Details filtered through the terror.
Angular cheekbones. A strong jaw covered in ginger stubble. Thick eyebrows drawn into a scowl. Long hair tied against his nape. Sunglasses hid his eyes and…merde de dieu. He was handsome. The realization made everything seem so much worse. Good looking guys weren’t supposed to be rapists. The thought whirled like jagged glass through her mind, ripping up mental terrain, leaving her unmoored. Even as she drifted, she knew it was an idiotic conclusion. Completely illogical. Looks had nothing to do with a guy being a soulless sociopath.
The thought should’ve got her moving. Made her run. Caused her to scream the walls down and alert the entire neighbourhood. But as he stared at her slack-jawed, something close to awe on his face, she didn’t do a thing. She was paralyzed, on lockdown, so afraid her body refused to obey the instructions her brain kept yelling. Run. Hide. Kick him in the balls…right now!
All great suggestions. Too bad she couldn’t heed a single one.
Paralyzing fear made a pit stop inside her head. She’d always thought it a stupid excuse. Nothing but a cop out. Just something people said when cornered in an interview, a way to explain why they hadn’t screamed—or fought—when faced with eminent danger. Well, she knew better now. Delayed reactions in scary situations existed in the real world and, sad to say but proof positive for the theory appeared to be her.
Nothing else explained the fact she was acting like a piece of statuary.
Too bad she couldn’t say the same of him.
Despite the momentary hesitation on his part, he was fully functional now…and one hundred percent focused on her. Without taking his gaze off her, he flicked the door closed behind him. Wood thumped against wood, rattling the handle, sounding ominous in the silence as he stepped toward her.
Raising the rolling pin, she pointed it at him. Her body started to listen, allowing her to slide backward on bare feet. She bumped into the loveseat, losing her balance for a moment.
He reached out.
She bared her teeth. “Stay back!”
Her voice stopped him mid-stride. Head titled to one side, he considered her a moment.
“I m-mean it.” Her voice cracked. Amantha cringed. Fantastic. Just great. She sounded a million times weaker than a wuss, about as convincing as a dead fish. “Don’t move.”
“Lass,” he said, his tone so guttural it registered as a growl.
The threatening sound unlocked her lungs. Sucking in a breath, she retreated, sidestepping an end table. “Leave.”
“I’m sorry, kazlita. I dinnae mean to frighten you. I thought you’d be asleep. Wasn’t supposed to see you at all,” he said, sounding so sincere she wanted to dropkick him into the hallway…through the goddamn door. Not the smartest impulse. Particularly since hitting him would require getting close enough to nail him. Flexing his hands, he shifted toward her. “I know I shouldn’t be here. I should turn around and go home, but I cannae leave now.”
“Yes, you can. The door is right there. Turn your ass around and use it.”
His expression changed, softening a fraction.
She sucked in a shaky breath. God keep her safe. Was that regret on his face? Was she reading him right? Hope sparked, making her hands tremble. Her guard dropped. Not by a lot. Less than an inch, just enough for to her see over top of the rolling pin. Strange, but…yeah. Whatever he felt looked a lot like regret. Maybe, even shame. He might be standing in her apartment uninvited, but he wasn’t comfortable. And also….
Amantha took a closer look. All right, so the vibe he threw off leaned toward lethal, but nothing about him said mean. An odd conclusion to draw given the sheer size of him, but something made her think he might not be a danger to her. How she knew that, Amantha couldn’t say. Instinct, maybe. Sheer madness explained her reaction too, but as she held his gaze, trying to see through his sunglasses, she wondered. Maybe the guy owned a conscience. Maybe what she saw on his face meant he was about to—
“’Tis too late for retreat, lass. My dragon willnae allow it.” Rolling his shoulders, he stepped off the welcome mat. His boots thumped down, sounding like thunder on wooden floorboards. “I’m too hungry, and you’re…God, your energy…it’s gorgeous. So powerful and—”
“Get out.” Panic closed her throat. She tightened her grip on the rolling pin. “Right now.”
