A Darker Passion

by Stephanie Bedwell-Grimes

  He brushed a lock of hair from her shoulder. His fingers trailed down her arm, setting off twinges of pure pleasure.

  “Sweet Aimee. You of all people should know the streets are not safe at night.”

  “I don’t understand,” she whispered.

  “Always worried about others.” His fingers caressed her cheek then slipped behind to grasp a handful of her chestnut-brown hair. “Even the likes of me…”

  The last words trailed off into silence, as if for some reason what he was caused him great pain.

  Aimee looked up at him. “But I was worried about you, whether you’d be warm enough on such a cold night, if you had somewhere to sleep.”

  “It’s been so long since someone spared a thought for me. Not since…”

  Another sentence left uncompleted, as if there was much he would tell her, yet had decided against it.

  “But you needn’t worry, dearest Aimee,” he said suddenly, tracing the line of her chin with his thumb. “Finding a place to sleep is the least of my troubles.”

  “You don’t look at all poor,” she agreed, her eyes flitting over his fine, exquisite-fitting clothes. Nor are you at all thin, she added silently.

  Full lips drew into a seductive smile. “I assure you I’m not. At least not in the monetary sense.”

  Aimee didn’t understand, would have said so, but a more pressing question occurred to her. “So what were you doing out there on the streets all summer?”

  “Just as you were doing. Guarding the less fortunate.”

  “Guarding them? Why? Against whom?”

  “There are many dangers in the nighttime streets. And the homeless are most vulnerable.” Eyes a shade off black searched hers. “But I didn’t come here to talk of darkness and danger.”

  His hands slid sinuously over her shoulders to clasp her against him. Aimee burrowed deeper into his warmth. It was hard to think of danger while in the comfort of his arms. His tautly muscled body seethed with restrained strength. “What could be so terrible?”

  “Some questions are best left unasked.”

  Aimee opened her mouth to ply him with another question. But he smiled down at her. “Such serious talk for such a pleasant evening. The night is still young. Come, let me show you my city.”

  A blast of cold air. The room, her apartment building, dropped away beneath them as they rose high into the velvet black of the night sky. Multicolored lights whirled about her in a delightful kaleidoscope.

  Aimee blinked and found herself suddenly sitting on a stone bench, Tristan beside her.

  With a little cry, she sprang away from him, sliding farther down the bench, and gaped at the roof garden around them. Potted topiaries lent an air of intimacy to clusters of benches. Globe lamps on wrought iron bases cast circles of pale light across the rooftop. Below them the city stretched out like lines of lights on a vast Christmas tree.

  The magic of the night, Aimee mused, then wondered where that strange thought came from. As a child she had gazed for hours at the city skyline, marveling that the many-hued lights were like so many stars come to earth. Through her work in the years that followed, she had come to view the night as a time for the lonely and vulnerable.

  Tonight she was neither of those things. Tonight she’d embarked on an extraordinary journey and was content to let it unfold.

  She glanced up at Tristan. The wind blew his hair out behind him, framing his luminous face against the dark sky. “Where am I?” she finally had the presence to ask.

  “My favorite place.”

  “I’m dreaming,” she said drowsily. “Aren’t I?”

  “Oh yes,” he murmured, his breath warm against the top of her hair. “Dream, lovely one. Isn’t that what sustains us all, our dreams?”

  She was about to answer him, when he rose gracefully to his feet and held out his hand for her to join him.

  “Do you dance, Aimee?” On the trellis nearby, a faded rose bloomed tenaciously despite the cold. He plucked it and presented it to her with a cordial bow.

  Surely in a dream one didn’t have to worry about having two left feet, she figured, joining him. But she stumbled on the first step.

  “I’m afraid I never learned how.”

  He laughed then, and swept her up into his arms. “I would be honored to be your teacher.”

  Under his careful tutelage, it seemed easy. His body melded to hers as they waltzed across the rooftop.

