The rumble next to her felt familiar.
She wanted to reach out. Couldn’t. Too tired.
Lying on a fluffy cloud in the heated air, she let the words roll over her as she left the cold depths far behind.
“Fold your arms ’round me close and strain me so that our hearts may break and our souls go free at last.”
The low, vibrating tone resonated through her bones.
Tristan and Iseult?
“‘Take me to that happy place of which you told me long ago.’”
His smooth bass voice broke. Squinting against the painfully bright light, she saw his golden head bowed over the book as he sat in a chair next to her.
Dante? What was he doing here? Where in the world were they? Without her glasses, she could only make out a bright area nearby, probably a window.
“‘The fields whence none return, but where great singers sing their songs forever.’”
The book closed with a comfortable, thick thud. He lifted his head slowly, as though it weighed too much. She squinted and saw dark circles under his eyes. Pale skin. Pain. Fear. His clear, blue gaze locked on to her.
Sadness and hope flickered there.
“Hannah?” The chair clattered to the floor as he leapt to his feet.
It took so much effort to push the corners of her mouth up. Exhausted by the movement, she drifted back down toward the water for a moment.
“Hannah, are you here with me now? Ålskling?”
A large wave moved her. He’d sat on the bed.
When she cracked open her eyelids again, his broad face hovered above her.
“Dante?” she whispered, throat raw.
“Herre Gud, I thought you were gone. It’s been days since ...”
“Tired.”
“Ja, me too.”
She tried to move her hand toward him and failed. Gently, he picked it up and guided her palm to his warm lips. Not as warm as she remembered, but his touch sent tendrils of happiness through her all the same.
“How do you feel?” he asked.
“Like I’ve been taken apart and put back together all wrong.”
She stretched her legs and wiggled her toes.
“My foot, I can feel it again! What happened?”
“A miracle.”
“How long has it been since ...”
“You’ve been gone for nearly a week.”
“So how am I still alive?”
“I know a very good doctor and nurse.”
He twirled the IV tubing in front of her, tracing it to a bright yellow solution that infused into her arm.
“It was a team effort. Allie scrounged supplies. Peter drove everything we needed up here, and Ruth hooked you up.”
“So what’s that?”
She pointed toward the tubing.
“Nutrition. We weren’t sure if it would work, but I wasn’t going to give up. I had no idea if any of my Hannah would come back.” He sandwiched her hand between his. “Can you heal?”
Opening herself to unwrap the imaginary barrier, she released all resistance to let the connection flow.
Nothing happened. Her hand remained in his firm grip, but all she sensed was warmth from his skin, no prickle of an essence for essence exchange.
“No transfer.”
“Interesting. I wondered whether or not you’d still have your gift.” He rested his forehead on hers. “Truthfully, I’m not sorry. Every time you used your ability, it hurt you.”
She relaxed back into the pillows. “I’m mixed about it. On one hand, I liked knowing I had something to give to others. But you’re right, whenever I’d absorb an injury, it hurt like heck.”
“You have plenty to give just by being here.” His voice rumbled through her skull and into her chest.
“What about Brandon? And Scott?” She tried to sit up and failed, sinking back into soft cotton bedding. “And you?” Where were the injuries he’d endured for her? The bruises on his face?
“Brandon ... well, he wasn’t really alive to begin with, but I suppose calling him dead is the easiest explanation. He’ll never bother you again.”
“Gone?”
When he cupped his hands around her face, she drowned in those clear blue eyes.
“He tried to take away the one thing precious to me in this world. He nearly succeeded. So I destroyed him.”
“Scott?”
“Once Brandon died, his control over Scott stopped. Your brother came back to try to help. He wanted to be here with you but wouldn’t stick around.”
“I don’t understand.”
“He cleaned out the house and left. Said he’d try to return when he was able. Said he was sorry, but he needed to go away for a while.”
“Explains why he’d been acting so out of character the last few weeks.”