“Donnae be scared, Amantha. You’ll come to no harm by my hand. Shite, I willnae even touch you,” he said, pausing a beat. “Unless you allow it.”
Surprise thumped on her. She shoved it aside. Unless she allowed it? The guy must be insane. “And what—I’m just supposed to take your word for it?”
“Aye.”
She opened her mouth to tell him off, then closed it again. “You know my name.”
One corner of his mouth curved up. “Amantha Marie Leblanc. Formerly of Quebec City. I like your accent, lass.”
“You like my…you like my…” Unable to finish the thought, she stopped sputtering and frowned at him. “Who are you?”
“Wallaig. A friend of Elise’s.”
“Seriously?”
He nodded.
Joy grabbed hold of her heart, making it hard to breathe. “You’ve seen her?”
“Aye. I see her every day.”
“Is she okay?”
“Better than okay. She’s married,” he said, as though marriage was God’s answer to every ailment in Edinburgh. Reaching beneath his leather jacket, he pulled something from the waistband of his jeans. Envelopes bundled together with a yellow ribbon made an appearance in his hand. Gaze riveted to her, he set the package down on the coffee table. “For you, lass.”
She swallowed past the lump in her throat. “What is it?”
“Letters,” he said. “From Elise to you.”
Her mouth moved, but no sound came out.
“Your shock is showing, Amantha.”
“Can you blame me?”
His mouth curved. Crinkles formed at the corners of his eyes behind his sunglasses as he shifted focus and looked over her head. “Are those croissants?”
Amantha blinked. Croissants? What in God’s name was he talking about? He helped her answer the question by pointing toward the kitchen.
She risked a quick glance over her shoulder. The pastry cooling on baking racks caught her attention. “Chocolatines.”
“What’s that?”
“Croissants with a kick. Each one has dark chocolate inside.”
He made an odd rumbling sound. “May I have some?”
“Ah…” Weapon dipping to half-mast, she watched him skirt the loveseat and walk into her kitchen. “Okay.”
Rounding the island, Wallaig snagged a Chocolatine off one of the trays. He shoved half in his mouth and moaned in delight. “Do you have any tea?”
Dumbfounded, she stared at the stranger in her kitchen. “What?”
“Tea, kazlita,” he said, managing to sound normal with his mouth full of pastry. “Earl Grey would be good.”
“Are you planning to stay awhile?”
With a shrug, he flipped open one of her cupboard doors.
She scowled as he began rummaging through the shelves. “Sure. No problem. Just make yourself right at home.”
“Sarcasm suits you, lass.
Well, she was sure glad something did. Lord knew the conversation didn’t suit her at all. Not for the first time, she wondered what the hell was going on. Her gaze drifted to the letters on the coffee table. Shuffling sideways, Amantha transferred the rolling pin into her left hand and picked up the ribbon wrapped bundle with the other. God. Letters. For her. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes. Elise had written her. Was no doubt trying to explain her sudden disappearance.
The idea warmed her heart. Her best friend hadn’t abandoned her. Not completely and—
A cabinet door banged.
Hugging the letters to her chest, she returned her attention to Wallaig. Busy searching through her stuff, he stood with his back to her. Wide shoulders takin
g up too much space. Long legs hidden behind the island. Huge hands gentle as he picked up a container of paper muffin cups, then put it back. Watching him, she shook her head. Strange—could be all kinds of crazy—but even without reading the letters, she believed his story.
He wasn’t a rapist. Hadn’t broken in to attack her. Had absolutely no intention of hurting her at all.
The idea he might be trustworthy made her wonder when she’d lost her mind. Talk about a bizarre situation. The strangest of which stood in her kitchen, examining boxes of tea. And as she watched him fill the kettle and find two mugs, she didn’t know what to do—try to kick Wallaig out again…or start asking the questions she desperately needed answered.
Five
Wings angled into a downdraft, Grizgunn circled above the police station on St. Leonard’s Lane. Frigid air played with the tips of his twin tails, rattling venomous spikes. The noisy rush expanded inside the invisibility spell he wore like a winter cloak, keeping him hidden from human eyes. With a murmur, he shutdown the rattle’n bang and, banking left, completed another slow revolution. His magic sparked, shimmering in his veins, causing his gaze to glow as he searched the building below.
