by Anne Hope
The man at the foot of the staircase was a stranger, yet something visceral inside her recognized his powerful features, his straight patrician nose, those sharp, disapproving green eyes.
“Why aren’t you in your room doing your homework?” His voice was as polished as the rest of him, as refined as his expensive double-breasted suit and shiny black loafers.
“I’m headed up there now.”
For a few agonizing seconds he said nothing, simply watched her with that probing gaze that drilled a hole straight down to the marrow of her bones. Then his shoulders relaxed. “Don’t take all night. I’ve got some chores for you to do.”
With a relieved nod, she sprinted up the rest of the steps and plowed into the bedroom.
A boy’s bedroom. She’d never seen it before, yet she knew instinctively it was hers.
Guided by that same instinct, she scanned her surroundings, made sure everything was impeccably neat in case he decided to come up and check. The navy blue comforter that covered the boat-shaped bed didn’t have a crease on it. A collection of perfectly aligned cars adorned the shelves. No toys littered the thick wool carpet that stretched over the hardwood floor.
Releasing the breath she’d trapped in her throat, she carefully shut the door behind her.
Beneath the gray jersey jacket, the pigeon complained. She uncovered the hatchling and placed it in a shoe box she retrieved from the closet, which would now serve as a nest.
She’d just managed to hide the bird in the closet when footsteps sounded outside her door. With surprising speed, she pulled her books out of her schoolbag and settled herself at her desk.
The doorknob began to turn. Her heart drummed a steady beat in her ears. She closed her eyes, waited…
Lia awoke with a gasp, her gut bunched in a series of painful knots. She inhaled deeply, tried to ease her galloping pulse.
Just a dream, she told herself.
A dream that felt oddly like a memory, only it wasn’t hers. The heaviness in her chest made absolutely no sense. Neither did the sorrow ripping through her. Something fundamental inside her connected with the boy in her dream, understood his awkwardness and isolation. His loneliness echoed her own.
Too agitated to drift back to sleep, she slipped out of bed and walked out onto the balcony. Above her, a glittering sky stretched, dark and bright at the same time. Again, she felt that electric thrum, a current in the air that brushed her skin and made every pore come alive. In the distance something hypnotic called to her. Her soul reached for it. She felt full yet incomplete, as if a part of her was missing and she needed to find it.
Problem was, she didn’t know exactly what she was searching for.
“Enter, Diahann.” The seven-foot-tall figure stood at the heart of the darkened room. Moon shadows embraced him, made his jet-black hair gleam almost silver.
Diane approached Athanatos, stopping five feet away from him as was customary for someone of her rank. She kneeled before him and waited for him to begin interrogating her. A Kleptopsych never addressed an Ancient first.
“Stand.”
She complied without hesitation. Although she was tall herself, nearly six feet in height, she still felt dwarfed by his imposing stature. No wonder the Ancients had once been referred to as giants.
“You have something to report?” The words rolled off his cultured tongue like honey. Had Diane been capable of emotion, his silky voice would have triggered a deep, primitive response in her. As things stood, it only elicited a humbling wave of respect.
“Yes, Your Excellency. A Hybrid was brought in tonight.”
Athanatos turned around to face her, and she allowed herself a brief glimpse of him. Perfect, angelic features came together to form a stunning picture. “You witnessed his rebirth?”
She took a moment to gather her thoughts. “Yes, and so did a resident at the hospital.”
Silence stretched to fill every corner of the abandoned hotel that now served as their command center. They’d moved their operations here recently, after the Watchers had discovered and raided their last location. This place was ideal, far removed from civilization, offering perfect access to the catacombs.
“Did you capture his soul?”
Athanatos didn’t approve of his followers feeding at will—the risk of growing greedy and going rogue was too great—but if one of them happened to catch an errant soul, especially one belonging to a recently turned Hybrid, he did not object.
Diane averted her gaze. “No.”
“Why not?”
