by Moira Rogers
Hunter didn’t relax until the two of them were three stores down. “He seems awful sweet on you.”
“Who, Virgil?” She grimaced. “He’s harmless, just a bit of a flirt. I think it pleases him to believe he might affect me.”
His damn traitorous mouth betrayed him again, opening without permission as clumsy words tumbled free. “And does he?”
“Does he what?”
It was a chance to back away, but Hunter realized he needed to know. Needed it with a twist in his gut out of all proportion to the question. “Does he affect you?”
She laughed and bumped her arm against his. “No, not in the slightest.”
When she smiled, she got a teasing glint in her bright eyes that he knew all too well. Fine ladies didn’t smile like that. The proper daughters of bankers and senators had clear eyes and vacant smiles. Even the smart ones, because the smart ones knew the men they were supposed to marry didn’t often appreciate sharp minds or worldly knowledge. Not in their wives, in any case.
Ophelia was the worldly sort of woman a man escaped to when bright, proper smiles weren’t enough. Maybe that explained the way his body tensed when she walked too close, the way arousal thrummed through him at the hint of her floral perfume. A man’s hunger, too long denied, and he instinctively knew this woman could handle that hunger.
His other instincts were the ones he worried about. The dark whisper, fading a bit now that the full moon had waned. If only he didn’t still feel fractured, like the man inside him had to fight past a monster to get so much as a word out. “Where to—” No, he’d already asked that. Stupid. “The butcher. To put in the order.”
“Mr. Plotkin is expecting us.” She tightened her arm around his. “Thank you for helping me today.”
It left him unaccountably flustered, perhaps because not another damn soul in the manor bothered with trivialities like manners and polite thanks. Only her. “Happy to do it, ma’am.”
And there it was again, the teasing smile. Her gaze flicked over him, just for a heartbeat, and he knew that look too. He’d played the lazy rake to enough experienced women to know that her quirked mouth said I know you want me even as her narrowed eyes said And I shouldn’t want you.
He had to look away. He’d never been the sort of fool who thought he was buying more than a woman’s willing cooperation and her pleasure, but Ophelia would make a fool out of him, if he let her. When he glanced at her again, her smile had slipped away, replaced by lips pressed firmly together and a sad look of resignation.
She wasn’t selling…and he wasn’t buying. They both knew it, and neither of them liked it. Hunter cleared his throat. “Miss Ophelia—”
A man stumbled off a side street and closed a dirty hand around Ophelia’s upper arm. “The colors are wrong,” he slurred. “Clearest green I ever saw…”
She shrank back, and rage shattered the last shreds of humanity that Hunter had been hanging on to. He locked his hand around the man’s wrist and jerked, but only managed to shake Ophelia, as well, when the bastard didn’t release her. Fury ratcheted up another notch, and he drove an elbow into the side of her attacker’s face. “Let go of her.”
The man bared his teeth in a grimace. “It might still be her.” He released her arm only to reach for her face, and Ophelia stumbled away.
Hunter snarled and kicked the crazy bastard’s legs out from under him, riding him to the ground to put a knee at the small of his back. Perversely, it was easy to find words when his blood had turned to fire. “I don’t know what your problem is, friend, but you will be in a fucking world of hurt if you touch her again.”
Large hands reached past him to drag the man to his feet. “Drunk, if I don’t miss my guess,” Virgil McCutcheon proclaimed. “We’ll take care of it.”
Hunter couldn’t stop the growl from tearing free, or the urge to plant a fist in the sheriff’s overly helpful face purely out of irritation at the implied challenge. “I’m managing just fine.”
Virgil nodded to where his deputy had laid a steadying hand on Ophelia’s arm. “You’d best see to your companion.”
That got him moving. His opponent half-forgotten, Hunter rocked to his feet and crossed to edge the other man away from her. “Are you all right?”
“Fine.” She clung to Hunter’s hand. “Just a little shaken up, that’s all.”
