Deliver Me from Darkness: A Novel of the Paladin Warriors

by Tes Hilaire

  Darn it. The jump had only been twenty feet or so. Still, her stomach pitched in answer to the dizzying side effects.

  Swallowing back the swell of acid threatening to rise, she blinked and scanned her surroundings. Right or left? Left seemed to be a complete dead end so she took the right and stumbled on uncoordinated feet into the room beyond. Before her a large loft stretched out—kitchen, dining area, couch, plasma TV—but no windows and no doors. Of course.

  “Well shit,” the creature mumbled from behind her in the bedroom. “He was right.”

  She didn’t bother to ask who he was or what he was right about. Like she gave a crap. The location of a window to teleport out of, heck, a door to the outside would do. That’s the only thing she wanted to know. Somehow she didn’t think asking her host would procure an answer. Speaking of which…

  She glanced over her shoulder. The vamp moved silently but with purpose down the hall toward her. A couple more seconds and he’d be upon her. She cast her gaze around for somewhere to go. There was another room beyond, but it was even darker than this one. Not much chance of windows there. Not like she had many other options available.

  A new weapon might be nice though. She scanned the kitchen counters. No knife block. Damn, wasn’t it her luck to find the one vamp that didn’t indulge in the useless habit of consuming real food? But there on the island atop a stack of slit envelopes lay a small pocketknife. Yes!

  In a second she’d winked across the room and had the knife in her grip. Using the counter to steady herself, she spun around to see how close he was. He leaned against the far wall as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Not that he should. With no windows and no door in sight, she was effectively trapped.

  His brow arched. “You think you can kill me with that piddly thing?”

  No, but she could hurt him. “Vampires bleed too.”

  He sighed, resignation clouding his eyes. “Mind taking this discussion back to the bedroom? You’ve touched enough things.”

  Touched enough things? What was this? A hypochondriac vamp?

  Not wanting to waste energy, she took a chance and darted for the archway and the room beyond. On her way she dragged her hand over the island to scatter his envelopes, toppled two stools in her wake, jerked the phone off its holder on the wall, and smeared her free hand over the intricate molding of the archway. Who knew—maybe he’d freak out about the spread of germies and collapse in a foaming, raving fit on the floor.

  Panting from the short sprint to the threshold, she took in the multitude of obstacles between her and the fireplace. A couch, end table, and the inconveniently placed armchair in front of the empty hearth. Behind the chair would be a basket of wood, right? Wood was good. A nice large splinter and she’d have a stake.

  He swore behind her, drawing closer—though it sounded like he’d paused to right the stools.

  She gathered her energy, her focus locked on the chair.

  “Don’t think about it. Not the chair. It’s custom-ordered leath—”

  She popped out, then moments later jerked back out of the netherplane with a sick twist in her gut—too many hops, too close together—and landed on the chair. It rocked beneath her and she had to plant her hands on the back to steady herself. The knife dug in, slicing a long slit into the leather.

  “Fuck.”

  She glanced over her shoulder. He stood in the archway between her and the kitchen dining area, his hands laced through his shoulder-length black hair and his head tipped toward the high ceiling as if praying to God for patience.

  Unlikely. Not only did he have all the time in the world—one of the quirks of being undead—but God wasn’t going to answer the prayers of one of those creatures.

  But how about spotting one of your daughters a splint of wood? Amen.

  Or a flamethrower, she added. She’d settle for one of those.

  Prayers said, she scrambled over the arm and looked behind it. No wood. The fireplace was gas. Of course. And since she wasn’t MacGyver, chances of rigging an impromptu flamethrower were slim to none.

  Thanks for nothing there, big guy.

  Karissa expected the vampire to be hot on her heels. She was surprised he hadn’t caught her already. But he stood in the same place, arms crossed over his broad chest, a look of long-suffering on his ruggedly handsome face as he watched her flounder around behind the ruined leather chair. Colin Farrell goes Goth.

