“What kind of nightmares?”
Aileas shivered. “Awful ones. In some of them, it was just like I was some kind of raging nympho. But in the other ones, I was almost like a monster. The things I did… Fuck, even in the dreams, it made me sick. Each night, it got worse and worse. And the book whispered to me in the dreams.” She lifted her hands and pressed them to her temples, but it did nothing to ease the ache there. “Driving me crazy, I swear.”
He caught one wrist and tugged it down. Pressing his lips to her temple, Ren murmured, “You’re not going crazy, Aileas. When did you start feeling like they were watching you?”
They… How did you know about them?
She swallowed and made herself look into his eyes. She had to know—had to ask. “How did you know about that? I haven’t told anybody.”
“The book,” he said quietly. “I’ve come across the like before. The sort who’ve been watching you…they hunt the books. When did you first feel them, Ali? Tell me.”
The book. He acted like he believed her—hell. He acted like he already knew…
And for some reason, Aileas wasn’t even surprised.
Snuggling against him, she shivered as she recalled the first night when she’d woken up utterly convinced somebody had been outside her home, watching her. Watching…and waiting. She would have sworn she could almost feel the person calling to her.
Silently.
Summoning her.
And something about it had felt so alien.
She hadn’t gone and that was when the whispers from the book had gotten worse. That was when she started seeing shadows out of the corner of her eye, feeling the weight of a stare on her back as she walked to her car after work, when she’d started to feel as though every step she took, every move she made was being watched, weighed…measured.
It seemed as though months, years had passed, but it was really only ten days. Ten painfully long days and she knew she couldn’t keep going like this. Swallowing, she glanced at Ren and then away.
He cupped her cheek, guided her stare back to his. Keeping his hand on her face, his skin in direct contact, he said, “I don’t think you’re crazy, Aileas. I’m not pushing you out the door and you haven’t surprised me yet. We had a deal. Keep talking, pet.”
With his skin on hers, she should have been able to feel that much, sense that much, but she had her mental walls shored up, blocking him. Afraid to look, much less let him glimpse inside her.
But they’d made a bargain. She couldn’t very well hold up her end of the bargain, or see if he was upholding his, if she kept hiding. Grimly, she lowered her shields as she prepared herself to say the rest of it.
“I sensed it first the day after the first nightmare. And that’s not even the craziest thing, Ren. The book…I swear, it feels like it’s alive. I swear it talks to me. I hear it. It tells me all sorts of crazy shit, and all I want to do is destroy the damn thing. I even tried tearing it apart, but the thing is made of steel.” She said all of that without looking at him. But now, she shifted her gaze to his. “The book talks, Ren. It whispers. I hear it. In my head.”
Now he’s going to look at me as though I’ve lost it.
But all he did was say, “You can’t destroy a book like that with your hands. It has to be burned.”
A book like that.
The book…I’ve come across the like before. The sort who’ve been watching you…they hunt the books.
She couldn’t decide if she was more relieved that he didn’t seem to think she was crazy, or scared because it sounded like he knew what he was talking about. It sounded like he was familiar with that kind of book.
“A book like that,” she echoed. Pushing against his arms, she climbed off his lap and rose, pacing the long expanse of hardwood floors. They were polished to a high, smooth shine and her tennis shoes were all but soundless on them. Shivering, she rubbed her hands up and down her arms. “How do you know about the book?”
She turned around and watched as he reached down, stroked the black leather cuff at his wrist. There was a silver medallion, almost the size of a half-dollar, set in the leather. He stroked it with an absent-minded gesture, almost like he wasn’t even aware of it.
There was a far-off look in his impossibly dark eyes.
“Ren?”
He looked at her then.
“How do know about it? Have you seen it before?”
His voice was deeper, rough as he murmured, “That book, no. But books like it…yes.”
Aileas took a slow breath, remembered how yesterday he’d insisted he’d found her wandering through the woods. Saying she’d hit her head. That he hadn’t found her by her car at all.
“And you know all about the one I have?” she said, lifting a brow.
“You no longer have it,” he said gently.
Well, that was true. Because he punched out the back window of her car, shattering the glass like it was made of spun sugar.
Folding her arms over her chest, she hugged herself. “Why the Mad-Hatter routine? Why did you say you found me wandering around through the woods? And where is your friend, or your sister? Although, Ren, I know she’s not your sister.”
“Mad-Hatter.” He chuckled and rested his head on the back of the chair, staring up at the skylight. “As mad as a hatter. Oh, I like that.”
Then he came out of the chair, that lean, graceful body of his uncoiling in one smooth, easy motion. “It’s not exactly a routine, love. I’m not precisely what people would call sane. Although I’m not exactly in the running for a psychiatric hospital myself. As to why I told you a bit of a tale? Well, I was still trying to figure out how you’d landed in this mess—and you are in a mess, Ali, my dear. Make no mistake.”
She blinked. A mess. Oh, that was putting it lightly. She had people trailing after her and she had no idea why. She had a book that seemed to talk to her, except now Ren had the book, it would appear. And Ren openly admitted he wasn’t what people would call sane, and he was telling her crazy stories, and holy shit, she’d slept with him.