Her heart was racing. Hunter shifted his body to put himself between her and the rest of the street. “He had a vicious grip on your arm. Should the doctor look at it?”
“No, I—” She flashed him a pleading look. “Don’t fuss, Hunter. Let’s just head on our way.”
Keeping a firm hold on her hand, Hunter glanced back at the glassy-eyed man who’d attacked her. There was something off in his gaze, something as crazed as the strength with which he’d grabbed Ophelia. He was a danger to her, a danger that should be snuffed out, if the dark voice whispering across the back of his mind was to be believed.
Maybe that voice was the instinct Archer and Wilder kept telling him to listen to, but Hunter’d lay all his chips on the probability that it had more to do with the soft hand trembling in his own. Scaring a lady was a crime, but not one that needed to end in death. That surely wasn’t the way to prove he wasn’t a monster.
So he bit back the temptation to kick the man sober and made do with a nod. “If you find out what he drank to put him in that state, send a message on up to us, all right?”
“Corn liquor, most like,” Deputy Miller replied. “But we’ll have Doc Kirkland take a look at him.”
“Thank you.” Hunter retrieved the satchel and offered his arm to Ophelia again, too aware that a knot of ladies had gathered on the opposite side of the street. Their low whispers tickled just out of range, but he caught the tone easily enough. Politely appalled, but hungry for scandal.
Ophelia saw them too. She looped her arm through his and stared straight ahead, her cheeks burning. “The butcher’s shop first, yes?”
“The butcher’s shop,” he agreed mildly, wondering if it would undermine his job as town protector to scatter the proper little ninnies with a well-timed snarl.
It took half the remainder of their journey to the shop for her to relax enough to look at him. “I’m sorry. Old habits die hard, isn’t that what they say?”
He raised an eyebrow at her. “Is your old habit to be more polite than they deserve?”
“To avoid confrontation,” she said slowly. “I’m not a proper lady, after all.”
No, she wasn’t. But that hadn’t stopped women like her from reclaiming lives on the border. “I figure we’re all as proper as we act. You act like a lady, don’t you?”
“Not always.” She smiled and patted his hand. “I’m all right, Hunter. I recover quickly. It’s one of my best traits, the thing that’s brought me this far.”
“Still not right,” he grumbled as they crossed the street toward the butcher’s large shop. “You work for Wilder, and he’s the reason they have this pretty little town. This close to the Deadlands, they should be grateful for that.”
Ophelia opened her mouth, then closed it again and shook her head. “It’s best put out of our minds.”
It bothered him, that she’d censored her thoughts. Bothered him more than it should have, when she didn’t have any reason to trust him. “Am I wrong? Lord knows I’m not used to life as a bloodhound.”
“No, you’re right. About their gratitude toward Wilder, I mean. It’s only that some people have very long, very good memories.”
And what do they remember? He bit his tongue and tasted blood, sharp and metallic. He might be clumsy enough to think it, but he wouldn’t let the words slip free. “Some people could put what little minds they have to better use.”
“Agreed.” Ophelia pulled him to a stop beside the shop door. “I’m not delicate, you know. Honestly.”
He smoothed his hand down her arm to wrap his fingers around her wrist. It felt fragile beneath his hand. So easily broken. “I’m sure you’
re not, Miss Ophelia…but I’m not as gentle as I used to be. You wouldn’t need to be delicate to get hurt.”
After a moment, she looked down at his hand. “I believe that observation is true of everyone.”
“I suppose it is.” He released her before his grip could become possessive and fought for a smile. “I just…” Don’t want to see you hurt. It felt like exposing a weakness, so he tried to remember what a charming smile felt like. “I still need a little civilizing, after all those months in a cage.”
“Then we’ll work on that,” she said resolutely. “I promise.”
A serious, sweet little vow, and pain lurched through his chest, a hot twisting that vanished as quickly as it had come, leaving warmth in its wake. Some internal balance had changed.
He only wished he understood what. And how.
Chapter Three
Ophelia settled another stack of books at the end of the table and faced Nate. “Is there anything else you need from upstairs?”