“I didn’t realize what he was until it was too late. I thought he was just another human injured in the riot.” A riot the Kleptopsychs had instigated at Athanatos’s request. Every so often their leader planned an event that would allow him and his followers to feed without arousing suspicion—a riot, a mass murder, a robbery. On those rare occasions when they truly feasted, hundreds, sometimes thousands of human lives were lost.
“You didn’t sense the darkness in him?”
She shook her head. “Not until the soul had left his body.”
Fury pinched Athanatos’s features. Emotion was an unavoidable side-effect of feeding, and tonight, he and the others had ingested their fill of souls. Diane envied them. Her job at the hospital had prevented her from joining the feast, which meant she’d have to find another way to satisfy her cravings. Thankfully, lives were lost every day at Rivershore. Working there definitely had its perks.
“Take care of him,” he ordered. “Before the Watchers find him.” The statement was deceptively soft, yet encrusted with ice. “As for this witness, did you wipe her memory clean?”
Diane ventured a step closer, caught herself when he directed a piercing stare her way. “Not yet.” She couldn’t bring herself to tell him she’d tried and failed. “I did take care of the paramedics who brought him in, though. They didn’t corroborate her story. Our secret is safe.”
He startled her by bridging the distance between them. His thumb traced the outline of her jaw with a deliberate slowness that was undeniably erotic. Increased sexual desire was another side-effect of ingesting a human soul, one she more than welcomed.
Diane might have missed the feeding tonight, but heat still flooded her veins. Her eyes drifted shut as a swell of lust tightened in her abdomen. Her breasts grew heavy, suddenly screamed to be touched. Becoming Athanatos’s mate would be an honor equivalent to being crowned queen—a position she was ready for, both inside and outside the bedroom.
“Our kind has lived in secret for several millennia now, and it’s that very secrecy that has ensured our survival.” His silken voice flowed over her skin like a lover’s caress. “Have you forgotten what happened the last time we were careless?”
Diane studied him through hooded eyes. “I’ll erase her memory tomorrow. You don’t need to worry.”
“I don’t. Worry is for the weak.” He threaded his fingers through her pin-straight, black hair. His hand was so wide, his palm spanned her entire head. She leaned into it, waited for his mouth to devour hers. Her lips ached with the burning need to be kissed.
“Don’t let this one get away.” His breath tickled her mouth. “I will not see the Watchers gain any more ammunition. We are at war, Diahann. Never forget that.”
Chapter Three
The air around him buzzed, an unrelenting throb that battered his eardrums and yanked him from a dreamless sleep. Reluctantly, he opened his eyes and took in his surroundings. He lay on an uncomfortable hospital bed, his body covered with a white sheet. Everything around him had a surreal feel, every sight painted in stark detail, every sound amplified. He could see the hairline cracks in the ceiling, the chips in the white paint coating the walls. Beside him, an assortment of equipment he couldn’t name added an arpeggio of offbeat chimes to the chorus.
He sat up, expecting to feel weak, surprised when he didn’t. He tried to gather his thoughts, but they remained scattered—small, lightning-quick flashes of something he couldn’t quite grasp. W
hat had happened to land him here? And why did he feel so numb inside, as if he’d swallowed twice the recommended dose of Valium, then chased it down with a bottle of Johnnie Walker? Funny, he couldn’t remember his own name, but he knew the taste of his favorite brand of whisky.
The door suddenly swung open, and a perky young nurse entered. What he saw convinced him they’d pumped him full of some serious drugs. A bright, compelling energy pulsed around her, flickering like a halo.
“How are we feeling today, Mr. Cutler?”
Cutler. The name didn’t ring a bell, but it obviously belonged to him.
“Stoned. What the hell did you guys give me?”
The closer she got, the more the strange glow enveloping her sang to him. The sudden hunger to steal it from her tangled his gut, and he pressed his back to the headboard.
The nurse looked genuinely surprised. “Nothing. Just a saline drip.” She frowned upon seeing the tube hanging from the side of his bed, no longer attached to his arm. Liquid pooled on the floor.
