Sagan lurched up onto his feet, stepping awkwardly away from her, his movements stiff and stumbling. He’d been bound for a very long time, he realized, and he was still nearly frozen to the bone. Although…
He glanced back at Valera cautiously, but the instantaneous flash of heat that hit him the moment he did reaffirmed the stunning realization that he was finding himself attracted to her. Of all people…When he had felt nothing, not even a glimmer of interest, for years as he had been surrounded by the women of his breed throughout his daily life. He was the epitome of a celibate priest, the laws of his religion dictating that no priest could have sexual congress with any woman other than his appointed handmaiden. When his previous handmaiden had been killed during the Shadowdweller civil war almost twenty years earlier, he had lost that outlet—and he had lost all interest in replacing her. In fact, it had become a bone of contention between himself and the other priests of his faith. For some reason it bothered them that he refused to take a handmaiden. His independence from the tradition was almost taken as an insult by many of them. Not that they’d push the point with him bluntly. He was one of the most powerful priests in Sanctuary, and no one wished to cross or confront him.
The key to his choice of solitude was that M’jan Magnus, the head priest of all Sanctuary, had never pressed the issue on him. As far as Sagan was concerned, if it didn’t bother his leader, then he didn’t care what anyone else thought.
Obviously it wasn’t that he didn’t like women, because he did, he acknowledged as he let his eyes ride over the female standing just a few feet away from him, but ever since Sariel’s death he had poured all of his energy into becoming a better hunter and fighter, and into becoming a better priest.
But not just anyone could become a handmaiden for Drenna and M’gnone, his gods, and not everyone was suited for a long lifetime in service to a single man and no other but the gods and Sanctuary itself. It took a very special kind of devotion and a deep inner power geared to the calling of Sanctuary.
None of which could ever be found in a mortal human female.
And though there were no direct laws against his species fraternizing with human beings, it was seriously frowned upon. So the attraction Sagan was feeling had to be dismissed with absolute finality and that was exactly what he did. Instead, he guided his interest and focus elsewhere.
“Where am I?”
“Alaska. Near the Elk’s Lake region.” Valera moved slowly away from him and replaced the knife in its proper setting. “Who are you?” she countered. “They said you were a priest, but…clearly you aren’t a Catholic priest.”
Sagan already knew it would be ridiculous to treat her as if she were stupid, but neither could he be forthcoming. He couldn’t put his people and the secret enclave at Elk’s Lake in danger. The large underground city was protected by the outer image of being no more than a research station. Until he knew what she knew, he couldn’t say anything of detail.
“No,” he replied honestly. “Not a Catholic priest. I practice and guide others in a religion far older than Christianity. Do you mean to say you live out here in the Alaskan wilderness all by yourself? This far from the nearest established city?”
“Yes. I do.” She moved back toward him, her steady, sharp eyes studying him as they played tit for tat with their questions. She was gauging him for his truthfulness, and Sagan hardly blamed her. It was obvious to both of them, however, that each was skirting the larger and unspoken issues. “Where have you come from?”
Ah. The tricky question. How to answer and yet remain honest?
“I live not too far from here, actually,” he replied vaguely. It was obvious from the sardonic lift of her brow that she noted the vagary of his answer. “Why is someone so young out here all by herself, isolated from the rest of humanity?”
“I have my reasons,” she retorted, the response almost snide as she lobbed back his evasiveness. “You should sit down. You need something to eat, some warm things, and rest. I’ll get some blankets. You can shower. You’ve blood on you. I’ll wash your clothes.”
Sagan jolted and looked at himself, noting the sleeve and tunic of his priest’s uniform was, indeed, soaked in blood from the cut he’d gotten.
But where had he gotten it? All he could remember was racing to the aid of Magnus’s handmaiden, Daenaira, and one of the students at Sanctuary. The Shadowdwellers’ religious house was also home to the education of all of their children who were entering adolescence. But for his life he couldn’t recall any of the details of the incident, other than running through the halls with K’yan Daenaira. Then he could remember being worked over by two Shadowdweller males before being bound.
Now there was Valera.
“I think I should like that,” he replied honestly. He reached up to touch his rough face, the growth telling him it had been three…maybe even four days since he’d last seen a razor. That told him approximately how distant from Elk’s Lake he was, depending on if they had traveled on foot or by vehicle. Sagan sighed, realizing that none of it really made a difference at the moment. He was exhausted, hungry, and all the other things she had thoughtfully mentioned.
“I don’t have anything for you to wear other than maybe a towel, but the wash won’t take long.”
She turned and led the way into the back of the house and Sagan followed her carefully. As he went he checked the corners of the rooms they passed, just to reassure himself no one else was in the house. Every room, from the office stacked messily with books, papers, and a computer, to the tidy little bedroom with its blue and white gingham and lace bedspread, could claim one thing in common. Each one bore a feline occupant. Three cats in all, including the black one sleeping on the quilts inside. But that was just the ones he could see. The tiger-striped one sitting on the center of her bed seemed to watch their progress with a bit of wry amusement as they headed for the bathroom.