She sighed. Scott had moved on. She wasn’t sad or empty. Just adequately informed. Strange. She licked her lips.
With a groan, Dante brushed his mouth over hers tenderly. Waves of warm happiness flowed through her body.
Finally, he pulled back. “Also, I was dead for a few days there.”
“What?”
“Right before your heart stopped, I got you to open up enough to do one more transfer and exchange my unhuman healing abilities for your injuries.”
“What happened to you?”
“I took on all of your damage and died.”
“Dante!”
He scooted back, leaned against the headboard and pulled her into his lap. Nestled between his muscled legs, his body emitted less heat than she remembered. He held her securely, and her head tucked into the hollow between his shoulder and neck. If he didn’t support her, she’d slide back down onto the bed, so poor was her strength. Reaching over to the nightstand, he retrieved her glasses and gently slid them on her face.
He kissed the top of her head. “I got better.”
“How much better?” She craned her neck to study his expression.
“Mostly better.”
Although he smiled down at her, fatigue etched new lines on his handsome features.
“I’m human now.”
“Is that good?”
“It’s wonderful. Killing myself to save you counts as a Meaningful Kill by the twisted rules of the Indebted.”
“So?”
“So I’m officially unemployed. I had to see if my efforts paid off, if you would come back to me. If you didn’t survive, I wouldn’t have continued on much longer.”
“What?” Would he have truly killed himself?
“Shush, I’m here now. And so are you.”
Dante caressed her cheek as he cradled her in his massive arms. His strong but gentle fingers were like heaven as they slid through her hair.
“Are you totally healed now?” she asked.
“A few aches and pains I didn’t have before, but I’m okay.”
“But you’re human?”
“Ja.” His smile lit up his entire handsome face.
“What will you do now as a human?”
Her heart thudded.
“Well, I was thinking about settling down.”
“Sounds boring, especially after the wild life you’ve lived for centuries.”
“That wasn’t living.”
“Won’t you miss living forever?”
“Being human sounds fantastic right about now. Maybe I’ll get a nine-to-five job. Become schlumpy and bald. Grow old with someone special. Yup, a perfect life.”
She lifted her hand to stroke the arm that supported her. It took so much effort.
“Got a lucky lady picked out?” When she looked up at him, he grasped her hand and pressed it to his lips, closing his eyes for a moment.
“I wasn’t sure if she’d come back to me.”
“You pulled me back. Your voice. You, Dante.”
His strong features shone with a new light. He scrambled out of the bed and stuffed several pillows around her legs and hips to keep her from sliding back down. The motion unbala
nced her, and it took a moment to focus again.
He knelt next to the bed.
“Hannah, I am ancient and unworthy. I’ve done so many bad things that I have lost count. But with you, I’m a better man. And I want to be an even better man. Would you please put me out of my eternal misery and do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
“When you say it like that, it sounds so tempting.” She chuckled. “So you want me to marry a criminal so he won’t hate himself anymore?”
“Um, well, I guess it didn’t come out right. Can I try again?”
“No.”
“Oh.” His expression was crestfallen.
“Dante?”
“Yes?”
“Of course I’ll marry you. I don’t want anyone else. I’ll never want anyone else. It’s only been you from the moment we met.”
The bear hug that pulled her away from the pillows hurt her joints, but she didn’t care. She’d been right.
She was his.
He was hers.
About the Author
Jillian David lives near the end of the Earth with her nut of a husband and two bossy cats. To escape the sometimes-stressful world of the rural physician, she writes while on call and in her free time. She enjoys taking realistic settings and adding a twist of “what if.” Running or hiking on local trails often promotes plot development.
She would love for readers to connect on Twitter @jilliandavid13 or on her blog at http://jilliandavid.net. Readers are always welcome to email her at [email protected].