  What was she thinking? Handsome? Vampire? He must be trying to enthrall her. Only she didn’t feel the things her papa had said she’d feel if she’d been enthralled: no loss of self, no hungry yearning to please her master. No way in heck did she have any inkling to please the bastard studying her from under those dark slash of brows.

  She frowned.

  He smiled.

  Oh no…she didn’t like that look.

  “Lights off,” he said with a devilish gleam in his midnight eyes.

  The room went pitch-black.

  Chapter 2

  Roland stalked the edges of the room, circling closer and closer to the woman stumbling blindly around in the center. No chance her scent would ever be gone now. Not with her hands stretched out, sliding over every piece of furniture he owned. She crashed into the end table, her full-lipped mouth curling around a string of muttered curses. She would know that his vision was all but perfect in the darkened room.

  “Lights on! Illuminate,” she called out, and when that didn’t work, “Turn the effing lights on now, you chicken shit bastard!”

  His lips twitched. God, she had sass, and a sexy-as-sin voice too. But it was meant for husky bedroom naughties, not for terror-laced demands.

  He hated hearing the fear in her voice. Not because it raised the ugly head of the predator in him, but because it drew out something else. Something he’d thought he might never feel again…protectiveness. The type of protectiveness a male Paladin felt for his woman—or at least the woman he hoped to court.

  Get over it, Roland. You’re not a Paladin any longer.

  Still, a voice screamed in the back of his head, Mine!

  He stopped by the armrest of the love seat, five feet and two obstacles from his goal, as he tried to regain his composure and push down the unwanted desire. Upon waking, she’d somehow gone from a dirty street urchin to goddess: well-toned shoulders, a small waist, and a nicely flared ass. The pretty, wide-eyed face and pert breasts were merely a bonus. Girl she was not. Though she was innocent and scared ten ways past terrified right now.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said and received the same skepticism he’d gotten back in the bedroom.

  “You going to trade me off then? Sell me to the highest bidder?” she asked, retreating to the armchair as she grabbed a book from the coffee table.

  He frowned, wondering how much she knew of the inner workings of the creatures that made up the dark underside of the city. Most people were blissfully unaware that they lived side-by-side with a host of predators that would love to either eat them for dinner or steal their eternal souls. How had this woman come by her awareness? More important, how had she come to be? Roland had watched the last female Paladin die ninety-four years ago. And no Paladin male would let a child, half-breed or not, roam the streets unguarded. Yet here she was, undiscovered, alone, and—if Calhoun’s report was to be believed—targeted by a horde of soulless beasts…beasts like me.

  He refocused his attention on the frightened woman. She had flung open the glass doors to the gas fireplace and was crouched before it, trying to light a rolled up piece of paper via the pilot light with unsteady hands.

  Shit. Resourceful indeed. And just what he didn’t need, more burns.

  “Not a good idea, mon chaton.” He was across the room before the endearment had left his lips. She yelped as he bent down over her shoulder and plucked the singed paper from her hands. He dropped it, stomped the embers out before the flame could flare into existence, and turned back to find that she already had a second glowing paper torch.
>
  Add tenacious to the list.

  “We just discussed this, ma petite peste. Don’t you know that burning books is sacrilegious?”

  He didn’t go for the paper this time, but grabbed her shoulders and yanked her up.

  She screamed, struggling to wave the flaming paper behind her. He let go of one shoulder long enough to swat the offending page of Tolstoy away before it could touch his arm.

  The split second was too long. She spun around, her free hand arcing toward him like a claw. He caught it inches from his face—huh, short stubby nails—and simultaneously stomped out the second hiccupping flame marring his wood floor.

  A clipped snarl rattled through her slight frame, but instead of sounding fierce, it emphasized her fragility and the fact he could crush her if he wasn’t careful. Roland softened his grip. A knee came up, barely missing his manly parts as he twisted out of the strike zone. And then she turned into a thrashing, bucking animal in his arms.