The aerial view was nothing special. Boring brick structure with a pitched roof. Wide sidewalks out front, no trees hanging over the black-topped avenues. Scanning the layout, he looked for a safe place to land. Two main entrances caught his attention: one street side, the other exited into a parking lot at the rear of the complex. He pursed his lips and considered. Lots of foot traffic. More than he expected to see so late at night.
Like ants at manual labor, unformed officers walked in and out of the human HQ. A few climbed into marked cruisers. Others hopped into motorcycles, no doubt heading out on patrol. He frowned. Or whatever the hell human police did to occupy their time. He frowned. Not that he cared. He hadn’t flown into town to socialize. Far from it. He’d rather kill a human than talk to one but some things couldn’t be avoided.
Not if he wanted to retrieve what he needed to defeat Cyprus.
He could see it in his mind’s eye. Every detail. Every contour. Could picture the outer skin of the case along with the braided leather handle. The satchel belonged to the female he’d taken, but failed to keep. She’d dropped it in the cathedral before he attacked. The memory played like a movie inside his head: the bang of her case against stone tiles, her horror at seeing the priest laying prone, dying on the church floor. Her scream as he’d grabbed her by the throat. The hum of her bio-energy blazing against his skin and—
Hmm, baby. He could still feel it. Felt the buzz. Relived the powerful surge of her energy as terror kicked in. She’d fought like a wildcat, clawing at his arms—at his face—before he’d shifted into dragon form and flown away with her.
Grizgunn shivered in pleasure. Such a glorious moment. One he yearned to repeat, but first, he must infiltrate the police evidence locker. He needed her briefcase. The contents of the kit would contain her personal information. Her name. An address. A phone number. Humans were odd that way. The idiots liked to label things, marking their belongings in the same way dogs peed on trees. Names everywhere and on everything. At least he hoped the female had followed tradition and been that stupid.
His whole plan hinged on locating her.
Or rather the identification tag he prayed hung from the handle of the case.
Her name didn’t interest him. He didn’t give a damn what she called herself. He wanted her address. The second he knew where she lived—where she slept—the hunt would begin. His strategy was simple: find and recapture her. Use her to force his enemy out of the shadows and into the open. A brilliant plan. Perfect, really…but only if Cyprus hadn’t kept her as a prized pet.
The thought set his fangs on edge.
His eyes narrowed on the rear entrance of the police station. Fucking pretender. Selfish bastard. The male had stolen his birthright by seizing control of the Scottish pack. Now, he sat where Grizgunn should be—at the top of the food chain…in the seat meant for him. So, yeah, the possibility Cyprus sheltered the HE female pissed him off. Made him want to unleash his venomous exhale and suffocate a whole city block.
An idea with merit. Too bad he didn’t have time for amusement tonight. Not while his entire crew flew in his wake, awaiting his next command.
Firing up mind-speak, he pinged his XO. “Hakon.”
“Yeah?”
“Is the perimeter set?”
“Six warriors deep.” Black red-tipped scales flashing in the moon glow, Hakon flew in behind him. “You want me with you—or on the north side?”
“With me. I don’t trust myself not to kill humans in there.”
Hakon chuckled. “Clean in. Clean out. No blood on the floor.”
“Exactly. I don’t want the idiots to be aware of our presence.”
“Safer that way,” his friend said, amusement in his voice.
No question. Grizgunn sighed. Sometimes being responsible sucked. “Stay alert. Stay cloaked. I don’t want any surprises.”
“Uh-huh. The back parking lot?”
“Yeah.”
Gaze moving over parked cars, Grizgunn folded his wings. His gaze narrowed on a clear spot near the back of the lot. Less cars to avoid. More room to land. Always a good thing given his wing span. Bitter cold rushed over his scales as he dropped through smog filled sky. Seconds before he hit the ground, he unfurled his wings. The webbing caught air. His paws touched down without making a sound. Sharp claws scraping over asphalt, he searched the entryway. All quiet now. No one coming in or out. Perfect for the hunt and a well-planned heist.
