He’d heard all about them, but had never attended one. He should have—he was the eldest son of a Warrior Prime, and the ball was a social event to gather all the Scions of each Prime family in one spot, as a celebration of Reformation Day. It was also where connections were made, alliances were forged and some strategic pairings were made among the sons and daughters of the Primes. As a Warrior Scion, he had a right to attend. As a light warrior, a shadow breed that kept its very existence secret, though, there was no way his family would ever participate in such an event.
They had other ways of making alliances and wielding power, and it was far more delicate and discreet than the obnoxious gatherings of the Reform elite.
He rubbed his bare arms. He was chilled now. His lips curled. And yet, he was also energized. Strange. Usually when he dreamwalked, it was to find out secrets and implant suggestions, or fake memories—even make people forget... He’d never once thought to use it to entice, to seduce. Light warriors drew energy and power from all sources of light, except for created fluorescence. They were also able to pull power from sexual energy and emotions. He’d always believed there needed to be a physical proximity for that to work, though, not something that could be accomplished through an unconscious connection. Apparently he was wrong.
He’d connected with the witch, and with just one dreamy kiss she’d revitalized some of his stores. Totally worth a cold shower. He idly wondered what a real kiss with the woman would be like, then shook his head. He didn’t think her reaction would stop at just an uncomfortable, near-Arctic dousing.
* * *
Two days later, Melissa stared at her pale features in the mirror of the store’s bathroom. She pinched her cheeks, blinking her eyes open wide as she tried to wake up. She glanced at her watch. One hour. One hour before she could close the shop. Part of her wanted to curl up under the counter and sleep for a hundred years. Another part of her wanted to inject caffeine and never close her eyes again.
She was going to kill him. Sure, her mother would be disappointed, but she’d be able to sleep, damn it. He was tormenting her, and no matter what spell she conjured up, he managed to get past her defenses and dance through her dreamscapes.
She turned the tap and splashed cold water on her face. Last night had been bad. Over and over again, she’d relived the night her father had left. She eyed herself in the mirror, the haunted memories surfacing so easily now, as though her mind no longer obeyed her command to bury it.
She and her brother, Dave, had crept out from their rooms, eyeing each other warily in the darkened upstairs hallway as their parents had argued downstairs. It was the eve of Melissa’s sixteenth birthday, when she would graduate from adolescent to Initiate and attend her first Reform ball.
“She’s too young, Eleanor, and you know it.”
“She’s the Daughter-Scion, Phillip, and she has to start behaving like one.”
“She’s sixteen. She’s our daughter. You can’t marry her off, not yet.”
“She doesn’t have the luxury of just being our daughter, and you know it. We have to form that alliance. I don’t want to be at the mercy of the Armstrongs, or the Marchettas, or any other Reform family. We need to ensure our witches have strong representation within the Senate, and this merger will ensure that. You know we can’t use David, but we can at least use Melissa as an asset.”
David pulled her away from the banister and tried to drag her back into her bedroom, but she shook her brother off, her blood chilling at the argument downstairs as she returned to the railing. An asset? That’s how her mother saw her?
Their parents were in the living room, oblivious to the listening ears upstairs.
“Why the Hawthorns?” Her father’s question was laced with frustration and exasperation.
Melissa’s eyes rounded, and she glanced up at her brother. The Hawthorns? They were known to dabble in blood magic. Hadn’t one of their ancestors given in to the blood-craze? She shook her head. No, surely not. Surely her mother wouldn’t ally the House of White Oak with the House of Hawthorn...she turned toward the head of the stairs, but Dave yanked her back, lifting his finger to his lips in caution.
“The Hawthorns are strong, Phillip, and because of their—proclivities—they count some vampire colonies among their allies.” Her mother’s answer was haughty, as though offended she had to explain herself.
“Do you hear yourself? Vampires? We don’t want to align with the bloodsuckers, Eleanor.”
“Why? Are you afraid of them?”
