Kiss the Night Good-bye

by Keri Arthur

  "Oh. Yeah.” Her gaze skated across the room before coming back to his. “Nothing else?"

  "Other than the fact there didn't appear to be a struggle of any kind."

  "How...” she stopped, swallowing. “How can you tell that in all ... this?"

  "No blood or skin under the fingernails."

  "Oh.” She went even paler, if that was possible. “Can we go now?” she asked quickly.

  He relented and stood to one side. She ran out. He caught up with her as she stopped in the middle of the road, sucking in great gulps of night air.

  "You don't appear to have a strong enough stomach to be hunting the likes of Dunleavy."

  Her smile was slightly bitter. “Monsters don't bother me as much as some of their deeds."

  "Then why hunt monsters?"

  She snorted softly. “Because the man I love insists on hunting them."

  "And he lets you? The man is a fool."

  She looked at him, a strange sort of smile touching her lips. “He's not a fool. He just made a good choice."

  "If you were mine—” He stopped abruptly. He had no right to be saying such things when Christine lay rotting in the ground, her death not yet avenged.

  "Let's get you back home,” he said coldly.

  Her gaze searched his for a moment, and then she picked up her skirts and began walking. “I'm not staying in that house tonight."

  The thought of her staying at one of the hotels made him cold. “Where then?"

  His voice was sharp, and she looked at him, amusement playing across her lush lips. “I've arranged to rent a room from one of the rangers."

  "And will the ranger be there?"

  "No. He's staying at the Wheaten Hotel."

  "Good."

  She chuckled softly. “For a man who doesn't trust, and who claims to have no interest, you're acting a little proprietary."

  He was, and he had no idea why. “You appear to be the only decent woman in this town. I have no wish to see you hurt, that's all."

  Her eyes twinkled almost merrily in the darkness. “Then you'll accompany me to my new lodgings?"

  His gaze went to the surrounding hills. Dunleavy was out there somewhere. As was Kinnard. If he was escorting this woman, he wouldn't be out there finding them and exacting revenge. But, on the other hand, she appeared to have at least some of the answers he needed. Answers that just might help in catching the fiend.

  He met her gaze again. “If you promise to answer my questions."

  "I'll answer them, but I don't promise that you'll like or understand the answers."

  More riddles. This woman could have been vampire trained. He glanced at her house, noting there was no movement or life inside. “It's safe,” he said, stopping at the door. “I'll wait here."

  She didn't argue and was back within a few minutes with two heavy bags. He grabbed them both, slinging one over his shoulder and carrying the other. “Where to?"

  "Five houses down from the corner of King and Prospect."

  Which was about as far away from the center of town and the drunken miners as you could get without straying into the hills. At least he wouldn't have to worry about louts harassing her while he was off hunting Dunleavy.

  They walked through the dark streets in silence, though the night itself was far from quiet, with the miner's revelry singing through the darkness.

  The ranger's house was in better shape than most in this town, though like the rest of the houses on this street, it could have used a good coat of paint. He followed her up the steps and stopped.

  "I cannot go inside,” he said, offering her the bags.

  "The ranger gave his permission for you to cross his threshold.” She opened the door and tossed the bags inside.

  He raised his eyebrows. “I'm not sure it works secondhand."

  "There's only one way to find out.” She stepped to one side and waved him through.

  He frowned, but walked forward. Nothing slapped against him with the force of a hammer. Energy did caress his skin as he walked through the door, but it was a warning that the barrier was in place, nothing more. And at least it meant other vampires could not cross this threshold without invitation. He walked into the middle of the room and turned around.

  "I have lived several hundred years and never knew an invitation could be granted from a distance."

  She smiled as she closed the door and flicked on a switch. Brightness bit into the gloom. “Proving that even old vampires can learn something new.” She picked up one of the bags and made her way toward the dust-covered table. “You want to take off your shirt so I can tend to that wound of yours?"

  "I came here for answers, not medical help."

