The lock clicked before I punched it. I froze.
“What is it?” His voice was low, hoarse.
I turned slowly, my eyes searching the shadows. “Someone unlocked the door before I could.”
“Oh.” He sounded apologetic. “That might have been me. I am wishing very much to be inside.”
“You aren’t sure?” My voice may have been a little shrill.
“I’m not used to this place. The energies are different than . . . they’re different.” He paused. “Who are you, and why are you helping me?”
Suspicion would be natural, even healthy, under the circumstance. But he sounded more curious than wary. I opened the door, quickly shut off the dome light, and returned to him. “My name is Molly Brown. I’m helping you because you’re hurt. Also,” I admitted in a flash of honesty, “because I’ve been rather bored lately.”
“You are curious about me.” Some fugitive emotion roughened his voice. Disgust? Satisfaction?
“Very. I’ll save most of my questions until I get you inside, but—”
“I can’t answer your questions.”
“You’ll have to, if you want my help.”
“I cannot,” he said hollowly.
The despair in his voice tugged at me. I fought to hold firm against it. “I don’t want your life history, but I do need to know who you are, where you came from, who’s after you and why.”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know who tried to kill you?”
“I don’t know any of it.”
I believed him. I’m a fool sometimes, the same as everyone else, but I believed the crushed bewilderment in his voice. I didn’t say anything more, just slid my arm around his waist again.
“You will help anyway?” That was hope I heard now—and oh, how painful hope can be, in all its uncertainty.
“Looks like.” I sighed over my folly and and supported him the last few feet to my home.
Chapter 2
WE got him up the step and into the driver’s seat, where he discovered that he liked sitting better than standing, too. But he’d be visible up there, not to mention difficult to work on, so we heaved him onto his feet again and staggered together into my little bedroom, where he fell on the bed and promptly passed out.
I stood there getting my breath back, and not due to unrequited lust this time. He was heavy. Then I tossed a blanket over him, grabbed a smudging stick and the bucket I kept under the sink, and headed back out. He’d left a good deal of blood on the road. He’d probably also left various magical traces. I wouldn’t be able to get rid of all the blood or other traces, but I could make them less conspicuous.
Twenty minutes later I’d washed most of the blood off the asphalt and tossed dirt on top of what remained to disguise it. I’d smudged all the way around my little lot, quietly calling up what protections I knew. I’m not Gifted, but there are some things even the magic-blind can do, and the sage I used had been prepared and blessed by a Wiccan High Priestess.
I couldn’t help feeling like the little piggy in the straw house, though. I suspected that whoever—whatever?—had clawed up my guest could blow away my puny protections with one big, bad huff.
He was still out cold when I came back in, poor boy. I hated to wake him, but, magic or no magic, those wounds had to be cleaned. He needed fluids, too. But maybe I should call Erin first—my Wiccan friend. I was going to need help. No, better wait until I knew who or what I was dealing with. I needed answers. Or maybe—
Stop it! I told myself sternly. But the body sometimes reveals what we’d rather not know. The hand I lifted to rub my forehead was unsteady, and my insides were gripped by a fine vibration, like a dry leaf aquiver in the wind just before it quits its home on the tree.
Why was I doing this? For all I knew, the unconscious man in my bed was the bad guy, not the victim. Or some complicated mingling of both.
I could do something about that particular uncertainty, at least. I picked up the phone. “Erin?” I said to the sleepy voice on the other end. “This is Molly.” For a little while longer, anyway.
“Do you know what time it is?” she muttered. There was a sleepy voice in the background—Erin’s husband, Jack, an accountant with a wicked laugh and no trace of a Gift. A good man, though he holds on to trump too long. Erin told him to go back to sleep, then spoke to me. “What is it?”
“I need help.”
Now she was crisp, wide awake. “Immediately?”
“No, in the daylight will be fine. Um . . . I’ve an unexpected guest, mysterious and somewhat damaged. I’d like you to meet him.”
Silence, then a sigh. “I suppose you don’t want to tell me more over the phone.”