Melissa frowned at the blatant scorn in her mother’s tone.
“I am wary of them. I don’t trust them, and neither should you. Anyone slave to the blood thirst will always be an enemy to the humans and witches, Eleanor, and you know it.”
“Well, I’m not scared of them, Phillip. It’s done. I’ve already discussed it with Marcus Hawthorn. He is willing to formally introduce his son to Melissa at the ball tomorrow night.”
“So, you’ve gone ahead and done it without discussing it with me.” Her father’s tone brought tears to Melissa’s eyes. It was so brittle, so cold.
“I do not need, nor seek, your permission, Phillip. I am the Coven Elder, and in this my authority is absolute. Deal with it.”
“I won’t stand for this, Eleanor.”
Her mother laughed, a cold little tinkle that sounded like broken glass cascading over stone. “There is nothing you can do, Phillip. It’s already arranged.”
“I won’t stand by your side and watch this. You’ve gone too far—you should have discussed this with me. We could have come up with an alternative.”
“You’re my Consort, Phillip, not my confidant.”
Melissa flinched at the sound of breaking glass, and then her father stormed out of the living room and into the front foyer.
“Well, you won’t have to worry about that anymore, Eleanor. I’m renouncing this farce of a marriage. Do as you will—you always have.” He gave a sharp, cruel bark of laughter. “You’re so worried about your standing among the society, I’m almost interested to see the spin you’ll put on that, but I find I really couldn’t care less.”
Her father yanked his coat down from the hook behind the door. Melissa broke away from David, tears streaming down her face as she started to walk down the stairs.
“Daddy, please don’t go.”
Phillip Carter turned around, and she could see his struggle to contain his anger in front of his children. Finally, he smiled sadly and shrugged as she approached him. “Sorry, poppet. I just can’t do this anymore.”
He gave her a hug, then gazed up at David. Father and son looked at each other for a long moment, and then Phillip finally nodded, as though there was some meaningful, silent exchange.
And then her father left.
When Melissa turned away from the open front door, she saw him, a shadow in the corner of the foyer, his brown eyes watching the scene intently. He hadn’t been there at the time, but he was there, inside her memory, replaying it for her again and again. There was something predatory about his gaze that suggested his name was more than just something handed down to him at birth, but more a characteristic of his personality.
Damn pyro jerk. Just for that, she’d cast an elemental spell and had made it snow in his cell for the rest of the night. He was still shivering when she’d tossed him his sandwich at lunchtime.
Melissa looked away from the mirror and grabbed the hand towel hanging from a loop attached to the wall. She dabbed her face dry, her teeth clenched, that last image of her father storming off into the night haunting her. Neither she nor Dave had seen him since. She wasn’t going to cry. Not again. She’d wasted too many tears, remembering that night.
She fluffed her hair, pasted a fake smile on her face, then turned to the door that led out to her store. She had a client coming in to pick up a hex p
ouch, and another one due for an extremely diluted solution of wolfsbane. It wasn’t enough to kill a lycan, but it was enough to make the man’s abusive werewolf wife feel poorly enough to leave him alone.
Her hand rested on the doorknob. That night memories of her father weren’t the only dreams she was having. She frowned. She’d have to do something about her prisoner. She didn’t want these dreams, didn’t want these painful memories resurfacing at his whim, not hers. She didn’t think she could let him go, though. Who knew what chaos he would wreak on the unsuspecting and vulnerable if let out. He showed no real remorse for his actions, no consideration for others, but continued to push his own agenda. She wasn’t allowed to kill him, but she had wanted to teach him a lesson. Her shoulders sagged. Perhaps he was unredeemable.
Right now, though, she was too tired to care.
Straightening her shoulders, she swept into her store, a fake smile on her face as she greeted her customers.
A while later, after the two customers had left, she was almost deliriously happy to shut her front door, swinging the sign to Closed. She switched the light off over the display window and rubbed the back of her neck as she walked down the aisle toward the internal door that opened near the stairs that led to her apartment.
