Guardian's Faith

by Jacqueline Rhoades

  "Lucien."

  It was little more than a raspy whisper of breath and yet he was sure he heard it. He cocked his head to the side and looked around the tumble of curls to the sleeping face below. Faith's mouth puckered into a kiss and she pressed that kiss to a spot among the lilies on his chest directly over his heart and then she smiled. It was such a sweet and beatific smile that anyone seeing it would be left in no doubt as to why old Vasco called her his ángelita.

  But no one else would see that smile tonight. That angelic smile was just for him and with it Faith whispered his name like a blessing.

  "Lucien."

  Chapter 24

  The Brujo wrapped the dark cloth around his neck, covering the wide scar that had taken his voice, but not his life. It was only one of the things he missed from his old life and for which he wanted recompense. His voice was once deep and resonant as befitted his station. When he raised his voice in command, men listened and when he lowered it to a soft purr, women heard and dreamed. The world was his back then and the future held promise. He'd waited so long to restore what was rightfully his.

  First in his memory of that time were the years of healing, years when he teetered on the verge of bloodthirsty insanity. Before that was nothing. How he survived those first years was a mystery, though he suspected travelers played their role. Like a wolf marking prey among cattle, stragglers made for the easiest pickings, but unlike Lucien's herd, travelers had no ear tags to mark their number or record their disappearance.

  When the cure had finally come, he'd found himself naked and living in caves like an animal. What was left of his thick, dark hair had become thin and scraggly, a dull and sickly looking grey, matted with the filth of his animal existence. His face had become a leathery mask, a skeleton of first death. It was his first memory of his new life and he still remembered his reaction to seeing himself in the small, broken mirror that fell from the pack of the bruja he'd killed and drained. The horror of it had almost driven him back into the hell from which he'd come.

  He found his road to recovery by accident; had never known there was a road until the chance meeting with that little bruja, though he didn't know what she was at the time. Her blood was sweet and coppery and almost instantly addictive as if his animal instincts recognized her as something more than food.

  It was months before he found another and years before he realized what the food source was. He learned to sniff them out and then he learned to keep them alive, milking their nourishment like the cattle they were until the milk dried up and they died. Sometimes that took years, sometimes months. That was the turning point. Everything else came later.

  It was fitting that these Daughters of Man should provide his rejuvenation. They, after all, were the cause of the Paenitentia's downfall. It was time they paid the price. His discoveries would make him famous. His power would make him a king.

  He lifted the mirror that hung at his waist and held it in front of his face. Slowly, he pulled back the hood to reveal the face that had once been strikingly handsome. The pale blond hair was gone, but the now white hair was thicker after years of dosing himself with the blood of young brujas and when it was pulled back into a tight queue, effectively covered the bald spots. His face had regained much of the fullness it once had. The strong jaw and piercing eyes were still there, but the skin, though softened, held none of the blemish free smoothness that women once adored. It retained a leather-like texture that he abhorred.

  These flaws could be cured with the right infusion of bruja blood. He was sure of it. Unfortunately, as his strength increased to the point where he needed more and more of the sweet elixir of life to sustain him, the People's bloodline diminished and the young women he took from now were weak imitations of the women before them.

  It wasn't his fault. The wheels had been set in motion long before he discovered his fountain of youth and by the time he made himself known, it was too late to turn back the clock. The strong brujas were gone and the weak ones kept themselves hidden. He'd had to make do with what he could find, supplementing the bruja blood with human when the need arose. His recovery was therefore slow, but in all those years, he never gave up.

  His patience was about to be rewarded. He'd mastered the art of illusion. He had enough followers to support him in the village and strong ties at the enclave. Add to that the weakling son as Liege Lord who neglected the People and thought only of killing the demons sent regularly to harass the area, and now… the Brujo closed his eyes to savor the thought… a bruja with enough power in her veins to restore him to his former glory.

  His long wait was about to be rewarded. He had the wherewithal to finally claim what had always been rightfully his.

  *****

  Faith froze when she felt the hard body beneath hers, afraid at first that the nightmare had returned, but the lamp beside the bed still burned and it was Lucien she was sprawled across, not Tyn. She had never slept with Tyn, was always cast aside to huddle in the corner when he was done with her. She should have known immediately that this was not her tormentor, but the remnants of the nightmare, which had returned after a year of lying dormant, were still with her.

  The body beneath her was smooth and warm, the slow and steady thump, thump of his heart a comforting counterpoint to the rapid beat of her own. Lucien's eyes were closed, his face at peace and the arm he wrapped lightly across her middle said her weight caused him no discomfort. She had pressed herself so firmly against him that one of her legs ran straight along his side while the other bent and curled over him, her knee resting in a most inconvenient spot on his silk pajama bottoms. She forced herself to lie very still.

  Faith vaguely remembered Lucien holding her as the nightmare passed, but she wasn't sure if this was true or simply wishful thinking. No one touched her when she was in the throes of the worst of her dreams. She fought, viciously, lashing out blindly at anyone who did.