He rubbed at the bridge of his nose, a ghost of the thousands of times he’d straightened his spectacles by pushing them up. When he caught himself, he almost smiled. “I’ve considered wearing the frames without the lenses, just to have something familiar.”
“You could have a set fitted with plain glass, like they do for the theater.”
“Not a bad idea…” Nate’s voice trailed off as he began to dig through the tangle of papers and scribbled notes blanketing his end of the table. “If I could find where I left them. My body may be young, but my brain is in worse shape than ever.”
The bland words covered a very real melancholy. Ophelia slid onto one of the high stools surrounding the worktable. “Do you want to talk about it?”
He clenched his jaw and fixed his gaze on the table in front of him. “You don’t fool me for a moment, young lady. You do quite enough mothering without adding a crotchety vampire to your list of charges.”
“I wouldn’t dream of mothering you,” she countered. “I would, however, like to talk to my friend.”
A shudder rolled through him. “He died, Ophelia. I died. My heart stopped beating. Who’s to say I’m even me? Maybe my soul’s already escaped, and I’m just an echo. An after-image, and I’ll never experience an unfamiliar thought or create anything new, ever again, because I have to live within what I’ve already been.”
He sounded like Kierkegaard as he struggled for purpose in his new embodiment. Since the only person in Iron Creek who cared to discuss the philosopher’s writings with her was Nate, surely he’d made the connection. “The only thing to do is find a truth which is true for you,” she paraphrased. “You no longer exist as you once did, but it certainly does not follow that now you do not exist at all.”
“Perhaps.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “As long as you do not expect me to follow in Nietzsche’s footsteps. My miraculous transformation has only reinforced my belief that he’s a ridiculous fool for choosing to become one of the undead.”
Vampires enjoyed their share of powers as well as disadvantages. Most could bestow pleasure with a bite, a fact that often drew companions and lovers as effectively as money or leisure. For those less concerned with matters of indulgence or consent, the ability to mesmerize, to enthrall, kept them well supplied with ghouled servants.
“Living forever isn’t for everyone.” She leaned forward and grasped Nate’s hand. “But a little extra time surely never hurt.”
His fingers tightened around hers. “You only wish to keep me around so you have someone with whom to discuss the follies of philosophers turned vampire. Satira wouldn’t willingly open a book without design schematics or equations on the inside.”
“Guilty,” she admitted readily. “You haven’t learned how to say no to me, have you? That would be a disappointment.”
“Who can say no to you, darling?” Nate eased his hand away from hers and patted her fingers. “I hear the new boy is following you around like an eager puppy. He’s not bothering you, is he?”
“Hunter, you mean?” Ophelia looked away. “He’s hardly following me around. And no, he’s fine.”
“He’s not fine. He’s like me, my dear. Trapped between existing and being consumed by the ether.”
“No, I meant—” She sank her teeth into her lower lip. He wasn’t fine. He was struggling too, casting about for solid footing when there was none to be found. “He sees something familiar in me, some shred of his former life. You know it’s true.”
“I know everything he sees in you,” Nate agreed, tapping the side of his head. “I shouldn’t be able to read a bloodhound, you know. The formula they use to create them includes protections against vampires. He doesn’t have protections. Not for his mind…” Nate thumped his chest once. “Not for anything. He’s a raw nerve, and you touch it.”
No, Hunter hadn’t gone through the Guild’s process. He hadn’t been properly prepared, and whatever had happened to him out in Lowe’s dungeon had left him open and bleeding in unexpected ways.
It hurt too much to think about.
“I’m not touching him at all,” she said lightly, rising from the stool. “Not for the next few days, anyway. He’ll be with Sylvie.”
Nate’s lips twitched again, an almost smile that his face seemed too weary to let form. “I imagine she won’t touch any of the same places,” he muttered, then pinned Ophelia with an unwavering look. “I’d understand, you know. If you wanted to leave as well. The blood Hunter is leaving should keep me through the new moon, but I’d rather be alone. Just to be safe.”