  Constellations swirled above them, the city lights shining below. He lowered his mouth to explore her with satin kisses, his searing lips tracing a line of fire down the slender column of her throat. Not content to stop there, he continued over her collarbone to nibble at her nape.

  Aimee nuzzled the warm hairs that escaped from the deep V of his shirt. With gentle hands he tilted her face up to meet his once again.

  The touch of his lips to hers reached down into the depths of her soul, healing places she hadn’t known were hurting. She was lost in the feel of him, lost in the infinitely sensuous movement of his body against hers.

  “This has been wonderful,” she murmured when he released her mouth. “You have been wonderful. When can we do this again?”

  His breathtakingly handsome face clouded with pain.

  “It has been wonderful,” he said slowly. “But it cannot be between us, little one.”

  “Why?” she demanded, appalled. This wasn’t the way she wanted the dream to end. “Why can’t it be? Because of the things you won’t tell me?”

  “That,” he said, “and much, much more.”

  Tossed on the wind, his hair caressed her cheek. His eyes seemed to take up the sky. Then she was tumbling into their fathomless depths.

  Falling again…

  Into the softness of down pillows and thick blankets.

  “Sleep,” he whispered, his lips moving against hers. “And forget.”

  Chapter Two

  Strains of achingly sweet music receded into her dreams. Smiling, Aimee opened her eyes.

  A familiar ceiling stared back at her from her familiar bedroom. So why did she have the distinct feeling she’d been somewhere else? Somewhere infinitely pleasant…lights glittering all around her…the enticing press of a hard male body against hers. Silk-clad muscles rippling beneath her hands as he moved.

  She inhaled deeply, savoring the scent of red roses. Instinctively her hand went to the side of her head, knowing somehow before her fingers met softness what she would find.

  The scarlet rose overflowed her palm. Aimee fingered the velvet petals, afraid that if she didn’t touch it, the crimson flower would disappear as surely as the man who gave it to her.

  Images caressed her memory, tantalizingly close. City lights swirling below her. Raven hair blowing over her shoulders. Eyes that became the sky. The rustle of powerful wings…

  Forget.

  But she hadn’t forgotten. Memories crystallized.

  Tristan. The man with the woeful eyes and the breathtakingly handsome looks. Tristan, whose courtly manners and dulcet voice could melt the heart of a street-hardened caseworker.

  Finally her phantom had a name. However, naming him did nothing to dispel the mystery surrounding him.

  *

  Bruised clouds of violet-gray squashed the sunset. The threatening sky promised rain. According to the forecast, it would be an icy one. Aimee hunkered down into the collar of her leather jacket. Regardless of the weather, she intended to scour Queen Street until she found the elusive Tristan.

  The parkette was empty except for a disgruntled raccoon that reluctantly left its perch on the garbage can when she approached. Vengeful eyes turned upon her, it lumbered off into the shadows, waiting for her to leave.

  Barhoppers warmed themselves in trendy pubs, leaving the streets to those who had nowhere else to go. A discarded soda can clattered down the empty sidewalk.

  The homeless began setting up sleeping bags for the night. Aimee made her rounds, going from person to person, offering hot coffee and askin
g if they knew where to find Tristan.

  “Tall guy in black?” Gray took the coffee gratefully. “Haven’t seen him for several days.” He spread a piece of sleeping bag out on the hot air grate to offer Aimee a seat. Hawk-like eyes regarded her shrewdly. He wiped a grubby hand through his steely beard and grinned toothlessly. “Why you so interested?”

  Aimee swatted him playfully. “You’ve got a dirty mind, Gray.”

  “Ask Maggie,” Gray offered, grinning again as Aimee stood to leave.

  Maggie slumbered underneath a veritable mountain of newspapers and plastic garbage bags. Sheltered from the wind in the doorway of a boarded-up building, she wasn’t cheerful about being awakened. Even for the offer of a hot chocolate.

  “Fellow with the pretty face?”

  Aimee nodded.

  “Always wears black?”

  “That’s the one.”

  Maggie took a cautious sip of hot chocolate. “Saw him last week, down by the old electric factory.”