“I’d rather not,” I said apologetically. It’s very difficult to listen in on a call magically—technology is better at that sort of thing. But it is possible. “Oh, and could you bring me some more of that cleansing mixture you made for me? The one with rue, broom, and agrimony.” Which, of course, are not cleansing herbs. They were components of a spell granting true vision, used to see through lies. Used by a Wiccan High Priestess, however, the spell could reveal a good deal more.
“Look for me about nine-thirty.” She was grim. “I’d be there earlier, but my car’s in the shop. I’ll have to take Jack to work so I can use his.”
“I owe you.”
“You know perfectly well it’s the other way around. Molly, for heaven’s sake, what have you gotten yourself into?”
“I don’t know yet,” I said, eyeing the man in my bed—who had woken and was eyeing me back. “But it promises to be interesting. I’ll see you in a few hours.” I disconnected and put the phone down.
In the soft light from my bedside lamp, my guest’s eyes were a clear, pale blue. Quite striking. Also filled with suspicion. “To whom were you speaking?”
Wasn’t that just like a man? Earlier he’d trusted for no particular reason, now he suspected when there was little cause—and little remedy, if he’d been right. “No one says ‘to whom’ these days,” I told him, heading for my tiny bathroom, where I collected peroxide and gauze and dampened a washcloth. “You’ll need to learn more colloquial speech if you stay here long.”
“Whom is the object of the preposition.” He frowned as I returned, either at having his grammar corrected or at the prospect of having his wounds cleaned. “How else would one say it?”
“Most people would say, ‘Who were you talking to?’ Which is technically incorrect, but language changes.”
“Very well. Who were you talking to?”
“A friend. She’ll do you no harm, as long as you mean no harm. This, however, is going to hurt.” I poured peroxide into the deep slash on his thigh and started mopping up the dried blood around it.
His breath hissed between his teeth. He grabbed my wrist. “Stop that!”
I have always wanted to be able to raise one eyebrow, but mine only move in tandem. I lifted them. “Are you certain you can prevent infection?”
“Is that what . . .” His eyebrows drew together in a frustrated pleat. “There are other ways to prevent infection.”
“You didn’t want to see a doctor, remember? You’re stuck with me, and this is what I know to do.”
Grudgingly he nodded and released my wrist. I sat on the bed beside him.
The next few minutes were harder on him than me. I learned long ago how to move into a mental room where sympathy can’t intrude. It’s a white, private place, nowhere I’d want to live permanently, but there are times when sympathy is a drawback. Besides, I saw no point in both of us suffering.
There were four slashes in his flesh—one in the lower chest, another on the right side of his belly, and two in his thigh. He was lucky. The upper wounds were shallow, slicing through skin and a bit of muscle but leaving his innards intact. One of the thigh wounds was no more than a deep scratch. The other . . .
I sighed, unhappy with what I saw with the blood cleaned away. “How good are you at
healing? The muscle is badly damaged, and I’m not sure my sewing skills are up to putting it back together right.”
“Sewing? You wish to sew my muscle?”
“I’ll have to, unless you can do something.”
He was silent, but with an inward look that suggested he was checking things out in his own way. A moment later, the wound began to close.
It was fascinating to watch. Flesh touched flesh as if hands were gently urging the sides of the wound together, then gradually meshed into unity like dough kneaded back into a single lump. And a delicious energy surged through me, conveyed from him to me through my hand on his leg. My fingers tingled. I licked my lips.
And snatched my hand back. He was a guest, not a meal. Shaken, I let go of my hold on the white, interior space. The slow knitting of his flesh was still fascinating, but my vision was colored by compassion now.
When he finished, the gash was nearly closed and his face was the color of mushrooms. I patted his knee in a motherly way. “Very impressive.”
His voice was flat with fatigue. “I cannot do the rest now.”
“None of the others are as deep. They’ll heal on their own, I imagine.” I stood. “Now, if you can stay awake a little longer, you need fluids. Since I can’t provide an IV, you’ll have to drink as much as you can. Water or orange juice?”