“I’m not leaving you, Nate. I’ll lock the basement door if you need me to, but I’m staying here.”
He didn’t blink. “Then lock the basement door. You can ask me to live with what I am, but there are some things I wouldn’t survive.”
Ophelia nodded and offered him a smile as she backed toward the stairs. “I promise I’ll protect myself. Even from you.”
She was almost to the stairs when he spoke again. “You’re reborn too, Ophelia. Don’t forget that.”
She managed to control the hitch in her breathing, but her heart was pounding and he would hear that, anyway. “How so?”
He looked down at his table, nudging a stack of notes into a neat pile without seeming to look at them. “You spent your last life seeing to the needs of others. Don’t go through this one without letting someone take care of you.”
Perhaps he’d been reading her mind, as well. “I’ve already come to that realization, actually. I plan to talk to Satira—after the new moon.”
Nate didn’t look up. “She’s a strong girl. And Wilder will tend to her, whatever happens.” Paper crinkled under his hand as his fingers curled into a fist. “Or perhaps you shouldn’t listen to me at all. I don’t have enough bloodhound in me to heed the new moon’s call, but it isn’t helping my mood.”
She started to ask him if he was sure, but she bit off the words. Nate wouldn’t want to discuss his more carnal needs with her, even as a matter of comfort or necessity. “I’ll come back down in a few days, when everyone returns. Until then, ring if you need me, yes?”
“Of course. I hope you enjoy a bit of time to yourself.”
“I will.” But enjoyment was the last thing on her mind as she slowly climbed the stairs. Distraction was more like it—distraction from her responsibilities, from her loneliness.
From the fact that Hunter would spend the next three days in another woman’s bed.
When he heard Satira’s familiar footsteps echoing down the adjoining hallway, Hunter very nearly bolted.
A coward’s response, perhaps, but Wilder’s self-control and patience seemed to vanish along with the moon. With only a sliver left in the sky, the man roared through the house more often than not, snarling at Archer or Hunter if either dared so much as look at Satira. The new moon’s fury might not claim them before sunset, but Wilder was riding an entirely different sort of rage now.
Hunter was already backing up a step when she turned
the corner and smiled. “There you are. I wanted to ask if you’d let me draw another vial of blood before we leave. Nathaniel should have enough, but it’s better safe than…”
Her words trailed off with a frown, and Hunter realized he was shaking his head. His body recognized more quickly than his mind, apparently, how suicidal it would be to venture into the basement so Satira could put her hands on him.
The girl’s usually cheerful eyes colored with worry. “No? Is there something wrong?”
His voice came out a little rusty. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Satira. Not unless Wilder comes with us.”
The wrong thing to say. He knew it the moment her worry changed to irritation. “I don’t need his permission to do my job,” she started, the words edged with enough bite that he wondered if being mated to a bloodhound gave the new moon sway over her temper too. “If you have a problem with me—”
Archer appeared at the other end of the hallway, and Hunter felt relieved to see him for the first time in two days. “Archer. Tell her I can’t go into the workroom with her and let her touch me.”
The other hound laughed. “Hell no. Satira, are you trying to get us killed? Now get. Go on.”
She pivoted toward Archer fast enough to send her blonde braid whipping around her head. “Has every man in this building lost his mind? The new moon is still hours away.”
He held his ground with a glower. “Is it, now? I reckon if you went to look, Wilder’d be getting set to head out.”
That changed her anger to bewilderment, and she pivoted again and vanished back the way she’d come. Hunter opened his mouth, then snapped it shut as her footsteps returned. She poked her head around the corner and pointed a finger at Archer. “Could you draw some of Hunter’s blood for Nathaniel, then, if I’m not allowed to touch him?”
“Ophelia can do it.” Archer’s lazy tone belied his sharp gaze. “She’s the one he wants touching him.”
Archer’s voice shaping her name brought rage, a thundering anger as his vision danced in time with his throbbing pulse. “Fuck yourself, Archer.”
