“I know you can move things, and I can see things,” Hannah had said, explaining how, in her culture, those with any kind of psychic talents were thought to be blessed by the gods. Blessed hadn’t exactly been Glory’s experience.
“I have to warn you, though.” Glory didn’t want Hannah thinking she had some great gift that the people of Penton could use. “I can’t control what I move when I get upset. I could end up hurting someone.”
Hannah leaned forward on the sofa where they’d sat to talk, grasping Glory’s hand. “I don’t know how to make myself see things better. It just happens, or it doesn’t. But you can practice. You can learn how to move things when you want to and stop when you want to. I have dreams, and in my dreams, I saw someone like you who can help us. You can help Mirren too, and he can help you.”
The stuff about Mirren had been the most disturbing part of Hannah’s visit. Glory was already important to him, the girl had said. He would need her. They might survive whatever was ahead if they were together. If they were apart, Hannah saw only emptiness in the future for either of them.
Of course, it would have been nice if the girl could’ve said exactly what was ahead, or how she could help Mirren, or in what way she was important.
Hannah’s assertion that he’d grown important to Glory was something she couldn’t deny, but it bothered her. Could caring about a vampire bring her anything but trouble? Glory had her doubts, but her thoughts strayed to him in idle moments, the strength in those hands, the sheer size of him, his utter lack of social grace.
She’d wanted to ask the girl more about Mirren, but stopped herself. It felt too much like gossip, and he didn’t deserve that. She wanted to know more about the man who’d saved her and who fascinated her, but she needed to learn it from him, however far he was willing to let her in. But she wanted to know him on her terms, not as the woman he’d been forced to support. This job was the first step in that.
Peeking out the stockroom door to make sure no customers or staff had wandered too near, Glory took a deep breath and lasered all her focus on a case of canned Ro-Tel tomatoes. She blocked out the vision of the great nachos she could make with them, focusing on the box itself and not the contents. She visualized it rising slowly off the floor, twisting in midair, then settling gently back to the concrete.
She felt giddy with excitement when the heavy box rose. Once its midair turn began, she clapped her hands in amazement, and then she lost it…the crash of the case hitting the unforgiving floor practically jarred the stockroom walls. Oh boy, here it comes. Glory counted to thirty before Jeff poked his head in the door. “Problems back here?”
“No, sorry, just lost control of a box.” She was relieved that he looked amused rather than angry and took her word for it that things were under control.
Well, everything but her skills. Idiot. Focus, focus, focus. How hard can it be to focus?
Pretty hard, apparently. Glory practiced with every box she pulled out for shelf stock and finally got skilled at willing them to move. Keeping them aloft until she intentionally set them down was another matter.
At two p.m., Glory finished her first day of work, if four hours could be called a day. Jeff had told her she was full time, technically, but once the stocking was done for the day, she was free to leave. She’d still get paid for her eight hours.
Not exactly a normal way of doing business, but what in Penton was normal? Money wasn’t treated like a valuable commodity here, which was hard for her to wrap her head around after so many years of struggling.
Over the next half hour, she spent part of Mirren’s hundred-dollar bill to better stock his kitchen and pick up some inexpensive clothes for herself in the shop next door, including a purse and a watch.
What she hadn’t done was think ahead about how to get all the stuff back to Mirren’s. She struggled out the door of the superette with her bags, wondering if she was in good enough shape to walk a half mile lugging at least twenty pounds of food and clothes. Before Matthias had taken her, she could have done it, no problem. She still tired easily, though.
She’d only gotten as far as the end of the superette parking lot when a silver Toyota stopped beside her.
“Need a lift?” The man must have assumed her answer would be yes, because he stopped the car and got out without waiting for a response. He’d begun pulling a bag from her hand before it finally seemed to hit him that she wasn’t cooperating.
“Who are you?” Glory gave him a once-over. He didn’t look dangerous, and he obviously wasn’t a vampire since it was midafternoon, but she had plenty of right to be paranoid.