Sagan waited outside of the bathroom as he watched her slowly move around the small, serviceable space in order to round up things she thought he would need for his shower, including a pink disposable razor. Watching her move, feeling more deeply surrounded by her home and her personal things, he couldn’t help but notice more details about her. She was rather pale, her hands, cheeks, and lips showing the wear of living through an Alaskan winter. She was mildly chapped and windburned in each of those places. But it put color on her cheeks and allowed him the opportunity to watch as she paused to put balm on her mouth, using the tip of her pinky to apply it in quick practiced motions. She had a wide smile with rather plump lips for its frame. Sagan had to hurry himself past the path his imagination wanted to take as he studied her succulent-looking mouth a minute too long.
Valera turned to him and smiled a bit nervously, her body language turning awkward as she rubbed her hands together.
“The hot water gets too hot, so be careful so you don’t get…” She stopped and looked down at his hands. With a frown that creased her entire face in empathy, she reached to take up his hand in her gentle, strong fingers. “I’m so sorry about this,” she said as she carefully inspected the raw redness and blisters. “There’s burn cream in the medicine cabinet. Please use some. I’m sorry but I only have my soap and shampoo and they are…well, very girlie. Flowers and herbals, you know?”
“I’m sure it will be fine. Valera, you are being very generous to me and I am very grateful to you for it. As soon as I am well and can travel, I won’t have to abuse your hospitality any longer. Considering the danger that came with me—”
Sagan broke off suddenly as a dreadful thought raced into his mind. What if danger still followed him? Damn it, if he could only remember what had happened! Staying with this woman could potentially be putting her at risk. He had to leave as soon as…
But what if trouble tracked him to here? He would be gone and she would be left alone to defend herself against supernatural beings she had no hope of understanding or protecting herself against. Obviously she had accidentally exposed those othe
r two to light, luck being with her and saving her from who knew what, but others to come after them might not be so careless.
But why? he asked of his stubbornly blank brain. Who would dare to kidnap a penance priest? Had they meant to kill him, they would have done so already. But why would they abduct him? For what purpose?
Valera released a small gasp, and Sagan realized the severity of his thoughts had led him to grip her by her hand perhaps a bit too tightly. He instantly let go of her and she briskly rubbed her freed palm against her jeans over her thigh.
“I’ll let you shower,” she said, backing out of the bathroom. She awkwardly bumped her shoulder into the frame of the door, laughing nervously. “I’ll cook some breakfast. You like eggs?”
“Don’t go to any trouble,” he argued.
“No trouble.” She smiled, the expression turning her features into an enchanting blend of warmth and shyness as she dropped her gaze and tucked her hair behind her ear in a sweetly ingenuous gesture. “I like to cook.”
Sagan watched her go, unable to keep himself from appreciating the snug fit of her well-worn jeans. Catching himself doing it, he growled at himself in frustration for his lack of discipline. He was well known for his unrelenting discipline. Anything less was unacceptable to him. He put the lapse down to the trauma his body had been through and went about stripping himself down and mentally rectifying the problem.
Chapter Three
Valera tried to focus completely on her cooking. This was no easy task, considering she’d just swept up two piles of dead people. She realized now what had happened and that it had very much been an accident. After all, how was she supposed to know they were a species hypersensitive to light? In retrospect it made sense now, how they had turned everything off. She had to satisfy herself with knowing that Sagan was safe and free. Of course, for all she knew Sagan could be some kind of monster or prisoner they’d been transporting…
No. The behavior and vibes she’d read had been very clear. Morrigan and Davide had been the source of evil and Sagan was entirely different.
Very different.
Despite his wariness and his marked caution in answering her questions, he was honest and surprisingly steady for a man who had been through such an ordeal. It forced her to wonder what he’d gotten wrapped up in that he’d been so cruelly abducted and neglected. Poisoned and then given the antidote? Even as her spell had healed him, she had felt the hard and deadly damage that vicious poison had done. Someone had meant to kill him and then changed their mind right at the very brink. Who would kill a priest?
Wait.
None of this was her problem. Her only issue was to tend to her guest until she could send him on his way and bring her life back to normal. She didn’t care about any of this other stuff.
Except when he had held on to her hand so tightly in the bathroom. She had felt a flash of powerful energy racing up her arm and then diffusing throughout her body until she was completely and thoroughly warmed by it. And considering the places on her body that had felt quite a bit warmer than others in the aftermath of that rush, it was no wonder she found herself conflicted. She’d never encountered a sensation equal to that ever before. It had made her feel exposed—almost as if she’d stripped herself completely naked in front of him.
