodded grimly.

  “How sure are you that she was attacked by vampires?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Are you sure that it was a vampire attack that killed her?” Quinn pressed. “Drake seems to think it may have been something else.”

  “Oh, does Drake?” he sneered furiously. “Well, Drake didn’t find her broken, mangled corpse. She had been bitten, Quinn! Bitten a thousand times! They tore her to shreds and left her in a pool of her own blood!”

  “Tristan,” she reached for him as he spun out of control. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I can’t imagine what you went through.” Her eyes welled with tears as she thought about the violent, vicious end to her sister’s life. “But we have to consider every possibility. If vampires attacked Avery why did they leave Jack and Ava?” Vampires were notoriously cruel when it came to the Guardians. Ava and Jack had been found, unharmed, in the room just next door to Avery’s body, screaming in their cribs. “Murdering a Guardian’s children would have been almost as great an achievement as killing the Guardian herself,” Quinn murmured.

  “The council discussed this,” he moaned. “They must have been interrupted. Or they didn’t know the children were there.”

  “Maybe,” Quinn soothed, still stroking his back, but she didn’t entirely believe that. Something was off and she was determined to get to the bottom of it. She had to know the truth.

  “I need you to promise me that you won’t say anything,” she asked much later when Tristan had calmed down. His eyes were bloodshot and all the joy of earlier seemed to have seeped from his body. He sat, stooped and unseeing, on the sofa. “Tristan?” she pressed.

  “For now,” he agreed, clearly wrestling with his better judgement. “But so help me, Quinn, if I sense that you are in any danger, I’ll hunt him down myself.” She expected nothing less.

  “Thank you.”

  Chapter 6

  Rowena finished unpacking their fair equipment, her mind and body exhausted. Balthazar stood alone at the far edge of the encampment refusing to look at her or even acknowledge her. She couldn’t blame him after what he had seen. The sleazy, vile man with the nasal voice and wads of cash who had clambered on top of her. He wasn’t the first. Countless nameless, faceless men had used her to satisfy their guilty pleasures, but he had been her undoing. Balthazar was never supposed to find out – hurting Balthazar was the last thing in the world she had ever wanted. He was kind and considerate and everything she had done had been for him. His obsession with the search would never be over. And without it, she feared he would never be the same man. So she had done whatever it took to make sure that he could continue. And she had never agreed to marry him, because how could she when she was not worthy of his love? Her vile actions had been performed out of pure selflessness – for him, but they kept her from committing to him in the eyes of God. And so she had deflected his proposals, letting him believe that she did not really want to marry - which was the bitterest lie of them all. Rowena loved Balthazar more than life itself. She had loved him her whole life and she would love him for the rest of her days. She took comfort in the fact that, despite everything, she had enabled him to fulfil his life’s mission. He had found the City, in a large part thanks to her actions, and with that, she would be content.

  Balthazar could see her, out of the corner of his eye. He was always aware of her – of every move she made – but he could not block out the vision of her in that tent, her soft white thighs spread wide, her hair coming free of its ties. He had retched when he arrived back, over and over until there was nothing left but dry heaving that hurt his insides. She had betrayed him; in the worst possible way. After everything he had done for her! He had sheltered her – kept her safe under his protection. He had allowed her to speak freely when gypsy women were expected to be subservient. Having worked himself into a hateful frenzy, Balthazar gave in to the black fury that had been growing and festering inside him since this morning.

  Striding over to where Melchior sat, stoking the fire, he waited until he had the man’s undivided attention.

  “She’s all yours,” he intoned hollowly, gesturing at Rowena. Melchior swivelled around, taking in her shapely form and a cruel smile split his face.

  “You’re kidding right?” he sneered.

  “No,” Balthazar replied ruthlessly. “You’re right. She needs to be taught some manners. She refuses to be my wife, so she’s fair game. Tell the men.”

  Rowena watched Balthazar moving away from Melchior, a feeling of dread coming over her. Drawing herself up to her full height she set her jaw stubbornly. She would not go down without a fight. As hurt and broken as she was without Balthazar, they would not break her spirit.

  The attack came earlier in the evening than she expected. She lay in the back of her truck with her eyes fixed on the canvas flap. She had sent the other women out, insisting they sleep in the main tent – she did not want them to witness this, or worse still, to be drawn into it. When Melchior pulled back the flap, a lecherous grin on his face, Rowena steeled herself.

  “What do you want, Melchior?” she feigned exasperation.

  “I just need a little loving, Ro,” he replied pleasantly. She had always hated that pet name.

  “I’m tired,” she snapped. “Go and find someone else more willing to share your bed.”

  “Just give me a couple minutes,” he coaxed. “You’ll be willing enough.”

  All the air was whooshed from her body as he clambered in an ungainly manner across her, sitting astride her as if she were a one-trick pony. By the light of her lantern she could see the mounting excitement on his face – the fact that, finally, after all these years of watching from a distance – he could claim her. She slipped her hand beneath her pillow and felt the hilt of the small dagger she had hidden there earlier. As she withdrew it, something caught her eye. The tent flap was pulled open again and Rowena saw a sea of faces staring into the truck bed - male faces, all waiting in line. Frozen with horror, she let go of the dagger. There were too many of them. Balthazar had released her into the community with free rein.

  “Get it over with,” she murmured hollowly, turning her head to one side.

  The night drew on, hours passing, punctuated by the heavy grunts and heaves of the gypsy men. Rowena said
nothing; she simply lay there, as still as a corpse, but she never once closed her eyes.

  It was Jonas who found her in the early hours of the morning. She had tried to get up when they had finally left her alone, but every movement was agony, and so she had simply collapsed back onto the worn blankets, staring unseeingly at the faded canvas.

  “Rowena!” Jonas took one look at her and leapt up onto the flatbed, taking her face in his hands. “Rowena!” he yelled again, and it sounded as though he was very far away. Rowena had withdrawn to another place - a place far from here - a place where they couldn’t hurt her no matter what they did to her physical body. Jonas’s face was screwed up in a panic, his hands assessing the damage, looking for injuries. He looked terrified, and very, very young. For him, she had to come back. She had to comfort him, to reassure him that everything would be okay.

  “I’m fine,” she managed to croak, her lips dry.

  “No, you’re not,” he wiped his nose with his sleeve, gently pulling the covers over her naked thighs. “Who did this to you?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she murmured, trying to clear her throat.

  “Here,” Jonas pressed a bottle of water against her lips and she drank gratefully.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  Helping her into a sitting position, he asked again, his mouth an ugly, grim line. “Who did this?”

  “It's fine, Jonas, everything’s okay, please don’t worry about me.”

  “I’m going to get dad,” he started to move away and she snatched at his sleeve.

  “No!” she cried desperately. A look of horrified understanding dawned on his youthful face.

  “He knows, doesn’t he?”

  Rowena nodded, tears of mortification springing to her eyes. She had not wept a single tear through everything she had endured last night, but Jonas’s kind, compassionate face, so like his father’s, crucified her.