by A. Vers
“That was amazing,” she said, her voice laced with awe. “How did you do that?”
Arching a brow, I peered at her. “Really?”
She leaned up a bit, her raven hair in a tousled wave down her back. “Yes. I could hear each beat as it slowed. Your breathing calmed too. How did you do it?”
“It’s like meditation,” I said honestly. “Takes practice.”
She frowned in the dimness, as though weighing my answer. With a nod, she said, “Then I would like to learn.”
My chuckle was soft. It was such a Morgan thing to say. She was hungry for the knowledge of how to defend herself. Being calm under pressure was a good place to start. “Sure. We’ll add it to your training.”
Apparently satisfied with that answer, she laid down at my side again. Her arm brushed mine, but she made no move to scoot over so I didn’t pull away either.
“You are so much warmer than I am,” she said, almost as an afterthought.
“Well, it’s hot and I’m not complaining.”
She laughed softly. “Fair enough.”
We lapsed into silence again. I counted the seconds as the rain poured outside. The soft flow of her breathing deepened and her body relaxed bit by bit.
But oddly, I wasn’t tired at all.
There were no other sounds. No creaks or footsteps.
Whatever she heard earlier, I was chalking it up to the storm.
I knew her worries were high. Knew it before she ever brought it up earlier. A girl like her wasn’t meant to carry such a heavy weight.
No. Morgan wasn’t evil and she didn’t deserve to be hunted like she was. I meant what I said earlier, I wouldn’t let them take her. Not Giroux. My father. Ames.
Her parents.
I wasn’t sure what had happened to make Morgan want to leave Lokworth, but I knew her parents were at the heart of it. And now they were offering a reward for her return.
It was a sizable chunk, too. Someone would take them up on it. The sooner I could teach her the basics of self-defense, the easier it would be for me to protect her.
Closing my eyes, I listened to the gentle sound of her exhales and forced my breathing to match.
The only way she would leave my side was if she chose to go. She had spent her entire life playing by their rules, and it was high time Morgan learned to make her own.
I awoke during the night. The storm had passed and the house was quiet. For a long moment, I didn’t know what had woken me. There was no thunder. No light. I turned my head, expecting Morgan to still be asleep, but the bed was empty.
I sat up. “Morgan?”
There was no answer.
Climbing to my feet, I rushed out into the hall, heart in my throat. The calm night shone through the kitchen and I darted out onto the porch, shoving the sheet to one side. The Jeep was still behind the house. The barn door was closed, and there was no sign of her dark hair anywhere.
Panic overtook my normal calm. “Morgan!” I yelled, dropping down onto the wet grass. Mud spattered my feet, but I didn’t care. “Morgan!”
Diving around the side of the barn, I took off running, head whipping this way and that. Searching for her.
The fields behind the house were empty save for tall grass and the occasional tree. “Morgan?” I called again, straining for any response. Any snapping limb. Something.
I crested the hill and stopped.
A familiar lean frame stood outside a short iron fence. Inside were rough cut stones.
Tombstones.
I sagged. “Mor? What the hell? You should be sleeping, not exploring.” I walked toward her. With the storm passed, the moon and stars were visible above, casting a soft white glow over the wet ground and Morgan’s long hair.
She was like a goddess in the dark, her skin luminous. Ethereal.
I reached her side and laid my hand gently on her shoulder. “You scared me.” No response. I sighed. “Come on, Mor. I didn’t mean to yell.”
When she continued to ignore me, a prickle of unease crept along my skin. Slipping around her, I stared into her vacant expression. Her lilac eyes were dull, not as bright as usual. Not normal.
My hand was very dark as I gripped her cheek. “Morgan? Hey. You okay?”
Her head turned toward me and tilted. The motion was stiff, jerking. Fear pricked my tongue.
Shaking her, I growled, “Morgan? Snap out of it.”
No response. Just that creepy head tilt and her eerie silence.
My mind whirred. Whatever was going on, it wasn’t Morgan. Shaking hadn’t worked. So what would?
I peered around and spotted a thin, sharp looking piece of stone in the moonlight. Hating the idea, but not having any others, I bent and closed my fingers around it.
She continued to just watch me and the hairs at the back of my neck prickled.
I laid the sharpest point of the stone over the top of my forearm and sliced. The pain was immediate, and I knew I hadn’t gone too deep, thankfully. But the first few drops of my blood welled on my skin.
Dropping the rock back into the grass, I held my arm up under her nose. Nothing. I smeared my fingers with my blood and painted the full bottom swell of her lips.
When I tried to pull back, her hand flew out faster than I knew she could move, catching my wrist in an iron grip.
“Morgan?”
She made a hungry sound deep in her throat and licked her lips.
“You thirsty?” I murmured, stepping closer. Her fingers remained tight on my skin. Extricating myself from her hold, I palmed the back of her head and brought her face closer to my wrist. “Drink, then.”
The first hint of lilac light spilled into her eyes and her fangs peeked at me from behind her lips. They were small and dainty, with wicked sharp tips.
As sick as it was, lust flared through me. Lust and a burning curiosity I no longer wanted to fight.