A furious tapping on the door at the front of the store had her turning, her brows dipping as the tapping became thumping. She walked back toward the store entrance, then started running when she caught a good look at one person propped up against her store window and another person struggling to keep him up. Melissa unlocked the door, and Lexi sobbed, nearly hysterical as she draped her brother’s arm over her shoulders.
“Please, Melissa. We need your help. Lance is hurt—bad.”
Chapter 5
Hunter hugged himself. The snow flurries had melted within his cell, but there was still a leftover chill from the witch’s retaliatory snowstorm. How apt that she took an icy approach. She probably thought he’d been replaying that particular memory out of spite, but he wasn’t.
Okay, so maybe there was a tiny bit of spite in there, but he’d really wanted to find out more about his captor. She’d been so young in that memory, not even an Initiate—untried and untested with her powers. He’d seen her hurt flare when her mother discussed her as no more than a resource for the coven, sensed her fear and anxiety at being married off, seen her blanch at the mention of the Hawthorns. The White Oak Coven... He racked his brain, trying to remember what he knew of the family. He knew of no current alliance between the Hawthorns and the White Oaks, and managing and orchestrating alliances and enmities were part of a light warrior’s toolbox, as his manipulative father had taught him. Arthur Armstrong had made it his business to understand, and even to influence, the partnerships and negotiations within Reform society.
When he saw Melissa’s dream of the ball, though, she’d been close enough to her current age—definitely an adult, and not some sixteen-year-old on her first introduction into Reform society. What had happened with the Hawthorns? He knew enough of Eleanor Carter’s reputation to know the Coven Elder was politically savvy and extremely powerful. What had happened to Melissa’s arranged marriage? It was an archaic custom, and one that couldn’t be enforced. If the Scion didn’t wish to be married off, there were opportunities to withdraw without causing insult, but he couldn’t remember hearing of anything involving the White Oak Coven. Hell. It wasn’t like Melissa was the kind of woman who could be discreet and diplomatic in that kind of situation, so surely he would have heard of some shock or scandal...?
Every time he learned something of his captor, it just raised more questions. Not that a broken engagement was any help to him getting out of his prison... He was just...curious.
He settled himself back against the wall. She was tired. His dreamwalking was disturbing her sleep. He regretted that. Her face had been pale and drawn when he’d caught a brief glimpse of her as she’d tossed him his lunch. If she wasn’t craving a nap, she’d be going to bed early tonight. He frowned. Goose bumps rose on his arms. He realized there was a chill in the air, but he also knew excitement when he felt it—and he was strangely excited by the prospect of seeing her in her dreams. She was unguarded there, and hadn’t quite figured out how to block him, yet—although he’d had to exercise more effort last night, so she was getting there. He saw her in all her vulnerable, awkward and naive glory. So far, though, he still couldn’t understand why she was such a hard-ass when it came to the shadow breeds. To be fair, he’d behaved badly toward her, and all thoughts of protecting his brother aside, he should have factored her into his firestorm, and was ashamed he hadn’t. She had a right to be angry with him, but he sensed there was more to the anger than just him nearly killing her—although some might think that was enough of a reason.
No, he sensed there was more behind that anger, a bitter sense of betrayal he just didn’t understand—and now he couldn’t use it to get the hell out of here.
He closed his eyes. She might be avoiding him, tossing him his food from the door, and not speaking to him at all, but she couldn’t avoid him in her unconsciousness—and he’d be ready and waiting for her tonight.
* * *
Melissa grimaced as she and Lexi struggled to carry Lance’s massive form over to the bed in her spare bedroom. It had been quite the challenge for both her and Lexi to get him up the stairs from the bookstore in his semiconscious state, but she had no place to lie him down in the store.
God, the blood. There was so much blood. Lance’s complexion was almost gray, and his eyelids kept fluttering, as though he was struggling against a tide of unconsciousness that threatened to claim him.