She wanted to again.
And again.
And again.
Something flashed in his eyes. They heated, although how eyes that dark could burn so hot…black fire, maybe. They heated her all the way through. Her mouth went dry and her heart started to pound in slow, heavy beats.
“So you decided to make me think I’d hit my head,” she said, her voice sarcastic.
“It was the first thing that came to mind.” He shrugged, his gaze focused on her mouth.
Her heart skipped a few beats. Shit, she couldn’t think when he looked at her like that. Jerking her gaze away from his, she tried to find something else to stare at. The window. That seemed safe. Nothing sexy about the window, or the great outdoors. She moved over to lean against the wall and study the sprawling spread of mountains and trees.
And animals.
She blinked. They were still there. Reaching up, she rubbed her eyes, but when she lowered her hands, they were all still there. Rabbits. Dozens of them.
Birds, all sorts, hawks, owls, sparrows, starlings…all of them sitting in the branches of the trees.
She saw a few foxes, some raccoons.
And the big, black wolf-dog breed that had run in front of her car…when had that happened? Hours ago? Yesterday? She thought it was yesterday.
Spinning around, she glared at him and said, “I thought you said you didn’t have a dog.”
Ren glanced past her shoulder. A scowl tightened his features and he muttered, “So much for them staying out of sight.”
At that moment, something came flying through the one of the partially closed doors along the far wall.
It took her brain nearly a minute to process it, even though she easily recognized what it was.
An owl.
One that was winging straight for Ren.
And Ren didn’t look at all surprised.
With a resigned sigh, he lifted an arm—a completely bare ar
m—and the owl settled down.
Aileas gaped and then she dashed forward, prepared to see those talons pierce his tanned flesh, but then she stopped as Ren brought the owl against his naked chest, cuddling it like a baby. “You little fool,” Ren muttered. “Didn’t I tell you to stay put?”
The owl hooted, twisting his neck to stare up at Ren.
“I know, I know.” He sighed again and scratched the owl’s crest before launching him into the air.
Aileas watched, stunned, as the owl flapped over to a mounted perch that she hadn’t noticed before, one a few feet away from the fireplace.
“You have a hybrid wolf/dog for a pet and an owl,” she said. She shifted her gaze to the window, staring outside. “And the other critters out there? Are they yours too?”
Ren frowned. “Pan is more a friend than a pet,” he said. “But yes, I’ll lay claim to him. And Bo isn’t a pet. He just likes it here.”
“That’s an owl,” Aileas said, pointing at the raptor.
“I know what he is.”
She rubbed at her aching head. Shit, she’d thought the insane part would come when she told him she had a book that whispered to her. An evil book. He’d taken that in stride.
But hell, he should. He was like some sexy, pirate version of Dr. Doolittle.
“What about the rest of them?” She walked to the other window, and oddly enough, she wasn’t surprised when she saw more animals gathered out there. It was almost like they were having a commune or something. “Why are they are out there?”
She slid him a look over her shoulder. “And don’t tell me you don’t know. I won’t buy it.”
“They’re here for me. Because of me,” he said. His shoulders rose and fell on a sigh. “I’ve got a…knack for animals. Like Bo, they just like being around me. When I’m out of sorts, they pick up on it. They are out there because they think I might need them.”
“For what?”
That same sad smile tugged at his lips. “A friend.” He smoothed a hand back across his naked scalp and then reached down, touched his fingers to the black leather band at his wrist. “Often, they are the only friends I have.”
The way he said it, so simply, it broke her heart. She felt tears clog her throat and she wanted to go to him, wrap her arms around him and do something, anything to ease the pain she saw in him, the pain she felt from him.
Swallowing, she hugged herself tighter.
Her world had gotten entirely too strange lately.
“What’s going on, Ren? Who are you? How do you know about that damn book and how did you find me yesterday? It was like you knew I was coming. And where is that girl? Who are the men following me? I know you know.”
Once more, he touched the leather cuff at his wrist and then looked away. Wearily, he sank down on the couch, his elbows braced on his knees. He covered his face with his hands and sighed.
“Do you believe in angels, Aileas?”
Chapter Nine
London, 1886
It had been ages since he had spoken to another. Seen another.
When the man appeared in the cellar, Thomas wondered if he had finally died. Finally…
“You’re not dead, Thomas,” the man said, and his voice was heavy with grief.
Very heavy—Thomas’ chest ached with the echo of it, and he might have cried, except he hadn’t had much water the past few days…they forgot to give it to him more and more often.
A blast of anger struck him, hard and fast, hazing his vision, tightening the muscles on his skinny frame, but he was so weak, when he launched himself at the intruder, he barely made it two feet before he collapsed.
Strong, kind hands caught him before he fell.
“Easy there, laddy. Easy. Forgive me, I’m making a mess of this,” the man said, and this time, his voice was quiet and easy, no sign of grief or anger or misery.
Licking cracked and bloody lips, Thomas squinted and tried to see the man in the dark. “Who are you?”