The man was an utter stranger, she reminded herself as she left her muffins to bake and went to pull out her stepladder from its hiding place. She went slowly throughout the house and unscrewed each and every lightbulb, leaving them carefully secured next to the lamps they had come from. The darkness seemed to trigger in her the inherent habit to flip a switch. She’d done it again when she’d entered the kitchen to cook. She could see just fine in the darkness, but she knew she would forget and the impulse would get her again and again. She didn’t want to see him hurt again, the sight of the burns she had caused making her chest tighten with a lump of guilt at its core.
She did the kitchen last, setting up the stepladder beneath the rows of recessed lighting that ran above every countertop and the central island. This was when Ulysses strolled lazily into the kitchen, yawning and stretching as he came to sit at the foot of the ladder. However, he seemed more interested in eyeing the forbidden countertop than he did requiring her attention.
“Don’t even think about it, Ulysses,” she warned as she unscrewed the current bulb just enough to remove the contact that made it work, but left it hanging in its socket.
I smell food, Ulysses pointed out.
“Look, you just have to wait a little for breakfast, okay? This has been a really crazy morning.”
I noticed. You know I don’t like men, the beautiful black cat sighed. They are loud and aggressive. This one is very big. Not even human…which makes it worse, I suppose. He has more beast within him than any human would.
“Well, maybe the fact that he isn’t human is a point in his favor, hmm? And since you are so astute, why don’t you tell me what he is, exactly?”
A Nightwalker. One of the Dark Cultures.
A Nightwalker.
“Oh God…” she whispered.
Better not let him find out what you are, Ulysses warned sagely.
Mortal enemies. Nightwalkers and human magic-users. Demons, Vampires and all the other breeds killed what they called “necromancers,” human magic-users, with punitive unanimity.
And they were right to do so, Valera thought with a difficult swallow. Almost every necromancer she had ever met had been arrogant, vicious, and morally flawed. Before she had understood what the difference was between what they were and what she was, she had been relieved to find others like herself. But then she had seen them capture Demons and maliciously stake out Vampires with no proof of any crimes or for any other reason except to watch them suffer. They had revolted her, and once she had realized how corrupted they were—increasingly so with every day—she had run.
To here. Here, where she was safe and all the races of the earth were safe from her. She was terrified that the blackness that had overcome those others would overtake her, so she had tried to resist the use of her magic entirely.
Until she had gone to town one spring and found herself being trailed by an army of stray cats, making a spectacle of herself. That was the day she first heard the thoughts of animals, and that a feline’s aged wisdom—which they doled out on a rather sporadic and finicky schedule—passed through them from generation to generation. All cats knew what all the cats before them had known. The small army now lived with her in warmth and comfort, and in trade they gave her guidance that had taught her very simply that all magic wasn’t bad.
It was just a matter of figuring out which spells were which. It turned out to be easy in the end, or rather simplistic. If the intent of the spell was good, then the magic was good. For example, the healing and protection spells she had used. But even those spells could turn a soul bad if used badly and without moral discretion. If she had used the stasis spell on cops so she could get away with a crime, or if she had healed a serial killer so he could go on killing—these were foul intents and polluted a person, making it easier and easier for them to make wicked choices and do evil deeds. Eventually the darkness would overtake them and who they had been would be completely lost.
But Penchant had told her she was a natural born Witch. Her power came whether she called it or not. She only needed to learn control and how to use it well. Unlike necromancers who could be made, a Witch could only be born. However, Witches could easily be turned necromancer if they were not careful or guided properly. Luckily, Valera’s grandmother had recognized the familial gift of magic within her and had guided her well, long before she had fallen in with necromancers and mistaken them as being like herself.
It had taken years to finally feel purged of the stain of the magic she had unintentionally soiled her soul with. Five years to cleanse herself of only four months of bad magic. And to this day she was afraid of making a mistake and hurting someone. Or hurting herself. Today was the first day she had u
sed her magic “against” someone in nine years, and she had been devastated by their deaths. Able to recognize the stain of it now, she had dreaded the feeling of blackness she had expected in backlash.
But it had not come. The universe had deemed her use of magic to be proper and good, the deaths to be unfortunate collateral damage. Valera had not placed evil into her own sphere, it had chosen to invade the comfort and safety of it and had deserved to be purged.
However, none of this would matter to the Nightwalker she was harboring. If he suspected for even an instant that she used any magic at all, he would kill her for it, thinking she was like those who hunted and tortured his kind.
Her office!
With a gasp she realized her office and all the hundreds of drafted, crafted, and cataloged spells she had researched and gathered were spread out everywhere in plain sight. After nine years of total solitude, what cause did she have to hide them? She needed to shut and lock that door before he could catch sight of it.
Valera spun around quickly on the ladder, coming face to…uh…navel…with Sagan. Startled, she wobbled off balance and bit back a scream. Then powerful and large hands were locking onto her hips to steady her and he naturally leaned his body into hers to keep her from losing her footing. His very damp and very gorgeously well-made body.
Pleasure Page 3