He licked his lips. “Water. Molly?”
I waited.
“What are you?”
I could have pretended I didn’t know what he was talking about. That was my first impulse. He was weak, lost, sundered even from his name. He wouldn’t be hard to deceive. I could have asked what he meant, then unraveled whatever chain of logic had led him to ask that question. I’m good at that. I have to be. And the thought of how he’d react to the truth ached like a fresh bruise laid down over old wounds.
But those blue eyes held steady on me, and there was something about them . . . “I’m a succubus.”
His eyes widened.
“Cursed, not damned,” I added firmly. “A long time ago, by someone who knew what She was doing when it came to curses. I’m not a demon. Originally, I was human.”
“Ah.” The tension went out of his face, and his eyelids drooped. “That explains it. Better hurry . . . with water.” His speech was slurring as he let go of whatever force of will had been keeping him awake. He smiled at me. “Thank you, Molly.”
Chapter 3
HE liked television. And he loved the remote.
At ten-twenty the next morning he was propped up on my couch, channel surfing madly. He’d woken when Erin arrived and had insisted on moving there, over my objections. But he was doing amazingly well.
Erin was outside, readying herself and the spell. She wouldn’t perform it out there—between dogs, children, and nosy neighbors that simply wasn’t practical. But she needed earth beneath her feet for the preparation.
I’d shown her the spot where my guest arrived last night. Erin had hmm’d and frowned, nodding now and then like a doctor examining a patient, then sent me away.
I was in my galley—it’s too small to be called a kitchen—putting together a bouquet garni for the chicken simmering on the stove. The connection between chicken soup and healing may not have been established scientifically, but I’m sure it exists.
“Arthur?” I suggested. “Adam? Aillen?”
He looked away from the television, a sudden smile lighting his face. “You find me handsome?”
“You know Gaelic!” I exclaimed. Another puzzle piece, but I had no idea what to do with it. He looked Celtic, but that lovely, upper-crust British accent . . . I shook my head and plucked a bit of thyme from the pot on the counter by the window. “Of course I find you handsome. You’re gorgeous. You know that. Even if you don’t remember, you’ve seen yourself in the mirror.” Before occupying my couch, he’d asked where he could relieve himself. I’d had to explain the plumbing.
He touched his jaw as if reminding himself of the face he hadn’t recognized. “It seemed to be a pleasing face, but standards of beauty vary widely.”
“I wonder if you talk that way in your native language. Have you remembered any more of it?”
“Any more?”
“You said something to me in another language when you first arrived.”
His brows knit. “I don’t remember. What way do I talk?”
“Correctly. Formally. Did any of those names ring a bell?”
“Ring a bell . . . oh. You wonder if they are familiar. No, not in a personal way.”
An interesting distinction. The names were familiar, but they didn’t belong to him. “Well, we have to call you something. Would you object to being Michael for now?”
“Michael . . . Hebrew for ‘gift from God.’ ” He cocked a single eyebrow at me—which he could do, blast him. “You consider me a blessing.”
The idiot male was flirting with me. “What an odd memory you have. You know the meaning of Irish and Hebrew names, but not your own.”
That stole the smile from his face. I tried not to feel guilty. I tied the ends of the cheesecloth together and lowered the herbs into the simmering pot, catching it in place with the lid. Keeping my back to him so I wouldn’t see the hurt I caused, I said, “Michael is also the name of a militant archangel. Evil is capable of masquerading as good, but generally it prefers not to annoy Michael. One aligned with evil would not be comfortable borrowing Michael’s name.”
“I am not evil.”
“I don’t think so, but we don’t know what you are. That’s what Erin will try to find out.” Reluctantly, I abandoned cowardice and turned to face him. “Do you understand what a succubus is?”
“The Latin term for a female demon who draws life from her victims through sexual intercourse. But you said you were cursed into your condition, which makes sense.” He smiled suddenly, blindingly. “You aren’t evil, either.”