  So much for fragile. He spun her around, using her arms like ropes to lock her upper body. But not her legs. She kicked, arched, then slammed her heel down on his instep.

  “Ow! Fuck, that hurt. What the hell kind of shoes are you wearing anyway?”

  She jerked both legs up—strappy sandals with spiked heels, figures—kicking off the wall. Because he was favoring the injured foot, the abrupt movement put him off balance and he stumbled back, tripped over the misplaced end table, taking them both tumbling to the ground.

  Self-preservation had him rolling on top of her. No way was he giving those spikes another chance to sink into his flesh. If he could get those damn legs out of the equation, maybe she’d realize she was whooped, take a breather, and allow him to explain.

  For one blessed second she went still beneath him, her sharp intake of breath followed by a delicious little shudder that racked her body. His own throbbed in response. Forget angular; this woman was soft in all the right places—like her ass currently cupping his cock, which was slowly rising to the occasion.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” he tried again, then ruined whatever chance of comfort the words might have offered by sniffing at her neck. But what a damn fine neck, long and slim. And her scent? Intoxicating.

  She whimpered, squirming beneath him.

  Gawd. “Hold still!”

  Which just made her struggle more to get free. He tried to shift his weight to force her immobility, but she was a wormy one, and her hips wriggled insistently against his crotch. His reaction was typical and immediate. The iron hard length of his full erection pressing into the cleft of her ass had the desired effect his muttered reassurances and brute strength hadn’t. She froze.

  “Better,” he said, though it was anything but.

  She hiccupped a choked sob, her salty tears scenting the air. Something jagged and unpleasant twisted in his gut in response. Damn it. He’d said hold still, not give up.

  “For the last time,” he ground out, “I promise I’m not going to hurt you.”

  She sniffled, giving a little jerk of her shoulders. “Why should I believe you?”

  There she was, his obstinate little kitten.

  “Maybe because I haven’t hurt you yet? Maybe because it was Calhoun who left you in my safety?”

  She sucked in a breath. “Liar.”

  “If you behave, you can ask him yourself.”

  “When? Where is he? What have you done to him?” She bucked beneath him again.

  “Stop!” Thickheaded woman. “I’ve done nothing to Calhoun. Again, you can ask him that in, oh,” he twisted his head, letting his senses explore outside the apartment, almost dark, “ten, fifteen minutes. Okay?”

  She inclined her head slightly as if she agreed with his logic. About damn time.

  “Now. If I agree to turn the lights back on, will you promise to not pop out someplace else?”

  She nodded again, more firmly this time. He wasn’t a fool. She didn’t believe him about Calhoun, probably thought he’d sucked him dry and stuffed him in a closet somewhere. And because of that, Roland knew he couldn’t really expect her to keep her word—hell, he wouldn’t if he were a woman alone in an apartment with a hungry vampire—but he needed to get her to trust him somehow. He figured she’d eventually tire herself out with all the popping in and out of the other realm. There were no Paladin who could currently pull that trick, but he knew one of the first Paladin had been a teleporter. Written accounts noted how the gift took an immense amount of energy. Worse came to worst, she would pass out.

  “Lights on.” The dim overheads came on. As always, he had to blink even though the light was faint. And yup, there she went, only…shit, he was going with her.

  Not cool, not cool. He held onto her with a death grip, feeling his molecules shift and jerk into the other plane. If she knocked him loose here he instinctively knew he’d be trapped—assuming he wasn’t eradicated immediately.

  Here they had no true body, but he could feel his will, and hers. She wanted him off. He wanted just as powerfully to remain attached. He concentrated on the thought of the soft skin of her wrists beneath his hands, what the velvety slope of her neck and collarbone felt like along his cheek and chin. They only rode the other plane for a split second or two, but it seemed like forever before they popped back into reality—kitchen, if the pile of crinkling envelopes were any indication.

  His ears rung like he stumbled out from the last cymbal crash of creation, his vision spun with similar chaotic images, but his hands were still wrapped tight around her wrists and her soft body was still writhing beneath his.