“You may call me Will. And I’m here to help you.”
Thomas shook his head. “You cannot help me. If I leave here, Fowler will tell all of London that I killed my sister and they’ll hang me.”
“I’ll handle Fowler,” the man promised. “Now come on. Let’s get you out of here. Poor lad, can you walk?”
Pride had Thomas stiffening his spine. “Of course I can walk,” he said. He wasn’t certain he could walk, but he’d crawl before he would ask for help.
Will chuckled. “Yes, of course.”
Then it struck Thomas. How had the man gotten down here? The door hadn’t opened since yesterday and only one of the servants had come down. Not this man with the deep, melodious voice.
Suspicious, Thomas tried once more to make out the man’s face. “Who are you? Why are you trying to help me?”
Nobody had tried to help him in ages. Nobody. Not even his own mother.
They heard footsteps overhead.
Will muttered something unpleasant under his breath, and then a big, strong hand came around Thomas’ arm. Panic hurtled through Thomas.
“Release me,” he snapped, jerking away—or trying to.
“I’m not going to hurt you, lad, but we need to go. I’m not leaving you down here one more night.” He paused and then, abruptly, a soft white light filled the cellar.
Flooded it. And it was coming from the man.
It was like he was light. Ren cringed, cowered away from it. It had been too long since his eyes had been exposed to light and it hurt. Blinking, he raised an arm to block out the light.
“What is this?” Thomas whispered. “What are you?”
The light dimmed, eased, until it wasn’t so painfully bright to look upon. Slowly, Thomas lowered his arm and stared at Will’s face. Will gazed back at him, his eyes a pale, silvery gray.
“Do you believe in angels, Thomas?”
Ren barely recognized his own reflection.
A day later, in a fine hotel, after several baths, and nearly twenty-four hours of sleep, he stood in front of a mirror and stared at his face.
He didn’t know that face.
Reaching up, he smoothed a hand over his naked scalp. His hair had always been thin, but in the past two years, since he’d been trapped down in that cellar as his step-father’s prisoner, all the hair had fallen out.
“How long do you plan to continue admiring your pretty reflection?”
Thomas looked up and met Will’s eyes in the mirror. “I do not recognize myself.”
“You spent two years in hell. You should expect to look different.”
Two years.
It had been two years since Fowler had killed Rose. Thomas closed his eyes, grief and anger choking him. His sister lay dead in her grave and her killer lived in a fine house. Worse, their mother? She shared the monster’s bed, called him her husband.
“Thomas.”
He opened his eyes and looked at Will.
“The rage will consume you, if you let it.”
In Thomas’ opinion, that did not sound so bad. Rage, he thought, was better than the other options. Better than the fear and the shame. Better than the memories of what had first happened when Samuel Fowler had thrown him into that dark pit.
The darkness of those memories came rushing up on him, choking him. Literally choking him, a fist around his throat strangling him. It descended on him and time lost all meaning.
Ren blinked and came back to himself, aware that he’d spent far too much time lost in his memories. Well, better the memories than the darkness.
Aileas was staring at him as if he’d grown a second head and he realized his mind had wandered away from him at a very, very weird time.
Right about the time he’d asked her if she believed in angels.
He gave her a tight smile and said, “And to think you were worried I’d think you were the crazy one.”
Then he looked away, focused on the leather band on his wrist.
The others, most of them at least, tended
to wear their medallions around their neck. But he couldn’t stand to have anything around his neck. Absently, he reached up and touched the sliver-thin scar, one that he’d gotten one of the times he’d let his darkness get the better of him. When he’d tried to exorcise his own demons.
“What are you going to tell me now?” She gave him a strained smile of her own and quipped, “Let me guess…you are an angel.”
Ren just stared at her.
The smile on her face wobbled, then fell.
“We’re called the Grimm,” he said softly. “We’re guardian angels…placed here by God to protect mortals from the demons who occasionally slip into this plain from their home in the netherplains.”
She sagged back against the chair. The color drained out of her face and her brown eyes looked terribly dark against her skin in that moment. “What?”
Ren brushed his hand against the leather cuff on his wrist, waiting for…something. For Will to send out one of his trademark bursts of heat, warning him to shut up. Something.
But there was nothing.
“The book you had, it’s called a demon tome. Basically, it contains spells that are used as gateways. Demons use the spells to forge a gateway between the netherplains and here, and whoever opens that gate becomes their host.” He studied her through his lashes and said gently, “You have no idea how incredibly lucky, how incredibly blessed, how incredibly strong you must be to have resisted its call. It’s a taint, a stain, an illness, but you resisted it.”
“This isn’t funny,” Aileas snapped, her voice shaking.
“Nor should it be.” He sighed and rubbed the etched markings on the medallion. “You’ve demons trailing after you, Ali. There is nothing remotely humorous about that.”
She swiped the back of her hand over her mouth, then swallowed, and he knew the knot in her throat made it ache—his own ached in sympathy.
Crazed Hearts: Grimm’s Circle, Book 3 Page 8