“Nor am I good. Michael—”
“You do like that name for me. Very well. I will be Michael.”
I could feel myself softening—inside, where it was dangerous, and outside, my muscles growing lax and warm with wanting. So I was sharp to him. “Listen to me. I look like a middle-aged woman, and I am one. A good deal more than middle-aged, actually. But I’m also a succubus, and I live off the energy of others. The energy of men, to be specific, which I acquire through sex.”
“Do you not eat?” he asked, curious. “It smells in here as if you enjoy food.”
My breath huffed out. He didn’t seem to be getting the point. “I eat, but I don’t have to. Other people need food and drink to live, and enjoy sex. I need sex to live, and enjoy food and drink.”
“I’m glad you didn’t lose those pleasures when you were cursed. Do you need to sup in your fashion daily, the same as others need to eat every day?”
“Not every day. Michael, you’re either painfully naive or deliberately obtuse. I’m trying to explain why you must not flirt with me. I am not safe.”
“You’re worried about me!” He was amazed.
I rolled my eyes. The young always think themselves indestructible, but Michael should know better, after what he’d been through. But then, he didn’t remember what he’d been through. “Yes,” I said. “I’m worried about you.”
For an instant his face softened, and I glimpsed in his eyes the ragged edges of adult vulnerability, not the untried trust of youth, as if my simple words had sliced deep into a place that didn’t bear touching. “You needn’t,” he said, and the edges closed up again, hiding whatever memories that deep place held. “You can take nothing from me I don’t wish to give.”
“What if you wished to give?” My posture shifted as the energy gathered around me, swirling, aching . . . “I could make you want to give, Michael. You’d want to give . . . anything.”
The door opened. “Molly!” Erin said sharply.
I snapped back. Then just stood there, disoriented, like a stooping hawk suddenly shoved from its plummet. The breath I drew was ra
gged. “Well,” I said as briskly as I could, “what did you learn?”
“Not much.” She came in, eyeing me. Erin is a tall woman, bony by my standards but fashionably slender to her generation. Her face was made for drama, with a wide mouth, sharp cheekbones, and a beak of a nose that she considers unlovely but which I quite envy for its distinction. She’s supposed to wear glasses, but often forgets or leaves them somewhere. Her hair is a fabulous red bush that nearly reaches her waist. Today she wore it pulled back from her face with a stretchy headband that matched her apple-green t-shirt.
T-shirts are one of the best things about the current age. And bras. Bras have corsets beat all to pieces. “You must have learned something.”
She shrugged. “Node energy isn’t my area. You knew he came in at a node?”
I nodded. I’m not so utterly insensitive I’d be unaware of a node so close to where I’ve lived for twelve years. One of the ley lines from it runs beneath my RV. “What else?”
“He’s drawing from it.”
I glanced at Michael. “Of course,” he said. “I could have told you that, had you asked. How else could I heal?”
“And,” Erin added, “he came from a long ways away. I couldn’t trace him back—the energies are too foreign—but there’s a feeling of a great gulf.”
I nodded. “I knew he wasn’t from this world.”
“Not . . .” She shook her head. “That isn’t possible.”
Erin is a very good witch and far wiser than I was at her age. But she is young, and thus prone to certainty. “Obviously it’s possible, since he’s here.”
She looked at Michael, eyes wide and suddenly wary.
“Another world,” he said thoughtfully, his voice so much deeper than Erin’s light soprano. “That makes sense. I don’t seem to know much about this one.”
“Supposedly you don’t remember anything about any others, either,” Erin said sharply.
“I don’t remember anything, no. But I think perhaps I know a great deal.”
“Is that supposed to make sense?” Scowling, she slung her bag off her shoulder and set it on the table of my little dinette. The bag holds her basic ritual apparatus, and is made of heavy black silk. I’d given it to her for Samhain last year. “The realms haven’t been close enough to cross between in over five hundred years. Except for Faerie,” she added. “And that’s closed to mortals. And you aren’t Faerie.”
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