He straightened and blinked at her. He was handsome in a baby-faced kind of way, with thick blond hair and eyes the rich color of a bluebird’s wings. “Oh, sorry. I’m Mark Calvert—Melissa’s husband. I saw you when you first came here, in the clinic, but you…” He blushed and trailed off.
“But I was too stoned to remember?” Glory laughed. “Sorry, those first days were kind of a blur.” She honestly didn’t remember him. She’d have been more embarrassed if Melissa hadn’t told her a little of Mark’s background. He’d been where she was, only worse. She’d wager her own forced addiction was a lot easier to shake than his had been.
“How about that ride?” Mark’s grin was infectious, plus she really didn’t want to walk that far loaded down like a pack mule.
He drove her to Mirren’s, then helped her unload the groceries. Like Melissa, he wandered around Mirren’s house with curiosity. Did the man never invite friends over? Did vampires not do those kinds of things, or was it just Mirren?
“You and Melissa should come over for dinner one night,” Glory said on impulse, only then wondering how Mirren would feel about a gaggle of humans invading his space. Still, she enjoyed cooking for people, and he could go off and do vampire things if he didn’t like it. And they could promise not to touch his TV.
“That’s a great idea—Mel said you liked to cook. Aidan meets with all the lieutenants two or three times a week in the
clinic office to go over projects, mostly city management stuff. We can do it one of those nights.”
Glory liked the idea of entertaining here. It was a great house—unlike any of the others she’d passed on her walk into town this morning. Penton had a real hodgepodge of styles. Early century Colonials lined the main road into town and had probably belonged to Penton’s upper crust back in the days when the cotton mill churned money into the local economy. Ranch-style houses from the sixties and seventies would have been built toward the end of the mill’s life as most of the textile industry moved overseas. And then there were smaller cottage-style houses from the period in between.
Mirren’s house was different. Its shape was similar to the cottages, but its facade was constructed of heavy stone, its roof sharply pitched.
It was as unique as the man who owned it.
After Mark left with a promise to talk to her later about setting up a dinner, Glory eyed the food spread out on the coun tertops. Maybe this had been a really bad idea. Mirren used his kitchen to store mechanical doohickeys. Glory couldn’t even identify enough of them to do more than guess at pairing related things together. What if he got angry because she’d moved them?
He told you he wanted you to stay here, and he knows you’ve gotta eat. What’s he going to do, slit your throat? She was being ridiculous. Shaking her head, Glory organized the food and began consolidating some of the bits of metal that appeared similar. Bolts and screws together, chains neatly coiled, what looked like gears. Tools. Why couldn’t the man use a toolbox like a normal person?
Glory laughed. Maybe she’d buy him a toolbox and some industrial shelving with his own money.
According to her new watch, about ninety minutes of daylight remained. One image Glory’s mind kept revisiting throughout the day had been the expression on Mirren’s face when he’d uncovered the pot of stew and inhaled. He’d closed his eyes, and a world of memories seemed to march behind those lowered
lids.
Will had given her an idea, and as she’d shopped the aisles of the superette, she thought about what foods might make her blood taste differently. Fatty foods were a natural, and sugar. All the stuff that was bad for you. Maybe some spices—she’d have to do some research. Did Penton have a library? Or Internet access?
She took out the loaf of days-old French bread she’d pulled from the store’s sale bin, tore it into hunks, and spread it out in a Pyrex dish she’d found there as well. She mixed together whole milk, butter, brown sugar, eggs, and vanilla, and poured it over the bread before putting the whole thing in the oven. Glory went to the living room and retrieved the bottle of Jack Daniel’s she’d spotted on the corner table, then whipped up a rich whiskey sauce with cream and butter.
By sunset, the smell of warm bread pudding filled the kitchen, and Glory had wolfed down a generous helping topped with whiskey sauce, thinking if this worked and she began eating for Mirren’s enjoyment, she might grow so round he wouldn’t want to feed from her anymore.
Or any of the other things she’d begun to hope for.