“You shouldn’t have removed that.”
The nurse hastened to reattach it to his arm, but the new needle broke before it could pierce his skin. She promptly got another one, tried again with the same result. “Well, that’s funny. Must be a defective batch.”
“I don’t need it. I feel fine. Which begs the question, why am I here?”
She furrowed her forehead, took several seconds to answer. “To be perfectly honest, we have no idea.”
He tried to concentrate, but her glow kept distracting him. It made the yawning black hole in his chest ache. He nearly reached out and grabbed her. The need to suck that light from her and bury it deep inside him was a wound festering at his very core.
Unaware of the battle raging within him, she approached him and proceeded to check his vitals. “You were found lying unconscious on the sidewalk in front of some sleazy bar, covered in blood. The paramedics brought you in.”
“What knocked me out?”
The nurse shrugged. “No one knows for sure. It was pretty crazy down at Pioneer Square last night. A full-blown riot broke out. Dozens of people got killed. You probably got caught in the crossfire, hit your head. You’ve been out cold for over twelve hours.”
She paused, crinkled her forehead again. “The kicker is there’s no sign of trauma. No head wound, no concussion. The doctors are downright baffled.”
Relief gushed through him when she finished her exam and stopped touching him. “What started the riot?”
“Who the heck knows? People are a rotten barrel, if you ask me. They look for any reason to beat each other bloody. Bunch of drunks and drug addicts with a taste for violence. That’s what I’m placing my bets on.” She looked different from when she’d entered the room, weak and deflated. “Sometimes I wonder why we even bother mending the lot of you. You’ll only be back again, most likely before the week is up.”
Her eyes widened, and she covered her mouth with her hand. “I’m sorry. I can’t believe I said that out loud.” Panic laced her tone. “I should go.”
“Wait.” His fingers closed around her wrist, and the light instantly went out of her eyes. She didn’t look perky anymore. In fact, she looked old and beaten. “I need to speak with someone. Someone who saw me when I first came in.”
“That would be Lia—Dr. Lia Benson. She’s a resident here.”
He released her. “One more question. Where are my things?”
“Over there.” She indicated a small closet beside the bed. “Your watch is in the nightstand. Top drawer.” Then she scurried out of the hospital room like a rabbit escaping a wolf.
With a confused shake of his head, he sprang out of bed. He felt light, quick and strong, which struck him as odd for a guy who’d spent the last twelve hours in a semi-coma. As the nurse had said, a black leather jacket, a blood-smeared white shirt and a dark pair of jeans hung neatly in the closet. He checked all the pockets, pulled a heavy wallet from the jacket. The smell of Italian leather rose like a cloud to sear his nostrils. The first thing that struck him when he flung it open was the thick wad of twenty-dollar bills that lined the interior. He obviously hadn’t been mugged. A conclusion the flashy watch in the nightstand, a high-end Omega, corroborated.
He retrieved the driver’s license, which belonged to Jace Cutler. So now he had a first name to go with the second. Unfortunately, it still didn’t trigger a memory. The man in the photograph was a complete stranger. He quickly scanned the description provided: six-foot-two, dark brown hair, green eyes. The height felt about right. The guy in the snapshot had a cleft on his chin. He ran his thumb across his jaw and traced the slight indentation.
Suddenly curious, he headed to the mirror hanging over the pedestal sink. The man gazing back at him was no more familiar than this place, this room, the nurse he’d apparently scared half to death. He wasn’t very old, early thirties he guessed. He slanted a glance at the ID again, quickly did the math. Yup, thirty-two.
Peeling off his hospital gown, he stood in front of the tiny mirror, as naked as the day he was born, studying himself. From the looks of it, he worked out regularly. His legs were long and lean, his stomach flat and ripped. But that wasn’t what shocked him. What blew his mind was that he didn’t have a scratch on him, not even an old scar to show he’d lived some kind of life. How did a person exist for thirty-two years and maintain skin as untarnished as a baby’s?