  “Thanks, Maggie.”

  “Not worried about the likes of him, are you? Man can take care of himself.”

  The streets aren’t safe at night.

  Aimee left the makeshift camp and hurried across the abandoned parking lot that led to the old factory. Beyond the spheres of the streetlights, the gravel lot was treacherous, full of broken bottles and rusty nails. One look, she promised herself. A quick tour of the perimeter. Hopefully, the rain would hold off that long.

  Gravel shifted ahead in the dimness. Something even darker glided through the gloom.

  “Tristan!”

  The shadow froze as she approached. “You should not have come here.”

  “I wanted to talk to you.”

  “You should leave at once. This place isn’t safe.”

  “But—”

  The brick wall threw her voice back at her. The space where Tristan had been standing was suddenly empty.

  “Wait!” Aimee rushed into the shadows.

  The doorway reared up out of nowhere. She crashed against it, flailing to keep her balance when it unexpectedly swung inward. The interior was unrelentingly black. Aimee thrust out a hand. Her fingers connected with the dusty plaster of a nearby wall and by touch alone, she navigated forward. Straining her ears to make up for the lack of sight, she heard a soft tread, rising upward.

  Stairs.

  She turned toward the sound, groping her way until she found a rickety banister. Footsteps continued up into the darkness. The railing vibrated under her hand. Climbing blindly, Aimee followed.

  A sprinkling of silver light dusted the upper floor. It took several moments for her to realize part of the roof was missing. Grateful for the illumination, she hurried up a second flight of stairs. Damp air, numbingly cold, greeted her as she stepped onto the landing. A metal door stood ajar, beyond it a tarred roof. Desperately she cast about for Tristan’s fleeing shape, but the roof was empty.

  To her right came the scratch of claws.

  “Tristan,” she called, hoping desperately it was him.

  Something very large alighted nearby. Aimee turned to see eyes like black opals staring back at her from the ledge at the edge of the roof. Dark, human-looking eyes.

  Standing so close, it was impossible not to be awed by the size of the huge owl. It was easily four feet tall. She didn’t even want to guess its wing span. Through the dimness she could make out gray and black feathers. She knew without touching it that the coat was downy soft.

  It froze there on the ledge, looking back at her with Tristan’s eyes. The giant bird ruffled its wings, as if considering whether to take flight. Its chest heaved. Inexplicably, she thought she heard it sigh.

  Then the impossible happened.

  Claws morphed into feet, its legs thickened, stretched. Wings melted into arms.

  Aimee took a sharp step backward.

  Feathers receded, the beak became a nose. Midnight hair tumbled over expanding shoulders. She watched in utter fascination as its face blurred, reshaped.

  Then it was Tristan standing before her.

  Sorrowful eyes regarded her thoughtfully.

  “Is this the thing you couldn’t tell me?” Her voice trembled.

  He nodded, still watching her warily.

  Aimee forced herself to take a step toward him. “Are you going to tell me now?”

  Tristan turned away from her to look out into the night. “I suppose I have nothing to lose.”

  He made no sound as she approached, simply stared off into the menacing clouds that lined the horizon.

  “Be careful,” he said finally. “The roof isn’t safe.”

  Cautiously, Aimee reached out a hand to touch him, half expecting to feel the softness of feathers beneath her fingers. Instead her touch connected with a muscular shoulder that felt most definitely human. She heard him suck in his breath. But instead of stepping away, he turned and pulled her into his arms.

  He was wearing a different shirt, dark green in the pale light, loosely fitting. The wind caught at it, billowing the shirt around him.

  “You told me to forget,” she said into his chest. “But I didn’t.”

  “No,” Tristan said, regretfully. “You have a much stronger mind than I anticipated.”

  “Why did you come to me then, if you intended to wipe out my memory of you?”

  He sighed, hugging her closer. “I couldn’t help myself. From the first moment I saw you, chatting on the air vent with that old man, I loved you.”

  “Gray,” she corrected. “That’s what he calls himself.”