CHAPTER 16
Mirren unlatched the lock and opened the hatch into the cottage’s main level, following his nose. Rich scents of butter and sugar drew him into the kitchen, where a glass pan sat on top of the stove, filled with…stuff. It looked like something a cat would yack up.
Glory’s voice was soft. “I made it for you.”
He’d been able to sense her in the house but had gotten so preoccupied with the aromas he hadn’t seen her sitting on a stool in the shadows that stretched before the closed and shuttered kitchen windows.
“I can’t eat it.” Pity, because it did smell fine.
“Well, maybe you can.” She hopped off the stool, and Mirren noted with satisfaction she wore a simple button-front shirt and jeans that molded perfectly to her figure. She’d taken his money, after all. He’d half expected her to throw it in his face when he rose for the night.
Glory didn’t wait for a response but walked past him into the hallway. Suspicious, he opened a couple of cabinet doors and saw a perplexing assortment of boxes and cans. What had she done with his tools?
“Where’s my stuff?” He wandered into his living room, where she sat on the sofa, unbuttoning the top buttons of her shirt. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Getting ready to feed you some bread pudding with whiskey sauce.” She bared the side of her neck and part of one smooth shoulder. The old Mirren wanted to grab her and take her, maybe on the living room floor. The Mirren he was trying to be wanted to caress her. The Mirren he currently was wanted to get in his Bronco and drive far, far away at a very high speed.
“You don’t have to be my fam.” God, what a jerk. “I mean, I’d like you to. If you want to. But if you don’t…” What an idiot. He couldn’t string two sentences together.
“I want to. Now, come over here and see if you can taste all that sugar and butter and whiskey sauce I ate on your behalf.”
He sat on the edge of the sofa, where he could make a quick escape if he needed to. “You really made that for me?”
“Good Lord, Mirren. I’m not going to bite you.” She scooted closer to him, sliding onto the same sofa cushion. Once her leg rested against his, she began laughing. “I’m not going to bite you. That’s kind of a funny phrase, considering. I wonder if I’m the first human to ever assure a vampire no teeth marks were coming his way.”
Mirren frowned. What the hell was she talking about?
“Never mind.” She got up on her knees and swung one leg over his until she straddled him on the sofa. Mirren stifled a groan. The woman had no idea how she tested his self-control. Or maybe she did. Sometimes, like now, he suspected she knew exactly what she was doing.
“I tried to think of some food that you might be able to taste in my bloodstream.” She rested her hands on his shoulders and leaned toward him. “Sugar and butter seemed like a good place to start. If it works, we can experiment a little with some of the foods you used to like. If it doesn’t”—her shoulders rose and fell in a quick shrug—“then I had an excuse to eat bread pudding, although if I eat too much of it, you’ll have to widen your doorways. And then I—”
“Stop.” Mirren had finally figured out she babbled when she was nervous. He settled a hand on each of her hips and lowered her onto his lap so she could feel the hard-on she’d already caused just by her nearness—and by the idea that she wanted to do something to make his life more enjoyable.
Her breath quickened, and he felt the throb of her heartbeat through her skin. He lowered his head, trailing his tongue along the side of her neck, across the scar tissue.
“I’m ready,” she whispered, tilting her head to the side.
Mirren groaned as he bit down and took the first rush of blood into his mouth. She was right—he could taste traces of the sugar in its sweetness and butter in its richness, on top of her own unique taste. He closed his eyes and fed in a gentle rhythm, not realizing at first that Glory was rocking against him with her hips, mimicking the same pulsing ebb and flow.
Without thinking, Mirren quit feeding and, shifting his mouth to hers, used his hands to guide her hips against him. They set up the same rhythm in the tangle of their tongues as they explored each other. Such a bad, bad idea, but he didn’t seem to have the will to stop.
“So, did it work?” Glory pulled away with a gasp, her breath coming in bursts.
Mirren shifted beneath her, his erection getting downright painful and demanding to be set loose. “Ah, yeah. I’d say it worked.”