Another presence slowly invaded the room, one that made everything inside him come alive and the darkness retreat. For a moment, he felt almost human again. Almost.
Jace turned around, not caring that he didn’t have a stitch of clothing on him. The woman entering his room froze at the sight of him.
He squinted. Glancing at her made his eyes hurt. She was so damn bright, he needed a frigging pair of sunglasses just to look at her. The nurse who’d examined him earlier paled in comparison, and not because this woman was any kind of beauty. She was plain at best, with blond hair pinned in a ponytail and not a drop of makeup on. Still, something inside him recognized her.
She checked him out briefly before averting her gaze. “Looks like you’re feeling better.”
He couldn’t find his voice to answer. Waves of emotion washed over him, constricting his windpipe. He’d felt nothing since he’d awakened in this stifling hospital room, and all of a sudden he couldn’t get his feelings under control long enough to offer some kind of greeting. Her glow enfolded him, and the hunger returned with sharpened fangs.
“Katie, the nurse who was just in here, told me you were awake, but I had to see for myself.”
She took a step toward him, then another.
Please, don’t come any closer. I can’t stand it.
“Who—” The word scraped his throat. “Who are you?”
Her gaze latched on to his face. Confusion and a touch of fascination glimmered in her clear blue eyes. Right there and then, he could’ve sworn he glimpsed her soul, and it was a beautiful thing to behold, potent and familiar.
She shook her head, swallowed hard. “The person who watched you die last night.”
Lia found it hard to concentrate, especially with Jace standing there in his birthday suit, too perfect for words. No wonder her sister was so infatuated with him. The man was beautiful.
And dangerous.
He had the look of a predator. There was something dark and hungry about him, a sharpness in his gaze that made her want to recoil, even as everything inside her urged her to get closer.
“I’m Dr. Lia Benson.” She waited for the name to register, for awareness to trickle in. “Cassie’s sister.”
His expression remained blank. “I’m sorry, my memory is a little hazy right now. Who’s Cassie? And how could I have died when I’m standing right here, good as new?”
Concern inched into her bones and made her stomach clench. Ignoring the blistering sensation that had claimed her the moment she’d entered the room, she bridged the distance between them. As she advanced, she
grabbed the sheet from the bed and tossed it to him. “Get decent, and we’ll talk.”
His slow, assessing grin was as potent as a touch. Fire spun through her, similar to the heat she’d experienced right before he’d flat-lined. “What’s the matter, Doctor? Never seen a naked man before?”
“Not one who’s dated my sister.”
“Right. What was her name again? Cassie?” He lazily wrapped the sheet around his waist.
Not that it helped much. That perfectly chiseled chest was still exposed, cut in all the right places. Strong, sinuous shoulders tapered down to a washboard stomach, where muscles bunched beneath unmarked skin. Just last night his chest had been split open, had gushed blood all over her hands. The urge to run her palm over his torso seized her. She needed to convince herself that he was real, that she wasn’t losing her mind. But she held back. Something elemental told her she couldn’t touch this man and remain unchanged.
“You really don’t remember her?”
“I don’t remember anything. Not even my own name.”
She frowned, confused. “There was no evidence of head trauma. Just the stab wound.”
“I was stabbed?”
“Not according to your chart.”
He crossed the room and sat at the corner of the bed, looking suddenly spent. “Dr. Benson, can you please stop talking in riddles and tell me what happened to me?”
“I wish I could.” Tension had her wringing her fingers like a nervous schoolgirl. “When you were brought in last night, you were bleeding profusely. You’d been stabbed in the chest, and one of your lungs had been punctured. I did everything I could to keep you alive until we could get you to surgery, but I failed. You died on my table. The time of death was eleven fifty-five. I called it.”
Skepticism drenched his features. There was no question he thought she was nuts. Still, she tamped down her anxiety and forced herself to go on. “A few minutes later, your heart started beating again. All the contusions had healed. The only evidence that anything at all had happened to you was the blood on your clothes.”