  "So you'll get your answers while I tend to the wound.” She patted the back of a chair. “Sit."

  "I will not sit, and I do not want the wound tended. Why did you say that woman resembled you when she obviously did not?"

  She sighed and gave him the sort of look a wife would give a stubborn husband. “Because this is not my natural form. I'm using magic to cover what I truly look like."

  "Yet you said your magic won't work in this town."

  "This type of magic does."

  He studied her, not sure whether to believe her or not. “I feel no magic."

  "Yet it is here, working. On me and on you."

  The woman was definitely mad. Either that or she was trying to drive him insane. “There is no magic at work on me."

  "No?” She raised an eyebrow, her gaze challenging. “Care to test that?"

  "How?

  "You take off your shirt, and I'll take off mine."

  His gaze swept down her lush form, and longing surged through his veins. He clenched his fists against need and said, “Did Dunleavy send you here to seduce me? Is that your game?"

  She rolled her eyes. “If I wanted to seduce you, I think I'd be offering to show you something a little sexier than my back."

  Back, front, it didn't matter. It was a part of her and innately seductive. “So you're not trying to seduce me?"

  "Right now, no. Later, yes."

  He couldn't help a smile. “I thought you didn't believe in free samples?"

  She raised an eyebrow. “I don't. Before this night is out, you'll agree to work with me."

  He didn't bother refuting her statement. He'd probably only be wasting air anyway, as she wasn't likely to believe him. Stubborn and this woman were old friends, he suspected. He glanced at the door, in half a mind to walk out and leave this crazy woman alone. Yet he couldn't, and he didn't know why. That made him wary—of her, and of his own attraction. And of the way it seemed so right, so natural, and yet so wrong.

  "How does this magic work if I cannot see or feel it?"

  "The magic I speak of comes in the form of symbols and pictures entwined around our spines."

  "There is nothing on my back but scars I received from the last time I met Dunleavy."

  "Want to bet those scars aren't scars?"

  "You are crazy, aren't you?"

  She merely smiled. “Go close that blind for me."

  She pointed toward the window to his left, and after a moment, he obeyed. Her reflection filled the grubby pane of glass, and he watched, mesmerized as she began undoing buttons. A moment before her creamy flesh was revealed, he yanked down the blind and took a deep breath. It did little to cool the fever of his imagination. The itch to caress her warm skin once again...

  "Okay,” she said.

  He turned around. She had her back to him, and he let his gaze drink in the slender curves for a long moment before he noted the weapons strapped to her wrists.

  "The witch is well protected,” he said softly, fiercely glad of that fact.

  "I told you I could defend myself.” She glanced over her shoulder, eyes sparkling with amber fire in the bright light. Odd how the green had completely disappeared. “And I certainly did not strip to show you that."

  "No.” He dragged his gaze to her spine. “There's nothin
g there."

  "Come closer. It can only be seen at certain angles."

  He obeyed, touching her creamy shoulders, turning her towards the light. Something glowed briefly along her spine—Celtic symbols, combined with images that resembled goddesses of old. He held her still and ran his fingers across the drawings. Her skin was warm under his touch, the needle fine lines even warmer. Power tingled across his fingertips, a heat that was somehow pleasant, almost welcoming.

  "There is nothing like this on my back,” he said, allowing his fingers to trail down to the base of her spine. A quiver ran through her, and he snatched his hand away from the temptation to explore further.

  "Take off your shirt and let's take a look.” She pulled her shirt back on, but didn't fasten the buttons, so that when she turned around, the folds of heavy fabric stirred, revealing tempting glimpses of paradise.

  He pulled off his shirt and turned around. Her touch played across his shoulder for a moment, pressing lightly against the rough bandages he'd placed there earlier. He winced. “I did not strip so you can investigate a wound that will heal well enough by itself."

  "It may heal, but you'll have a scar if you don't let me treat it."

  "I don't care about scars."