She bent her head and lapped at my blood like a cat with a bowl of cream. Every wet pass of her tongue was delicate, hot. I wanted the brush of her fangs. Her bite. My fingers curled into her thick hair, weighing the strands and kneading her skin, content to let her do whatever she wanted with me.
A low moan spilled from her as something white flashed from her back. Through the lustful haze of my mind, I stared at it, blinking. It faded like smoke on the breeze and I was left staring at Morgan’s bowed head as she froze.
Her tongue stilled and I was sure she was no longer breathing.
I stopped massaging her slim neck. “Morgan?”
Her head whipped up as she stumbled back. “Ryder?” My blood painted one corner of her slightly swollen lips, and I noticed she had a very cute lisp with her fangs down. Her hands covered her mouth. “Oh no. Did I— Did I hurt you?” she asked, staring at me in horror.
There was such pain on her face. Such fear.
When I took a step toward her, she backpedaled in the wet grass.
I held up both hands. “Morgan. I’m fine. Really. It’s okay.”
Her breath hitched and her lip trembled. The first tear spilled from her bright eyes.
Oh no.
I stalked through the grass, caught her by the arm, and hauled her against my chest. She clung to me, her body quaking and her sobs raising every masculine urge I had to protect her.
It was stupid.
She was a vampire. I was human.
In a match, she could kick my ass just with her superior speed and strength if she knew how to use them. But as I pressed my chin into her dark waves, as her hot tears coated my skin, I knew I was done for.
With every breath left in my body, I wanted to protect her. To keep her safe. Human or not. Weaker or not.
It was a fierce boil up of emotion. Of rage. One I had not felt since my mother died.
Closing my eyes, I held Morgan to me and murmured into her hair that it would all be okay.
And if it took my life to make it so, it would be.
Chapter 7
Morgan
Neither Ry
der nor myself were able to fall back asleep. We sat on the back porch as the sun rose, then dressed, and headed into town.
He said little. And I did not know how to handle his silence. How to broach the subject poised on the tip of my tongue.
Though I had not bitten him, I had little memory of tasting his blood. I only knew I had come to in that field like waking from a dream. His life force was full of human spice and something purely him. It still coated my tongue even hours later. But that small taste had done the opposite of sating my thirst. It had raised it.
Every beat of his heart made my gums ache, and my throat burn. I would need to feed.
And soon.
Ryder pulled into the parking lot of an older church and parked. His hands were tight around the steering wheel, tan skin mottled. He turned his head. “Morgan …” He trailed off, his hazel eyes dark. “I know you’re beating yourself up.” I blinked at him and his gaze hardened. “So stop.”
“Ryder—”
He turned fully in his seat, his larger frame seeming to fill the driver’s side of the Jeep with broad-shouldered male. “I can damn near hear the wheels turning in your head, okay?” he murmured, watching me. “But you didn’t hurt me. I cut my own skin to feed you.”
I flinched.
Ryder raised one strong hand and his heat blanketed my cheek as he forced me to meet his eyes with a light touch. He held my gaze for several solid beats of his heart. “I will feed you again if you need it. And again after that.” My lip trembled. “I know you’re scared. And to be honest, last night was a new level of freaky even for me.”
He pulled back, letting his hand fall to one denim clad knee. “I don’t have a lot of experience with ghosts,” he said. “But I know enough to know that you wandering around the midnight darkened fields is not an incident I want to repeat.” His gaze was stark. “You scared the hell of me, Morgan.”
My teeth sunk into my lip.
There was such honesty in him. Such ferocity. I had not meant to startle him. But I also had no memory of leaving the house.
I had been dreaming of my parents, of watching them feed from humans. It was not a memory I possessed, but a nightmare fabricated from anger and fear.
The next thing I knew, I was standing outside with Ryder.
“I know it wasn’t your fault. The ghost targeted you.” He shook his head and his thick hair swayed with the motion. “But I refuse to let it take you again.”
“Then why are we at a human church?”
His lips pulled in a brief smile. “They have holy water here.”
I blinked.
With a chuckle, he climbed from the Jeep. “Come on.”
I followed him across the cracked parking lot and up the dark gray steps of the church. He pulled on the door and we entered the somber interior.
The church held a viable tinge of age in everything from the slightly musty air to the worn fabric covering the pews. There was no one inside, or no one readily visible, but soft organ music filtered from modern speakers off to each side.
Ryder scanned the space and walked under an overhang next to a rack of candles dancing inside little red holders.
A stone basin sat next to the rack and water shimmered in its depths. Ryder produced a small glass vial from somewhere and filled it before stoppering the top and slipping it into the pocket of his jeans.
He turned, found me still near the door, and motioned me over.
I shuffled toward him. “Why do you need holy water?” I asked, careful to keep my voice low if not reverent in the stillness. It seemed wrong to speak in anything above a whisper. Though, I wasn’t sure why.
“We are going to purify the house,” he said and extended one tan hand to me. I studied him for a moment before letting my fingers slide across his palm. He clasped my hand and tugged me to him as he dunked his fingers into the water.
“Ryder, I don’t—”
He touched his wet fingertips to my forehead and drew a cross.