More from This Author
(From Immortal Flame by Jillian David)
Old things weren’t always useless. Take the Swiss watch Peter Blackstone wore. Tired leather strap, scratched face, older than most mortals. He had taken it off the wrist of an enemy, a dying Wehrmacht captain, in the icy forest of northern France in retaliation for the captain shooting Peter in the arm. Call it a souvenir turned taunting, old, reliable companion.
Not that the damned watch helped the traffic. A cold mist slowed the cars on I-84 outside La Grande, Oregon. Steep, pine-rich mountains rose on either side, funneling bumper-to-bumper vehicles into the narrow canyon. No gritting of Peter’s teeth or clenching of the steering wheel could stop that interminable timepiece from tick, tick, ticking down like a demolition bomb timer, reminding him how late he would be and the likely outcome of his tardiness.
His final assignment. He hoped.
Damn endless existence. He needed to complete this last assignment, the Meaningful Kill. Finally put an end to the monster he’d become.
His gut knotted. Being late for his assignment created too much attention. Better to stay inconspicuous. Hell, he wore a seat belt only so police wouldn’t have a reason to ticket him. Too much to explain.
The semi ten inches from his front bumper flashed its brakes. Peter slowed and negotiated one of the curves on the stretch of road. He rubbed his jaw and glanced again at the watch.
Hell, even now, he could smell the sweet-sharp scent of snow and blood and hear the moans from the not-yet-dead as bodies littered the forest that ugly night in the Ardennes. Men crying out for their mothers in English and German, the sounds blending into a nightmare of suffering, as they were frozen alive.
He glanced in the rearview mirror out of habit. Even after all these years, his dark brown hair would never turn gray, no matter how much he wished to age. It was the curse of the Indebted.
Screeching tires jolted him back to reality. Hell. He swerved and barely missed the braking semi. The driver behind him wasn’t as quick, and the pickup plowed into the back of Peter’s SUV, propelling it into the concrete barrier. Air whooshed out of his lungs as he jerked against the seat belt. His neck snapped forward as a ripping sensation seared pain into the base of his skull.
His SUV ramped the barrier, the undercarriage screaming against wet concrete. Peter’s entire world inverted, sky beneath him and rocks above, with only a thin casing of metal standing between his head and the scraping rocks. Not good. He threw his hands over his head and pushed against the charcoal upholstery in time for the airbag to erupt from the steering wheel. His ribcage exploded in sharp, hot agony that sent fireworks of light bursting in his vision.
After that, it was as if his own car waged a personal assault on him. But the blade would be no match against the airborne missiles of glass piercing his face. To make things even more interesting, the SUV righted itself but then jolted halfway down the mountain slope.
Peter’s head snapped forward and back, and a loud crack reverberated from his lower back, out of tune with the groans and screeches emanating from the nearly obliterated vehicle.
An eternity later—he didn’t use the term lightly—the crumpled metal death trap came to rest at the bottom of a muddy embankment, the yellow hazard lights flashing, horn blaring … and upside down.
Stunned, Peter dangled from the seat belt. His ears rang. His skull throbbed. His left arm had bent into an unnatural angle against the door handle. Not good at all. A normal human would be dead by now. Unfortunately, he still lived.
Hell. He was most definitely going to be late for that appointment.
The knife strapped to his lower leg pulsed, warming up in hungry anticipation for the assignment. That damned, cursed weapon tied to his damned, cursed existence.
The sky and ground continued to spin in his vision. Over the hum of his ringing ears, liquid drizzled onto the fabric ceiling, a constant tapping sound in the sudden silence. One touch to his head revealed a chunk of skin partially detached from his skull.
Steam hissed from the engine as the tangy-sweet scent of antifreeze mixed with burnt oil. Taking a deep breath, he dragged fumes into his burning lungs. From far away, voices drifted down to him.
Pain lanced through his neck when he tried to see out the window. He had to fix that broken arm.
Damn, this is going to hurt.
With his right hand, he grabbed his left wrist and pulled. His guttural howl echoed in the destroyed car as he forced arm bones back into place, grinding the broken ends against each other. He squeezed his hand over the injury. The arm had started to knit, but he needed the bones to heal even faster. His body would repair the life-threatening injuries first and his head and broken bones second, but it would take way too much time.