  But Lucien wasn't other people, was he? Lucien was different, special, and through his experience with his sister, he seemed to understand there were things Faith couldn't bring herself to talk about, though lately she'd felt a strong urge to do just that. She felt as if Lucien might be the one person in the world who would understand. Still, she hesitated. Telling him about who she really was and what she'd done would end all this.

  Letting her breath out slowly, she allowed herself to relax against him, taking bittersweet pleasure in a feeling that couldn't last. No matter what her dreams, a future with Lucien couldn't be part of them.

  In spite of her decision to remain still, Faith's fingers began to explore the rock hard chest that was her pillow. It had none of the downy softness of her real pillow, yet she'd never felt so comfortable and secure. Without moving her head from its perfect comfort over his lilies and skull, her fingers slowly followed the contours of his other pectoral, a big square mass of muscle accented by a flat round nipple that hardened under her touch.

  It surprised her. She knew how her own body reacted, but she'd never thought a man might react the same way. She was tempted to experiment, but was afraid her quiet game would wake him. Her hand travelled downward instead, over the ridges that formed his abdomen. For a man who claimed he was old and out of shape, Lucien was magnificently formed. Her hand moved across his flat belly to his side and there it stopped.

  A long ago wound had formed a deep indentation of scar tissue. Not a surgical scar or a gash from some demon's claws, his flesh had been pierced by a sword or spear or perhaps a blast from a gun, judging by the signs of torn flesh around it. Guardians healed quickly and easily and weren't susceptible to most human infections. This wound had healed slowly and agonizingly.

  Faith couldn't help but think that had she been there, she could have saved him so much pain. As her hand moved upward, she found another mangled scar beneath the arm that was raised above his head. There was no doubt in her mind how this one had occurred. She'd seen wounds like this among the Guardians in Canaan's House though she'd never seen one so de
ep or one in which the flesh was torn away. This scar would end at his back where a matching oval from the demon's sharp toothed jaw would prove her right.

  "It's a good thing I'm not ticklish," Lucien chuckled in a whisper.

  Faith lurched back with a sharp intake of breath, but Lucien's arm around her prevented her from leaving him completely.

  "Do you find my scars repugnant?" he asked quietly, though there was still a hint of laughter in his voice.

  It would be an easy way out for her to answer yes, but she couldn't lie to Lucien. Faith gave a slight shake with her head, all that she could manage since his restraining hand was now threaded through her curls.

  "You could have died," she said and hoped he didn't hear the fear in her mental voice.

  Lucien didn't deny it. "It's a testament to the courage and determination of my first Vigilante that I didn't," he admitted. "I was so young and so angry and so damned stupid. My Vigilantes have saved my hide more than once. Stupidity is a hard thing to outgrow."

  "You were never stupid," she said defensively, "and you've returned the favor over the years."

  He lifted her chin so she had to look up at his teasing grin. "Has Vasco been gossiping again?"

  "No," she answered truthfully, but she would be sure to ask the old man tomorrow. "It's just that I know you."

  "Not so well, I think." He touched the scars on her cheek, "Or you would know this means nothing to me just as mine mean nothing to you."

  Lucien released his hold on her and shifted his body to turn to her, but Faith used the moment to turn away and curl herself into a ball as tight as the little cat's.

  "They're not the same," she whispered into his mind. "You might have been young and foolish, but you were brave. You received those wounds with courage and honor. You didn't cower in fear. You fought back."

  He could hear the shame in her words and it sickened him.

  Was that what this was all about? She was attacked and didn't fight back? How could she? The woman was as tiny and as delicate as a bird! Didn't she understand how lucky she was to have survived?

  And what had her so-called friends done to help her? Couldn't they see how tormented she was? Or was that why they laughed at her and treated her harshly? And they thought he was a relic of the past! He'd known those who would blame the woman for her misfortune, but not him. Never! To do so would be to blame his own dear mother.

  Fearing to frighten Faith with his rising anger, Lucien slid from the bed and stood by the window. He pulled back the heavy drapes that protected the room from sunlight during the day. It was full dark and according to the clock, well past his normal waking hour and he was supposed to be on patrol. He wondered briefly what the others thought of this neglect of duty and then realized he didn't give a damn. He was where he wanted to be and with the thought his anger eased.

  He looked out over the courtyard this tiny woman had brought back to life and smiled ruefully. She'd brought him back to life, too. Why couldn't she see that her past had no meaning here? Why couldn't she see that this could be a fresh start for them both?

  "When I was a boy," he began quietly with his back to the bed, "my father once found me tormenting a boy from the village. I thought I was better than he. I was rich. He was not. He lived in the village, I in the hacienda. My father was powerful. His father was nothing. I was Paenitentia. My ridicule made him cry and my father beat me for it."

  "My father used to beat my sister regularly with his belt," Faith sympathized in a whispered thought, "Hope protected me. He only beat me once," she confessed. "That was right before I ran away."

  Lucien paused to consider pursuing her comment. It was the first time she'd mentioned her past in anything but the most cheerful way. He knew there were things there that needed to be exposed, but decided now was not the time. Faith was ripe for other, more important things and he wouldn't be deterred from his path. He might never get another chance.