“Good.” She laughed, wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him again. “I’ll have to find out the things you like.”
What he’d like is to lay her out on the living room floor and take her hard, but she deserved better than that. Look what she’d done for him already. “Can’t do this.” He pulled away from her, moving her off his lap.
“Why?” Glory held onto his arm when he started to get up. “I want you. And if you say you don’t want me, I won’t believe you.” She reached down and wrapped her fingers around the evidence that he wanted her, and wanted her now. Mirren’s self-control was shredding like a worn-out gear shaft.
“You deserve better than me.” His mouth said the words, but his body didn’t do what it should—which was to haul ass out the front door, get in the Bronco, and drive to Atlanta for a quick, hard, one-night stand to get it out of his system. But no, his body stayed where it was, letting her stroke him, letting her coax him into another kiss.
The vibration of his cell phone froze both of them. “Saved by the…salsa ringtone?” Glory laughed and moved so he could dig the phone out of his pocket. “You really need to change that. It’s not very manly.”
He scowled at the screen and pressed the talk button. “What’s up, William?”
Will’s voice was muffed, and Mirren could hear shouting in the background. “We’ve got a…wait.” The distinctive sound of a .45 Smith&Wesson fired at close range sounded through the phone.
“What’s going on?” As he talked, Mirren levered himself off the sofa and pulled his own gun from its locked drawer.
“We’ve got a…shit, Randa, shoot the son of a bitch already. We’ve got a problem downtown.”
“On my way.” Mirren ended the call and looked back at Glory. She stood next to the sofa, fear widening her dark eyes and thinning the reddened lips on which he’d been feasting just a minute earlier. He had to make sure she was safe, no matter what. “Follow me.”
“What? Where are we going? Is it Matthias?” She trailed him into the hallway, her barrage of questions ending when he knelt, threw aside the area rug, and deftly slid wooden panels in a clockwise, then counterclockwise, sequence of moves. When the lock clicked, Mirren slid his fingers beneath the now loosened center panel and lifted the hatch to the basement.
Mirren rocked back on his heels. “I don’t know. But we’re not taking chances—you’re going underground.”
/> Mirren had a sword. Glory sat on the obscenely large leather sofa in Mirren’s rec room—she didn’t know what else to call this multipurpose living space—and went back over the chaotic last five minutes. Mirren had moved like a freight train on a high-speed run. No man that size should move so fast, and with such quick efficiency. No wasted movements.
He’d herded her down a narrow, enclosed staircase that brought back sickening memories of her trip to Matthias’s dungeon. He’d told her to stay put. He’d strapped on knives. He’d pulled on a bulletproof vest. And then he’d unlocked a big armoire and pulled out the sword.
A freaking sword.
It was probably three feet long, but appeared well proportioned to his size, with a funny-shaped—and deadly looking—double-sided blade and one of those fancy handles with the shield that went over the user’s hand. It reminded her of something she’d seen in that Mel Gibson movie Braveheart. Mirren had pulled it out of a long leather scabbard with fringe, looked at it with reverence, and then slung the whole thing over his shoulder by its worn leather strap.
Finally, he’d laid his hand on her shoulder, unspoken words hanging heavy between them, and left. He’d disappeared up the steps, clicked the lock shut behind him, and was gone.
What if he never came back? What if he died? Even vampires could die, obviously, since he’d killed one last night for threatening her. How, in a week’s time—most of which she didn’t remember—had she come to care so much for this man that the idea of losing him made her want to weep?
Part of her feelings for him came from the fact he’d been meant to kill her, but saved her instead—even knowing it would draw more danger his way. But Glory knew her heart, and her feelings for Mirren went deeper than gratitude. He was sexy as sin, with that dark hair and deep-set, storm-gray eyes that could harden or soften in an instant, but her feelings went deeper than physical attraction too. They seeped straight down to her soul, where she recognized someone not so unlike herself, a person who’d judged himself harshly and found himself lacking.
Absolution Page 12
