by Eden Bradley
He had once been the only desire she had known. The only male figure in her life, if one could even call him that. But it had all changed the moment she’d opened her eyes and seen Declan.
Her stomach knotted. The truth was, it had all changed the minute The Grandmother had chosen to be rid of her.
She had come to understand, in some indefinable way, that it had been The Grandmother’s choice to dispose of her. It hurt, cutting deep into her heart. Every bit as deep as the cuts made on her shoulders, and done with as much purpose. Despite what she’d had to do in service to The Grandmother, in the name of the Dark One, she loved the old woman. She had been her only family, her only sense of connection aside from Asmodeus, who had no presence in the waking world. If not for Declan and Liam she would be entirely alone now.
Tears stung her eyes, but she blinked them back. She would not cry. She had no reason to. She was safe and cared for. Perhaps in a way she never had been before. She would be grateful, was grateful. She would count her blessings, as The Grandmother had taught her, as meager as they had been before she’d come here.
She lay in the soft bed, twisting the end of a lock of hair, twirling it around and around her fingers. Trying to list in her head all the wonderful new things in her life to be thankful for. But it was hard to get her mind to work as sleep threatened to overtake her.
She gave up the task, saving it for later, and turned her head to look at the flowers on the table. The flowers Declan had picked for her: the pink honeysuckle, the ceanothus, like small puffy blue clouds, the yellow buttercups, the tall spikes of purple lupine. She knew the names; The Grandmother had taught her the wildflowers, along with the trees and the herbs. The flowers to eat, like nasturtium and pansy. The ones for scent, like lavender and rose. The ones to heal, like blue tansy. The ones to poison, like the oleander one of the dogs had eaten, and died from.
No one had ever picked flowers for her before, although she’d always kept The Grandmother’s house full of fresh flowers. She wasn’t sure what it meant, but there was something special about it.
But she was too tired to figure it out. Too tired to take in all the happenings of the day, the complexity of the heat of Declan’s touch and his apparent need to back away from her whenever he got too close. Too tired to do anything but close her eyes and sleep.
CHAPTER FIVE
DECLAN OPENED THE DOOR, careful to be quiet. She slept, her face and hair silhouetted in the dim light of the setting sun coming through the window. Her hair was like pale gold in the misty light, spread out over the pillows, the bed. He’d never seen such long hair on anyone before. There was something…pure about it. Sensual. He wanted to touch it. He always wanted to touch it. His groin was going tight, just looking at her hair, for God’s sake. And he could see the rise and fall of her breasts as she inhaled, exhaled softly. He curled his hands into fists, clenching his fingers.
Stop it.
His gaze went back to her face, so peaceful in the half dark.
She’d been napping since they got home. He hadn’t wanted to wake her, figuring her body needed the rest to heal. But it had been pure torture, knowing she was here, in his house, so close by. He wanted to wake her, to talk to her.
Ridiculous.
He shook his head, closed the door, then opened it a few inches in case she woke and called for him before going to sit at his big oak desk in the living room. He sank low in the chair, his back aching from too many hours in it already that day. Picking up a small wooden figure of an owl he’d made from a piece of manzanita, he rubbed his thumb over it, the ridges that made up the face, the feathers. Liam, who was lounging on the floor next to the desk, his big head resting on the rug, gazed up at him with a halfhearted thump of his stubby tail.
Declan leaned down to rub his nose. “Yeah, I know. What the hell am I going to do with myself? I’m a mess over this girl, aren’t I?”
His cell phone rang, piercing the quiet of the evening, and he sat up, checked the caller ID before picking up.
“Hey, Dad.”
“Dec, hi. I’m calling to see how Angel’s doing.”
“She’s been sleeping all day.”
“That’s good, I guess. But it leaves you at loose ends. You must be getting antsy. What have you been up to to keep yourself entertained?”
How was it his father knew him so well, after all these years of Declan keeping his distance? It was irritating. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, the beard stubble rough on his fingers.
“It’s hardly been entertaining, Dad.”
“Come on, Dec. I’m trying to work with you here.”
He blew out a breath. He had to calm down. As much as he hated it he needed Oran’s help with this.
“Yeah. Sorry. Look, I’ve been online and on the phone for hours. I’ve called every law enforcement agency I can think of, researching the databases on the internet, trying to find someone who gives a damn about what happened to her. But the fact is, no one’s really interested in pursuing the case. Or even in talking to me about it, other than Tim Bullock. But since the case was taken out of his hands by the state police, Tim doesn’t know any more than I do.”
“My friends in Sacramento made sure they ran fingerprints on her first thing,” Oran said. “But there’s nothing. Not that there would be unless she’d committed a crime. There was some speculation about that initially because of the drugs in her system. But there was no way she could have done all of this to herself.”
“Yeah, those crazy cuts on her shoulder blades…”
“I know. A lot of cops work by the book. Treat each case as a protocol, instead of as individual cases. That’s why I never became a cop. And I liked the forest and the beaches better than people.”
“Me, too.”
Christ, had he just admitted to his old man how alike they were? Out loud?
“Dec? You still there?”