“I haven’t seen him in ages, and for some reason, I just felt this need to touch base with him,” Lexi said between ragged breaths, her words stumbling over each other. “I found him like this—” Lexi shook her head, unable to continue.
“Get his legs up,” Melissa instructed as she lowered him onto the bed. She glanced at the young woman. Apparently the ring was doing its job. “There are towels in the bathroom and a bucket under the sink. Fill it up with water—don’t worry, it’s clean, and then bring it all in here.”
Lexi’s hands were shaking as she hoisted her brother’s feet up onto the bed, and Melissa touched her shoulder. The young woman turned to her, her blue eyes glistening with tears and bright with fear.
“It’s okay, Lexi. You did good, bringing him here. How did it happen?”
Lexi shrugged. “I don’t know. I was on the way to his place, and found him in the park down on Addison Road. You were the first person I thought of for help.”
Melissa patted her shoulder reassuringly. “He’ll be fine.”
Lexi nodded, took a deep breath, then hurried to the bathroom down the hall.
Melissa opened Lance’s leather jacket and sucked in her breath. His shirtfront was dark and shiny with blood, so much that she couldn’t rip the damp material, and had to slide the buttons out of holes to peel back the fabric. His chest rose and fell rapidly, as though he couldn’t quite fill his lungs, and his body was bathed in a cool perspiration.
She gently rolled him onto his side, wincing as he groaned. There was blood on his back, as well.
Her mouth dried when she saw the extent of his injuries, and her gaze flicked up to Lance’s face. He stared at her, his green eyes dull with pain and sadness, a weary acceptance stamped on his features.
“It’s fine, Mel. I know.”
Melissa shook her head, blinking back the tears. “Don’t say that, Lance. You’re going to be fine. We’ll fix you.” This man had worked quietly and diligently in her store, had listened to her rants about her mother, had gotten drunk with her and her brother on the odd occasion, and had been there when Theo had died in a way no other could have been. “You’re going to be fine,” she repeated in a whisper, gazing at the cuts on his chest, and the hole th
at looked too close to his heart.
It took an effort, but Lance covered her hand with his bloodstained fingers, and she flinched at the cool touch. “I’ve been shot, Mel. I’m dying. You can’t fix this.”
Lexi entered the room with a bucket of water and towels, and Melissa lifted her chin toward the bedside table. “Good woman. Now, there is a cupboard at the end of the hall, with a basket on the bottom shelf. Go get it for me quickly.” Lexi jogged out of the room, and Melissa turned to her friend.
“Who did this to you, Lance? Who did this?” She hissed the words at him softly, conscious of Lexi just down the hall.
Lance smiled weakly. “It doesn’t matter.”
Melissa’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, it does, because we are going to deliver a whole world of hurt on them.” She dipped a hand towel into the bucket, squeezed it, then started to clean his chest. She needed to see exactly what she was dealing with here.
Lance’s smile fell, and he shook his head, just once. “No, stay out of it, Mel. Look after Lexi for me.”
Her gaze flicked up to meet his. She wasn’t ready for this, wasn’t ready to say goodbye to one of her best friends, wasn’t ready to take on his burdens. “Oh, no you don’t,” she whispered harshly. “You don’t get to dump that high-maintenance chick on me. You can clean up her messes.” She wiped away most of the blood, although it still pulsed, slowly, from some of his wounds, so red—unnaturally so. The lacerations were deep, but it was the hole near his heart that most concerned her. A bullet wound, through and through, with an exit wound in his back. Lance was a dhampir, with a metabolism that aided self-healing, but the fact that he was healing so slowly suggested he was, indeed, gravely injured.
She brushed his dark blond hair back from his forehead. “But for now, you need to sleep.” She whispered a sleep spell, and his eyelids drifted shut, his dark lashes forming crescents against his cheeks.
Lexi ran back into the room, and halted when she saw her brother. “Oh, God, is he—?”
Warrior Untamed Page 5