I made a face and pulled back. “Ryder.”
His smile was mild. “You had a ghost inside of you, Mor. I’m not chancing it. If I thought drinking the water would help, I would have you do that, too.” I stared into his hazel eyes from so close. I was keenly aware of his hand holding mine, of the droplets of water as they trickled down my nose.
Some of his smile faded around the edges as he shifted closer to me. My breathing hitched and I leaned in.
“It does an old man such as myself good to see young ones in church.” Ryder and I pulled apart as an older man walked down the center aisle toward us. He was vaguely familiar. Like I had seen him before. “But I fear service is not for many days. Can I help you two?”
The man was tall, like Ryder. His dark hair was almost black in the candlelight, but flecked with gray at the temples. His jaw held a wealth of stubble and his face was mild. Empty.
But his eyes were a blue so pale, they were almost white.
Ryder didn’t smile. “Unless you know anything about ghosts, then no.”
The man’s thick dark brows came together. “Ghosts? Well now. It’s been a few years, but I remember enough to know the correct term is spirit.” He looked between us. “Who is being haunted?”
“Not haunted,” Ryder said mildly. “More like a possession. Is that possible?”
“It is,” the man told us. “If the spirit is strong enough and the vessel is broken, it could form a symbiotic relationship.”
I pushed ahead of Ryder. “What do you mean ‘broken’?” It made me sound like some fragile doll.
“Hypothetically, if a person were to suffer trauma, or have an existing mental disorder, it can leave cracks in their … armor, if you follow what I mean. But unlike a demon possession, the human is not aware of the presence of the spirit, nor are they aware of the world around them. The spirit can shut off their mind and simply pilot the body. It also means that a spirit having enough energy to possess a human is rare.”
He peered between us. “This is all hypothetical, isn’t it?”
Ryder plastered a smile on his face. “Of course. We’re writing a graphic novel where the female protagonist gets possessed, but she is falling in love with the male antagonist and he helps to snap her out of it.”
My head jerked over to stare at him as heat washed up my neck and face. He didn’t look at me.
I was not falling in love with Ryder.
Was I?
My gaze dropped to the floor.
“Well, in that case, I wish you both the best of luck with your … story. Did you have any other questions?”
I shook my head.
“Actually, I do have one,” Ryder said. “Would there be a reason why the spirit would pick one traumatized person over the other?” I peered at him from under my lashes. His jaw was flexing, blanching and refilling his tan skin until the expanse mottled clear up into his cheek. “Say the antagonist had been traumatized too. Why would the spirit only possess the one?”
“Well, I don’t know if it would only pick one.” The man’s voice was mild. “And if it did, it could merely be coincidence.” His soft steps carried him toward us. As he passed closer to the soft amber lights of the candle rack, his surprisingly youthful facade grew more pronounced.
He had to be in his late thirties, despite the smattering of gray flecking his hair and the trimmed scruff on his chin and over his lip. As he neared, I realized he was nearly as broad through the shoulders as Ryder, but leaner.
His jeans and flannel shirt was clean and smelled faintly of laundry soap. But there was a hint of something else on his frame. Like metal.
“One person’s trauma is no less hard than another’s. So a spirit would inhabit the shell of one person simply because it was closest, or it was left alone longer.” The man assessed us. “Perhaps your antagonist was not within reach.”
Ryder searched his face and nodded. Within blinks, his easy smile was back in place. “Tracks,” he said jovially. “I appreciate you answering my question
s.”
The man gave a small smile in return. “Of course. And feel free to come back. Say … for Sunday Service.”
Ryder’s smile didn’t slip as he pulled me toward the door. “Will definitely consider it,” he called over his shoulder as I had to walk faster or stumble just to keep up.
The man did not speak.
I peered back at him and found him watching me. That sense of eerie familiarity flared again as we left the building and walked down the stairs. He did not follow us as we crossed the parking lot to the Jeep. Ryder opened my door for me. I climbed inside as he walked around the other side and clamored in.
He turned the key in the ignition and backed out of the spot.
“Well, he was—”
Ryder reached over and cranked the radio to an ear-splitting level for a human. I pressed my hands to my ears and winced. When I glowered at him, he pressed a finger to his lips and pulled out of the parking lot.
I scrunched my brows.
He tapped his ear and pointed at the interior of the Jeep and back at the church we were leaving behind us.
Though I didn’t understand exactly what was going on, if Ryder wanted me to be quiet, I could do that.
We didn’t go back to the abandoned house. We drove around with the radio blaring and finally settled in near the pier. Ryder parked and ushered me from the car.
I climbed free and stood on the slightly swaying dock as he scoured the Jeep from head to toe. He pulled a dark device free from under the rear of the vehicle.
It was barely an inch wide and square with a small blinking red light. I took a step forward to get a better look. He drew back his arm and let it fly into the bay. It hit with a small ripple and sunk.
“Ryder.”
He scowled at the retreating waves. “It was a damn bug. They bugged the Jeep.”
“They?” I asked, confused.
His gaze shifted to mine and in the sunlight, his eyes glittered like the water nearby. “The man in the church was not a priest, a pastor, or a friend.”
