Hotter Than Hell (36 page)

He couldn’t be gone. He just couldn’t.

Only moments ago, he’d been so vital and hot to the touch with his amazing life force. Now he was still and cool.

Shuddering with misery, she took a deep, stuttering breath only to let it out again in a wave of fresh tears.

She was ready to lie down beside him and die, too, when his lips suddenly parted to suck in great gulps of air. His eyes popped open and his chest heaved, bowing his body up and off the ground.

Laura jerked back, watching him writhe in agony, gasping for breath. Her eyes widened and her own heart nearly stopped beating as the scales on his face and neck began to lighten, the colors becoming paler, the bumpy texture becoming smoother. His pupils slowly rounded from slits to a more natural, human shape.

She was too stunned to say anything, too shocked to even move. She simply sat there, legs folded beneath her, arms hanging limply at her side, mesmerized by the transformation taking place in front of her.

Seconds later, the spasms seeming to wrack Dougal’s body stopped and he stilled again, his chest rising and falling slowly. Normally. His lashes fluttered as he blinked a few times, taking in his surroundings.

“Dougal?” She called his name softly, crawling forward to hover over him. Her fingers skimmed his face, coming to rest on the side of his throat where his pulse beat steady and strong. His skin was warmer than before, but not overly so, not burning the way it had when they’d made love.

Swallowing hard, she very carefully lifted the blood-soaked t-shirt she’d used to cover the bullet wound in his chest. The thought of what she might find underneath made her stomach clench, but though the area was red, the hole in his shirt jagged, there was no matching hole in his flesh. She reached out to touch him and was startled to find the spot totally intact.

“Oh, my God,” she murmured.

Pushing up on his elbows, he looked down, then probed the area himself.

“Your eyes…” she told him. They were still a gorgeous, glorious shade of green, but the slits were gone, leaving them as human and normal as any she’d ever seen. “Your scales…”

He raised an arm, studying the back of his hand where the colorful markings used to be fully visible.

Then he lifted that hand to his neck and face, feeling for signs of the scaling he’d lived with for the last hundred years.

“They’re gone,” he breathed, awe and disbelief evident in his tone.

All she could do was nod, her eyes turning damp again at the realization that he was alive and well…

better than well, if his new appearance was anything to go by.

“So is the bullet wound,” she said, voice shaky. “You’re alive.”

Pushing to his feet, he pulled her up with him. The bloody shirt fell to the ground and he quickly shrugged out of his own ruined garment, tossing it aside. His sculpted chest was smooth now, bare and clear, but no less attractive for its lack of iridescent scales.

“I guess throwing yourself in front of a panicked gunman to save my life counted as enough of a selfless act to lift the curse,” she told him with a watery laugh, crossing her arms beneath her breasts, covered only by her white bra, which was now smeared in places with Dougal’s blood. “We’re going to have some explaining to do when Mr. Abernethy gets back with help, though.”

“Let’s clean up a bit, find something else to wear, and figure out what we’ll tell them. My presence alone will make them wonder.”

He turned toward the darkened doorway that led to the underground room, but stopped when Laura made a small sound of dismay she couldn’t hold back.

“What is it?” he asked, cocking his head to look at her.

“Your back.” She stepped forward to run her fingers over the beautiful rainbow of color there, rising out of the waistband of his pants to the right of his spine and curving upwards toward his shoulder blades. It was a peculiar shape, almost like one of those twisting Chinese dragons itself, but absolutely stunning to behold, and looked almost as though he’d had it tattooed there on purpose.

He twisted his body, trying to catch a glimpse of the new markings, which had apparently been left behind as a reminder of the years he’d spent living under the gypsy woman’s curse. His brows crossed as he scowled, a low growl working its way up his throat.

“I like it,” she said, moving close enough to wrap her arms around his waist and hug him tight. “It reminds me of the dragon I fell in love with. And it will certainly be easier to explain than the rest when I take you home with me.”

His fingers feathered through the hair at her temples, tucking the jet-black strands behind her ears as he tipped her face up to his. “Take me home with you?” he asked, humor lacing his tone. “Like a stray cat?”

She shrugged one shoulder, holding his gaze even as her insides turned liquid with nerves. “Or like a lover. Or a husband.”