Tightening the invisibility spell, he unleashed magic. His skin tingled as his body transformed, shifting him from dragon to human. Conjuring his clothes, he sidestepped crumpled soda can and glanced over his shoulder.
Hakon landed on a patch of grass. Individual blades bent, crackling beneath his paws as the big male flapped his wings. The blowback kicked up a dust storm. The contents in half frozen puddles flew into the air, mixing with sand and small stones, then blew across the lot to assault parked cars with slushy water.
As rock pinged off steel, Grizgunn wiped a droplet off his face. “Jesus, Hakon.”
“Apologies,” he said, not sounding sorry at all.
He threw his friend an annoyed look. “Shift, already. I don’t have time to screw around.”
With a grunt, his XO obeyed. Black red-tipped scales morphed into human skin a second before his warrior covered up with jeans and a t-shirt.
“We’ll go in through the rear entrance.” Already halfway across the lot, Grizgunn sidestepped a concert barricade and walked between two cruisers. “From there it’s a straight shot down the stairs to the evidence locker.”
“You know the layout?” Hakon asked, shrugging into a wool trench-coat.
“Got the plans on-line.”
“Smart.”
“Necessary. I want to be at the female’s home before dawn.”
“Careful, commander.” Grey eyes intent, Hakon treated him to a searching look. “Impatience breeds problems.”
Grizgunn didn’t answer. He didn’t need the reminder. Or want to address his warrior’s concern. He’d already learned his lesson. Knew all about the folly of moving on a target folly of be found inWhat he’d dreamed of for years—ce, and an HE female to torment. onjured a pair of jeans and a t-too soon. His sire’s misfortune had taught him well. No way would he make the same mistakes. But time was of the essence. He needed to find her before the sun rose. Hesitation wasn’t an option. Not when dealing with scum like Cyprus.
The thought propelled him toward the concrete pad fronting the rear entrance.
Framed by steel and painted blue, tall windows flanked doors. Boots thumping across concrete, he crossed the landing and, reaching out, yanked one open. A quick scan of the interior made him veer left toward the staircase. He heard Hakon enter the building behind him. Trusting his friend to follow, Grizgunn jogged down the stairs.
One floor down he found what he needed—a glassed in reception area with a countertop and a shitload of security. To the left of the enclosure stood a door with a keypad and high tech camera. Not bad. The monitoring system was top of the line. One problem with the set up—the human behind the glass.
Without breaking stride, he unleashed his magic. Venomous heat hissed as it slithered through the air. The male-in-charge of the evidence locker jerked, then went glassy eyed. He wobbled, threatening to toppled out of his chair.
Grizgunn steadied the idiot, exerting his control. He shook his head. So simpleminded. The human race was so easy to manipulate. Snorting in disgust, he issued a mental command. “Open the door. Let me in.”
The male didn’t hesitate. He pressed a button.
A loud buzz filled the air.
The locks disengaged. And just like that, he was through. On the other side of the door. Behind the counter. Inside the glass enclosure, accessing the computer inventory files as the human sat unmoving, a blank look on his face.
Closing the door behind him, Hakon halted beside him. “Well?”
“Row K, number 32.”
“Let’s go.”
Grizgunn nodded and, clearing the computer screen, followed his friend into the back room. Row upon row of tall mental bookcases stood side by side. Boxes sat shoulder-to-shoulder on each shelf. Reading the letter on the end of each row, he paused at the tall shelf marked K, then turned into the aisle. Eyes on the numbered boxes, he walked until he located the right box. Hope riding high, he grabbed the handle hole and pulled the evidence from its resting place. With a flip, Grizgunn flicked the lid off and peered inside.
His mouth curved. There it was, the plastic case sitting like a gift inside the cardboard container. He checked the handle. No name tag. Gritting his teeth, he shifted the briefcase to one side. A sticker came into view. Shiny black background. Gold typeset and…
“Got it.”
“Where does she live?”
“West end,” he said, rattling off the address.
Fury of Denial Page 3