  He jerked his hands free of her, scuttling back like she were the sun itself. He’d found someone whose gift was as dangerous to him as Calhoun’s. The other plane was a realm of possibility, the workshop of the One God. It was there He formed the likeness of Himself into His children. It was there He gathered together those volunteer angels, sculpted them into Paladin warriors, and delivered to them their mission—protect His children from His fallen son. As a fallen Paladin, Roland assumed he’d never visit the sacred dimension his grandfather had told him stories about. He doubted he was welcome in that holy dimension now.

  The spinning of his senses and the hammering of his dead heart finally slowed. He stood up from his crouch, blinked, and looked around at the empty great room.

  He grimaced at his weakness, but reminded himself that she had years of experience recovering from the jolt. Should he try and find her again or let her hide until Calhoun came back? Let Calhoun try to soothe the little troublemaker.

  Even as he thought it, Roland’s shoulders itched with the need to move, to hunt her down. Why? Not because she was prey. He stopped thinking of her that way the moment she’d opened her big brown eyes.

  Because you don’t like the idea of Calhoun soothing your woman.

  Not my woman, he reminded himself even as he savagely fought the urge to find her and mark her before any other Paladin could.

  The door buzzer went off. Too late. It was dark and Calhoun was back. Roland didn’t need to look at a clock or a window to know. His body was honed to the comings and goings of the night.

  “Shit,” he muttered and stalked down the hall to the paneled door that hid the exit.

  A word had the locks popping and the door sliding open. Money had its perks, and he’d certainly had enough time to accumulate it.

  “Calhoun,” Roland greeted curtly, giving his back to his friend with the oh-so-impeccable timing.

  “She still asleep?” Calhoun stepped into the hall behind him. The door shut automatically, locking them all in.

  Roland grunted and moved the five steps to the bedroom door. Her scent lingered, but the room looked empty.

  Calhoun peeked in. Hard gray eyes zeroed in on Roland. “Where is she?”

  “Playing hide-and-seek it would seem,” Roland cast over his shoulder as he continued down the hall. Probably back in his study, trying to start a blaze with his books.

  A creak of floorboards be
hind him had him spinning around. She ran out of the bedroom, curls flying, and barreled into Calhoun’s side.

  “Help,” she gasped as she tried to tug Calhoun toward the closed exit. Calhoun was about as movable as a brick wall and she was practically all over him trying to push, shove, and pull him to where she wanted him to go.

  Roland’s blood pounded, jealousy plumping his veins.

  Calhoun blinked down at her, then whipped his head back to Roland. “What did you do?”

  “No, don’t,” she pleaded, latching on to his elbow and trying to draw Calhoun back toward the invisible door. “He’ll kill you.”

  Roland folded his arms across his chest. It was either that or flash across the room to rip Calhoun’s throat out for touching his woman.

  Not my woman. Shit. Why in hell were his Paladin bonding instincts asserting themselves now?

  Calhoun flipped his gaze from her to Roland, his brow marred with a deep furrow.

  Roland shook his head. No, he hadn’t done anything to hurt her. These were simply female hysterics.

  “Logan, please!”

  And damn. She knew Calhoun’s first name. He really didn’t like another man’s name rolling off those luscious lips.

  She let go of Calhoun and ran to the end of the hall where she ran her hands around the handleless door, trying to figure out how to open it.

  “Help me,” she pleaded again.

  Calhoun moved in behind her. His hand closed down around her wrist, turning her back around. He dragged her slim hand up to his chest.

  Roland saw red. Get your hands off my woman.

  Fuck. Shit and damn it all to hell. Not his woman!

  “It’s dark out there, love,” Calhoun said. “Safer to stay here.”

  Roland fisted his hands, working hard to tamp the glow he knew had flared in his eyes with Calhoun’s endearment and their entwined fingers.

  She started to protest, “But he’s—”

  “He’s a friend.”

  She shook her head in disbelief. “Do you know what he is?”