  "I do.” Her touch trailed to his spine, her fingers so warm, and somehow so familiar, against his skin.

  "No symbols,” he said, voice rough, “as I said."

  Her hands were tracing patterns along his back, sending longing surging through his veins. He'd never reacted to a woman this strongly before. This was more than desire, more than mere lust. This was need.

  It was almost as if her touch was as vital to his life as the blood he drank every other day.

  He didn't know her. It had to be a spell of some sort. Had to be.

  He stepped away from her caress and spun around. “Now that you've seen the truth, how about telling me the truth?"

  She crossed her arms. The action caused the top of her shirt to puff out, and his gaze was drawn to the revealing swell of her breasts. God help him, he wanted to caress those creamy mounds, wanted to caress her, kiss her, taste her—but it was wrong. So wrong. He had no idea why. He only knew he couldn't give in to this craziness.

  "I've seen the truth,” she said, her voice soft and so sexy it seemed to tease his blood into a fever. “But obviously, you can't. Come with me."

  She foraged in her bag and pulled out a small mirror. Then, without another glance, walked toward the door at the back of the table and disappeared down a hall.

  He glanced at the front door. He'd never considered himself a coward, and he had never run from any challenge. But right now, he was beginning to think that's exactly what he should do. This woman called to him in so many ways, and on so many levels, that it was almost frightening. He'd lived a long time, had served his time in purgatory more than once, and had long ago resigned himself to companionship rather than love. A few hours in this woman's company had him thinking that his heart might not be as far out of reach as he'd thought. And yet, instinct insisted he couldn't touch her, no matter how powerful the attraction..

  He'd survived many a dark and dangerous time by listening to his instincts. He wasn't about to abandon them now.

  "Michael?” She appeared in the doorway again, eyebrow raised in question. “Do you want the truth or not?"

  He wanted the truth, but he had a feeling he wouldn't be getting it. Or at least, he'd only get part of it. But he followed her down the hall and into a small bathroom that held a bathtub, basin and a mirror.

  "Turn around so that your back is facing the mirror."

  He did so, and she handed him the small mirror she'd pulled from her bag. “Now use this to look at your back."

  "All I see are scars."

  She nodded. “But watch what happens when I touch them."

  She placed a finger against his skin and began to trace the outline of one of the scars. Her finger was warm against his skin, her touch sending waves of energy tingling across his nerve endings. After a moment, the black and blistering skin began to disappear under her caress, becoming lines and symbols similar to what had been on her back. Her hand moved on, revealing the symbols entwined around his spine. As her touch moved, the symbols faded, becoming ugly scars once more.

  "What game is this you play?"

  "No game—or at least, it's not my game, but Dunleavy's."

  "If Dunleavy had been near me, I'd have killed him. Or he would have killed me."

  "Really? So how long have you been in Hartwell?"

  "Four days?"

  "And how did you get here?"

  He frowned. He couldn't honestly say. Just as he couldn't say how he got the bullet wound. “What has this got to do—"

  "Everything,” she cut in. “Dunleavy wants you here for the same reason he wants me here. You and I killed his brother. He wants his revenge, but he also wants to bring his brother back to life, and to do that, he needs a certain sequence of events and the main players in place. You and me."

  Her words were nonsense. Utter nonsense...

  Yet, memories stirred. An image of this blonde, a knife held high above her head as lightning arced around her. An image of that knife plunging down, deep down, into Dunleavy's chest. The spew of blood that faded into the images of two men—one long and lanky, and the other bald and thick set, like a boxer. Men he'd seen here, in Hartwell, and somewhere else. Somewhere he should remember, but couldn't. Pain hit him then—searing, blinding pain—and suddenly he was falling to his knees as fire burned into his shoulder and blood pulsed down his arm and spread like a river across the pavement...

  Darkness surged, taking his sight, trying to take his mind. He hissed, closing his eyes, fighting the darkness, fighting the pain.