“What? Yeah. Just thinking. Do you know anyone you could convince to run her information through the National Crime Information Center? See if something pops up?”
“Yes, pretty sure I do. Should have thought of it before. But if she was taken as a kid, that was what? Probably 1994? 1995? The systems weren’t nearly as sophisticated. Even if there was a kid who disappeared then, especially if it was outside of California, it might not have been cross-referenced so that she’d show up in a search.”
“Yeah, I know. Can you try anyway?”
“I’ll get on it first thing tomorrow. But, Dec, don’t hold out a lot of hope. You know how these cases can go. There were no witnesses to any actual crime, so the department—whatever department is working the case—prefers to pretend there was no crime.”
“I was there.”
“But you didn’t see it happen. Didn’t see anyone there but her.”
“Yeah, Tim’s already rammed that fact down my throat. I don’t need you to do it again.”
“Cut it out, will you, Declan? I’m not ramming anything. The fact is, you didn’t see anything but her. There’s not much the cops can do with no information to go on. Not unless she remembers something substantial. Maybe Ruth will help her with that.”
“Maybe.”
He really did not want to talk about Ruth Hehewuti right now. Didn’t want to think about his father’s relationship with her.
“I have to go, Dad. Call me tomorrow if you find out anything. If you find someone who will talk to me.”
“Will do. And, Dec…”
“Yeah?”
“This is a good thing you’re doing. Taking care of her.” His father’s voice was gruff. “I’m not going to give you a bunch of crap about why you’re doing it. I know it comes from a good place.”
Declan shifted in his chair, his hand going into his hair. Why was his father being so damn nice to him?
“Yeah, well, anyone would have done the same.”
“No, I don’t think so. Anyway, we’ll talk tomorrow.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
They hung up, le
aving him wondering why it galled him so much to thank his father. He had to get over this old resentment. But no matter how firmly he understood, on a logical level, that his anger with his father was worn out and ultimately a purely emotional reaction that made little sense, he couldn’t seem to let it go.
He’d bet Ruth the psychologist would have a field day with the complexities of his relationship with his father. Hell, she’d probably already spent hours analyzing the situation. The idea pissed him off.
Liam whimpered, got up and nudged his hand.
“What is it, boy?”
The dog whined again, dancing a little, his heavy paws thumping on the hard floor.
“You need to go outside?”
He got up and headed toward the door, but Liam took off down the hallway. Declan followed him into Angel’s room.
The bedside lamp was on, casting light and shadow across the bed. Angel was sitting upright, carefully moving her leg, supporting the weight of it with both hands.
“Here, let me help.” He grabbed one of the bed pillows and used it to prop her foot higher. “Is that better?”
“Yes. Thank you, Declan.” She settled back against the wood headboard and winced.
“Shit. I’m sorry. We should put a pillow behind you.”
“It’s not that bad anymore. I am used to it, I think. But a pillow would be nice.”
He went to the closet and pulled an extra pillow from the shelf, placed it behind her back with great care.
“Better?”
“Yes, that’s lovely.” She smiled.
“So…you sleep okay?”
“I think I slept a long time. I did not sleep well. But I never sleep well.”
Her strange honesty always took him by surprise. He supposed he’d get used to it. If she was here long enough. But where else was she going? He didn’t even like to think of it, but someday she would need to be on her own.
“Do you need some pain medication?” he asked her. “They sent you home with some. I put it right here on the nightstand.”
“No, I don’t need it. And I don’t want it. I don’t like the way it makes me feel. It makes me dream.”
“Is that why you can’t sleep, Angel? Because you dream?”
She turned away, her gaze on the darkening window. She said so quietly he could barely hear her, “Yes.”
He took a few steps into the room and sat on the edge of her bed. He could still smell the delicate scent of the lotion: lemon and lavender.
“Bad dreams?”
“Yes.”
“I have bad dreams sometimes. A lot, actually.” He paused, watching her face in profile. She blinked a few times, but didn’t respond. “Do you want to tell me about it?”
“Maybe…”
“You don’t have to.”
“No, I want to. But I don’t know how to make you understand.”
“Try me.”
She turned to look at him and he was struck, as he always was, by her sheer beauty: the blue of her eyes, the pink pout of her mouth. He kept his gaze away from the swell of her breasts in her white cotton slip.
“I dream of the one who taught me. He is in my dreams, nearly always. I used to welcome him. But now things have changed. I don’t need him to teach me any longer. His job is done. My purpose with him is done. Now he makes me sad.” She stopped, her fingertips grasping the edge of the sheet. She glanced down at her hands, then back up at him. “And he makes me afraid,” she said more quietly.
“I don’t understand. Who taught you? What did he teach you?”
“His name is Asmodeus. Do you know of him?”
“It sounds familiar. I don’t know why.”
“He is the demon of all things carnal. A prince of his kind, the demon of lust.”
He could see that she was perfectly serious. He didn’t know what the hell to make of it. Was she delusional? Was this an aftereffect of her head injury? It would be better, no doubt, to let her talk this out with her doctor, or with Ruth, but she seemed to want to talk to him. This demon stuff was pretty damn alarming. But as alarming as it was, he was curious, too, about what went on in her head. He knew already that her life had been strange in ways he never could have imagined. And it was getting weirder and weirder. But he thought he should know, whatever it was. He was trying to stay calm, not to overreact.