  He smiled to reassure her, hoping she would hear the smile in his voice. "No, querida, you misunderstand. My father's punishments were never harsh, a quick cuff or swat at most, more to make me pay attention than cause pain. He had never beaten me before and if truth be known, what he gave me that day was far from a beating except in my child's eye." Lucien smiled at the memory though he hadn't smiled back then. "He didn't do it out of anger, hummingbird. He did it so I would always remember what he said and I have. All these years later and I still remember."

  "The People are our lifeblood, Lucien. Without them, we could not live the life we lead. Without us, their clan would not survive. They would have to disband to find work. They would forget. They would lose their heritage and heritage is everything. It is their pride in who they are.

  "We have much in common with the People. We both honor our heritage. It is our duty to do so," he told me and then he said, "De noche todos los gatos son pardos. When the lights are out, all cats are grey. It's an old saying and I've heard it many times since, but that was the first. It means we all look the same in the dark. We all are the same in the dark."

  Lucien moved away from the window to the bedside lamp and twisted the little switch to off before turning to the woman he'd grown to love. He crawled back onto the bed and curled himself behind her.

  "Maybe so," Faith admitted, still refusing to uncurl or look at him, "but we also know in our hearts that come the light, regardless of the color of their fur, some of those cats will go home to cuddle and purr with loved ones while others are too damaged by the feral lives they've led to ever make the connection."

  Dito, sleeping in a ball at the corner of the bed, lifted her tawny head and snarled. It was difficult to tell if the little cat agreed or disagreed or had merely been disturbed by Lucien's foot.

  "You, hummingbird, are anything but feral," he said with a small chuckle.

  "I know, but I'm damaged." Faith closed her eyes against her tears and, as always, her fingers went unconsciously to the scars on her cheek. They were a constant reminder of the scars no one could see.

  His hand gently covered hers and stopped its movement. Those scars meant nothing to him. It was time to show her how much the woman wearing them did.

  "Keep your eyes closed, querida. Let yourself become a grey cat, just this once."

  "I can't," she whispered in his mind and repeated, "I'm damaged."

  If Faith meant to turn him away, she failed, because in that whisper Lucien also heard the faint sound of longing, a glimmer of hope. His lips kissed the cloth at her shoulder.

  "Turn to me, hummingbird. Let me take away your heartache. Let me help you heal the way you help others. Let me show you what I feel before you turn me away."

  Faith turned to Lucien knowing that this, above all others, was going to be the most painful mistake of her life. She loved him and while her body responded to his kisses and gentle caresses, she didn't know if she could ever respond to the final act of love. What if she couldn't go through with it? Worse, what if she could? Lucien said the scars on her cheek meant nothing, but what of those he discovered elsewhere? What would he think of her then?

  "It's only a kiss, hummingbird," Lucien told her gently as he raised himself over her stiff and frightened body. "We've kissed before and you enjoyed it. We both did."

  His first kisses were feathery light, covering her eyes and cheeks and chin. He lingered over the freckles that had blossomed on her nose and he felt her begin to relax under his gentle, but playful attentions.

  "These freckles," he chuckled, "delight me. I can't see why some women object to their presence. I wish you had more so I could follow their trail to wherever it happened to lead."

  His lips slid over her cheeks and along the line of her jaw to her throat where his finger tugged the neckline of her sleep tee into a vee. He felt her stiffen again and he stopped his kissing, but didn't release her tee. Instead, he held it out from her body and blew a stream of hot air into it, pleased when he felt her quiver, but didn't push him away.

  "I saw on
e run away down there," he told her, "It begs me to follow."

  Faith forgot her fear long enough to give a short giggle. This wasn't the serious and straightforward lovemaking she expected. His kisses made her feel as they had before. They made her smile and long for more.

  "Freckles don't run," she said. Silly as she knew she sounded, Faith wanted to keep this moment alive.

  "That one did. I'm sure of it, but I shall have to follow it later," he said somewhat sadly, "For now, there is a pair of lips begging much more loudly for my attention."

  His mouth descended on hers, warm and inviting, but he made no demands until she responded with a warmth of her own. He had all night. The world be damned. All that mattered was this bed and the woman in it.

  Faith kissed him back. It was, after all, just a kiss, a memory to be made. There would be time enough to worry about the other. When she opened her lips to him, she surprised herself with a little moan of pleasure as his tongue invaded the sanctuary of her mouth. The kiss became longer and deeper and more heated and when his hand strayed to her breast, she felt that heat through the covering cloth and issued another small moan.

  She didn't notice that the sound of her moan was no longer between shared minds. It was real and the sound of it assured Lucien that her earlier whisper of his name was real, too, and not a figment of his dreams. She had given him the gift of her voice and that gift was more precious than gold.

  While one hand caressed and kneaded one lovely breast, he left her lips to pay his homage to the other. Through the thin cotton of her tee, he suckled her, drawing the bud into his mouth and teasing it with his tongue. He felt her body tighten again and he released it, not wanting to push her too far, too fast. He almost laughed aloud when her back arched in search of his withdrawing mouth and he gladly obliged her body's blatant request.