  “You have a kind heart.”

  “As do you, protecting people who can’t protect themselves.”

  Tristan shook his head. “I came to understand the value of kindness far too late.”

  “Too late?”

  “To save my soul.”

  “I don’t understand…”

  “It’s quite simple,” he said, holding her away from him. “I’m cursed.”

  That’s ridiculous. The words were on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn’t say them. She’d just seen an owl turn into a man. The man who’d rescued her, courted her, haunted her dreams. The man she could come to love.

  “Do you believe in the power of curses, Aimee?” he asked softly.

  “Right now I don’t know what to believe.” That at least was the truth.

  “And do you still want to know?”

  Aimee looked up into the hard planes of a face that was at once beautiful and fierce. The animal in him lurked so close beneath the surface, seething with restrained strength. She half expected him to leap from the rooftop, metamorphosing into a majestic bird as he fell. And by the tortured look on his face, she was certain he’d much rather do just that than share his darkest secret.

  Conflicting desires warred within her. Part of her desperately wanted to run. Yet another, stronger part of her longed to understand. “Tell me.” She rose to her tiptoes and pressed her lips against his.

  His lashes brushed her face as his eyes drifted shut. He caressed her lips with his own, tenderly, regretfully. Gently yet firmly, he pushed her away.

  Tristan swallowed heavily. For a brief moment he considered her, then, as if suddenly coming to a decision, he said, “I was born over two hundred years ago to a merchant family.”

  Aimee opened her mouth to protest the impossibility, but he continued resolutely.

  “My father had a knack for business, but he also had a knack for drink and gambling. He squandered his wealth. Our fine house, his ships, everything was claimed by debtors. The shame of it was the death of my mother. I soon found myself living in the streets.

  “It was a harsh existence, but I was a bright youngster. While I had no property, I did have knowledge and plenty of wit and courage. I convinced an old colleague of my father’s to take me as his apprentice.”

  He paused. But when she looked back at him with compassion, he resumed.

  “I learned quickly. Eventually he made me his partner. Whe
n he died, I inherited the business I helped create.”

  “But that was good, wasn’t it?” She didn’t understand what could be so shameful about being a self-made man.

  Tristan shook his head. “Blinded by my success, I forgot my humble roots. I forgot what it was to be hungry. In my arrogance, I began to look down upon those less fortunate than I.”

  “A human enough failing,” Aimee said, grasping for something, anything to wipe that look of anguish from his face.

  “Perhaps,” Tristan said. “Preoccupied with my own importance, I angered something that wasn’t quite human.”

  “The person who cursed you?”

  He gestured to the roiling clouds on the horizon. “On a night such as this, an old woman came begging at my door. I could have given her a place by my hearth. It would have cost me nothing to let her sleep in the stables. But I didn’t want to be reminded of my modest beginnings. I sent her away into the storm.”

  Tristan stared into the tumultuous sky. Thunder rumbled ominously in the distance. “As I began to close the door, she pointed her crooked finger at me. In my dreams, I can still hear her shrieking. ‘Heart of beast, the night to roam, never to face the light alone.’

  “As the clock chimed midnight, I became as I am now.” Eyes raw with pain beseeched hers for understanding.

  “But that’s—”

  “Impossible?” he supplied. “Ah, Aimee, but things happen every day that are…impossible.”

  “Then it was you outside my window.” A statement, not a question. “It wasn’t a dream.”

  “No.”

  Never to face the light alone…

  The phrase compelled her attention. Within the verse lay an important clue she was missing.

  “Tristan—”

  He held up a hand to silence her, as though afraid if he didn’t tell her everything that very minute, he might forever lose his nerve.

  “You must understand, Aimee. It cannot be between us. Even if you could come to love the likes of me, I could never fully share your life.” He smothered her protests and pressed on. “Once I believed I could undo the curse if I committed enough acts of kindness. But that turned out not to be the case. I gave up on trying to find a way to break the spell almost a century ago. I found that thoughtfulness has its own way of easing the soul.”