“You see him when you sleep?” he asked her.
“When I dream, whether in sleep or with the drugs. I have seen him since I was a child. I don’t remember a time before him. He trained me in the ways of love.”
“He ‘trained’ you?”
He wasn’t sure what she was saying. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know. What had she been through?
“I am The Gift. Or, I was…I was trained to perfection. That was the goal my entire life. That was my purpose. Who better to teach me than the prince of lust himself? It is an honor. But he is also the prince of rage. And not only did I fail in my task, but now…I no longer desire him as I once did. As he expects of me. And he is angry.”
She was becoming more and more agitated as she spoke, color rising in her cheeks, her breath coming faster.
Declan took her hand, held it tight. “Angel, he’s only a dream.”
“Is he? I’m not certain what he is any longer.”
“He doesn’t exist outside of your dreams, does he?”
“He is not present in this realm. Does that mean he does not exist?”
She had a point. Maybe. If she did, it was in some skewed, purely philosophical way. But he couldn’t say that to her. She was too distraught. And while he had to concede the theory, he didn’t actually believe it.
Still, that whole thing about some demon training her in the ways of love—that might explain her earthiness, that sense of raw sensuality he felt from her. Even if this demon was a figment of her imagination, the drugs she’d been fed, she believed it. That much was obvious. And so the effect was still the same.
She had responded with desire earlier, when he’d unzipped her dress. No doubt about it. He’d tried to tell himself it was some twisted wishful thinking. But he’d felt the heat of her skin, heard the quickening of her breath.
“Declan, you’re holding my hand so tightly.”
“Ah, I’m sorry.” He released her fingers, pulled his back.
“No, it’s all right.” She reached out, took his hand tentatively in hers. “I like it when you hold my hand. It makes me feel safe. Safe enough to tell you more.”
“Sure. Anything you want.”
Her fingers gripped his, the flesh of her palm soft and smooth. He tried not to focus on the sensation, just to listen.
“Asmodeus has never touched me. I am untouched by man. Until now. Untouched by any but The Grandmother. She and Asmodeus have been my only companions, other than the birds and rabbits in the garden, The Grandmother’s dogs. And both of them, Asmodeus and The Grandmother, I have loved and hated. Adored and feared. Depended on. The Grandmother has rejected me. And I thought he had, but he behaves as if I have rejected him. Perhaps I have. It’s all so confusing. Declan—” she held his hand tighter, an intensity in her blue eyes, her golden brows drawn low
“—do you believe it’s possible to both love and hate simultaneously? Or is that some fault within me?”
He thought for a moment of his father. And even before he said the words, he knew it didn’t really apply. He was angry as hell, resentful. But he’d never actually hated his father, had he? But the theory still held true, in his mind. “I believe it’s possible. I believe we humans are complicated creatures. That we love and hate all the time. I’ve never known anyone who actually loved unconditionally, except maybe Liam here.” He nodded with his chin to the dog curled up on the floor.
“Dogs are simple,” she said. “Perhaps that’s why I like them. They demand nothing and love you, anyway.”
He said quietly, “Angel, you’ve never had anyone in your life who didn’t demand something from you. Have you?”
; “I have had no one but The Grandmother.”
“But you weren’t always with her. Do you remember anything about your life before her?”
“No, nothing. Just that there was a time before.”
“You’re certain? You were fed a lot of drugs. Maybe you were with her from birth.”
“You think my perceptions have been altered by the drugs? I’ve been given those drugs, made to dream, my entire life. But, Declan, because of that I have had to become very clear on the difference between altered reality and the truth.”
He shook his head. How was she so self-aware? And the details of her life were getting weirder and weirder. “I don’t understand. From what you’ve told me, it sounds like they wanted the two to blend together for you.”
“Yes. But I have always fought it. I didn’t realize until my time in the hospital that that’s what I was doing. And ultimately, why I’ve been rejected. Why I was removed from the only life I have ever known. The familiarity of my home, my garden. Why everything was taken away from me. I’m trying to remember that none of these things were ever truly mine to begin with. That it was all The Grandmother’s. But I think it might be natural for me, for anyone, to have to find something to hold on to, make my own.”
He shook his head. Talking with her was like a series of small shocks. Good and bad. The most simple and the most bizarre. “How do you know all this, Angel?”
She shrugged, and his gaze was drawn to the pale, curving rise of her breasts, covered too little by the white fabric. “Some things I simply know, as we all do.”
He didn’t know what to say to that. He was blown away by her. And when her grip on his hand softened and she turned it over, tracing her fingers over his palm, his body swarmed with need, making it impossible to think.
“Declan, I think you know some of these things, too. But you don’t accept them. It makes you unhappy.”
“Yes.”
She asked softly, “What will make you happy, Declan?”
His gaze rose to meet hers, those sky-blue eyes. So damn pretty. Her eyes. Her face. Her cheeks were flushed, her pupils enormous. He should pull his hand away. But he couldn’t do it.