  "Michael.” Her voice was soft, insistent. He couldn't see her, but the fire and the darkness weren't stopping her voice. Nor did it take the flame of her touch as her hands pressed into his shoulders, as if she tried to hold him down and hold him still. “You have to fight the spell. You have to remember."

  "Remember what?” he ground out. “That Dunleavy killed the woman I loved? I remember that, and I will kill him for it."

  "Did you truly love Christine?"

  "Yes.” No. He'd cared, as much as he could care about anyone these days. But Dunleavy had taken her life, and for that, Dunleavy would pay. “What does it matter to you?"

  "Christine has been dead for close to a century, Michael. It is not her death you mourn."

  "No?” He laughed harshly. “Woman, you don't know what you're talking about."

  "Don't I? What does Christine look like?"

  "Brown hair, warm amber eyes, slender—"

  "Really? And here I was thinking Christine had black hair and green eyes."

  He frowned, trying to shake off the darkness, the pain, the impact of her words. “No—"

  "Yes."

  "No.” He pushed her away violently, heard a thump and slight gasp of pain. Her pain hit him like a club, filling him with remorse, filling him with anger. But with her closeness gone and her words silenced, the blackness receded. He took a deep, shuddering breath and opened his eyes.

  She was in the hall, struggling to rise. Her gaze met his, amber eyes filled with wariness and anger. Yet, oddly enough, he sensed that her anger wasn't aimed at him.

  She puffed out her cheeks, expelling air, and wiped a hand across her forehead. It was then he saw the lump, and the bruise already beginning to darken her fair skin.

  Cursing his own carelessness, he rose and walked over to her. “I'm sorry,” he said, offering her a hand. “I did not mean to lash out at you."

  "Yes,” she said, placing her hand in his, “you did."

  He grimaced and helped her rise. He didn't release her hand immediately, because he suddenly needed her touch like a drunk needed his next drink, and her hand was safer than anything else. “Well, yes, but it wasn't so much at you, as at the pain."

  "That's the spell inked onto your back
at work. He doesn't want you to remember anything more than what he's given you."

  "Even if I believe everything you say, how would my remembering what happened affect Dunleavy's plans?"

  She sighed and rubbed her forehead wearily. “I honestly don't know."

  There were dark shadows under her eyes and redness in them. He touched a hand to her cheek, gently running his finger down to the lips he longed to sample again. “Perhaps you should sleep. We can talk more in the morning."

  Her gaze searched his for a moment, and a sweet smile touched her mouth. “I don't want to sleep alone tonight."

  Her breath whispered across his hand, her lips warm and moist against his fingertips. The scent of cinnamon and honey and life teased both his senses and his memories, but those memories remained tantalizingly out of reach.

  "I cannot,” he said softly, releasing her hand and stepping back. “It would not be right."

  With little more than a fingertip against his chest, she stopped his retreat and drew him back just as easily. “Why wouldn't it be right? It's what I want, and it's what you want."

  "I came here to avenge Christine. Nothing more, nothing less."

  "You avenged Christine long ago. This is about you and me, nothing else."

  The pulse at her neck was little more than a wild flutter, a rhythm that called to the darkness in him. A rhythm that called to the man. Her nipples were pebbles pressing against his chest, her skin so warm that sweat formed where their bodies brushed.

  He wanted her, there was no denying that. But he'd spent a lifetime denying desire, and this was no different than the need for blood. He might want her, but it wasn't right to take her.

  Still ... He wasn't made of stone. He was flesh and blood, and even after all these years, there were some desires that could not be completely repressed.

  He leaned forward and kissed her sweet mouth—softly, seductively. “I cannot,” he whispered, his lips so close to hers he could taste her every breath.

  "I am not who you think I am,” she said, her voice a husky whisper that tore at his resolve.

  "I do not know who you are,” he replied, stepping back. This time, she didn't try to stop him. “Right now, I'm not sure of anything more than the fact that Dunleavy is out there, and I have to find him."