The whine of his car’s smoking engine and drone of the horn muffled the shouts of bystanders scrambling down the hill.
Have to get out of here.
He attempted to exit the car, leaning against the mangled door, but his numb legs wouldn’t move. They’d lodged between the pedals pushed in by the crumpled engine block and the steering column. Instinctive fear rose up. Trapped again. He forced himself to relax while suspended upside down. In the distance sirens wailed.
So much for being inconspicuous.
Damn it. He needed to stash the knife before anyone saw it.
Reaching his unbroken arm down—no, up—to the pinned, insensate leg, Peter unclasped the top strap of the holster. One more strap. As he strained against the seat belt, pain erupted in his lower back, but now he could touch the lower clasp.
The voices of his rescuers drew closer, urging him to work faster. Frantic, he brushed the buckle with this fingertips and opened the clasp. Fresh sweat beaded his brow, and his jaw ached from clenching.
The strap slid free of the buckle, and the knife fell to the roof with a dull thunk, landing in pooled blood. The physical agony of separation from the weapon hit him like a punch to his gut. The yearning to connect with the blade burned with a searing inferno in his chest.
Focus.
Stretching, he grabbed the knife and shoved it into the seam of the passenger seat.
He gritted his teeth as another wave of pain swamped him.
• • •
It had been one month and twelve days since her last vision.
Allison La Croix pulled her hair from the jacket collar, straightened her scrubs, and closed the car door. Hefting her overnight bag on
to her shoulder, she paused and inhaled the cold, early spring air. Could she do it today? Could she walk through the doors of Grande Ronde Hospital’s emergency department?
Every day when she passed through those sliding glass doors, apprehension mounted like a needle tip poised just above her skin. Her right hand still throbbed with residual echoes of electrical fire on her fingertips from her last connection. How long could she avoid touching anyone skin to skin? How long could she avoid triggering her twisted gift? The intervals between her visions were growing shorter, but she had no idea why. How many more could she handle?
With a determined breath, she entered the ER at 7:55 a.m., right on time. Ambulance bays vacant? Check. No screaming family members outside the ER door? Check. No whump, whump of chopper blades coming in for a landing? Double check.
Maybe today will be a good day.
She twisted her long hair into a clip as the familiar flowery scent of chemical disinfectant wafted over her. As Allison reached the registration desk, she waved at a plump, smiling, older woman.
“Morning, Doctor Al,” the woman said.
“Hi, Marcie. How’s it been so far?”
The receptionist held up the latest bestselling medical thriller. “Real calm. I’ve had time to catch up on some reading.”
Allison smiled at her choice of words. Doctors and staff never said the “Q” word when they came onto shift. Merely thinking the word “quiet” seemed to magically attract multi-victim traumas, drug-seekers, and large quantities of cardiac arrests.
“You think it’s going to rain today?” Allison asked.
She averted her gaze as Marcie changed the computer screen from a shopping website to the hospital registration system.
“Hope so. Maybe light rain later. The Wallowas look good. Might get more snow next weekend.”
To the east, powdery snow covered the 9,000-foot peaks of the Wallowa Mountains. She’d give anything to be up there right now, surrounded by the mellow scent of pine, serenaded by the burble of clear water running down the valleys. Hiking or snowshoeing, it didn’t matter; either was like aloe on a burn to Allison’s soul.
Walking to the back of the ER, she dropped her overnight bag on an empty chair in the doctor’s work area. She waited until her graying counterpart, Dr. Buddy Clark, finished a dictation, his voice gravelly. His shoulders sagged from the twenty-four-hour shift, which had also deepened the circles beneath his kind eyes. She thanked her thirty-two-year-old body for its youth; at least she recovered much faster than her sixty-something colleague.
Relentless Flame (Hell to Pay) Page 23