His eyes, still the most gorgeous she’d ever seen, flashed with heat and desire. “Husband,” he said, testing the word on his tongue. “I like the sound of that.”

He lowered his head to capture her mouth, his kiss burning through her as hotly as it had while he was still cursed and breathing fire.

“So do I,” she whispered when they came up for air. “So do I.”

BROTHER’S KEEPER

Lilith Saintcrow

A SHRILL SCREAM JERKED HER OUT OF THE DEEP well of sleep.

Selene fumbled for the phone, pushed her hair back, pressed the talk button. “Mrph.” She managed the trick of rolling over and blinking at the alarm clock. Oh, God, what now? “This had better be good.”

“Lena?” A familiar voice wheezed into the other end of the phone. He gasped again. “Lena, it’s me.”

Oh no. Not another panic attack. “Danny?” Selene sat straight up, her heart pounding. “Danny, what’s wrong? Are you okay?” Sweat began to prickle under her arms, the covers turned to strangling fingers before she realized she was awake.

“Cold,” he whispered, breath coming in staccato gasps. “Selene. Help. Help me. The book—the book

—”

Another panic attack, it sounds like another one, oh God. They’re getting worse. Selene swung her feet to the cold floor, switching the phone to her right ear, trapping it on her shoulder. “Where are you?

Danny? Are you at home?” She grabbed her canvas bag the moment her feet hit the floor, craning her neck to read the Caller ID display. Daniel Thompson, his familiar number. He was at home.

Where else would he be? Danny hadn’t left his apartment for nearly five years. “Keep breathing. Deep breaths, down into your tummy. I’ll be right there.”

“No,” Danny pleaded. His asthmatic wheeze was getting worse. “Cold…Lena. Don’t. Don’t. Danger

—” The line went dead.

Selene slammed the phone back into the cradle, her breath hissing in. Her fingers tingled—a sure sign of something awful. What was I dreaming? Something about the sea, again. She raced for the bathroom, grabbing a handful of clothes from the dirty-laundry hamper by the bathroom door. Just keep breathing, Danny. Don’t let the panic get too big for you. I’m on my way. She tripped, nearly fell face-first, banging her forehead on the door. “Shit!”

She yanked her jeans up with one hand and turned on the faucet with the other, splashed her face with cold water. She fastened her thick blond mane with an elastic band and raced for the door, ripping her sweater at the neck as she forced it over her head. She had to hop on one foot to yank her socks on, she jammed her feet into her boots and flung her bag over her head, catching the strap in her hair. Just keep him calm enough to remember not to hurt himself, God. Please.

She slowed down at the end of her block, searching for a cab. One down, nine to go. She sprinted across the street. Rain kissed her cheeks and made the sidewalk slick and slightly gritty under the orange wash of city light. Deep heaving gasps of chill air made her lungs burn. Her forehead smarted, making her eyes water.

She crossed Cliff Street, slowing down, pacing herself. Can’t run myself out on the first blocks or I’ll be useless before I get halfway there. If this is another one of his practical jokes I am just going to kill him.

Three down, seven to go. Selene’s boots pounded into the sidewalk. Rain whispered on the deserted streets and along the length of her messy ponytail, dripped down her neck as she crossed Martin Street and cut across the intersection. There were more streetlamps here, she checked her watch as she ran.

Two-thirty. Santiago City held its breath under the mantle of chill night.

The back of Selene’s neck prickled, uneasiness rippling just under her skin.

Why can’t these things happen in the daylight? Or when I don’t have lecture in the morning? This had better be something good, Danny, I swear to God if you’re just throwing another snit-fit I will never forgive you. Never, ever, ever.

Something chill and panicked began to revolve under her breastbone. The back of Selene’s neck crawled. I’m getting a premonition. Her breath came in miserable harsh sobs of effort. Either that or I’m just spooked. Who wouldn’t be at 2A.M. in this busted-down part of town? She set her teeth, grimly ignoring the stitch in her side. Danny. Just breathe, please God, let him remember to breathe.

Don’t let him be in the kitchen, there are knives in there. This sounds like a doozy, he hasn’t had a bad panic attack in at least six months, Christ don’t let him hurt himself.

“Hey, Selene.”

Selene whirled. “Bruce!” she choked, her hand leaping instinctively to her throat. The silver medallion was still under her sweater, warm against her skin. She hadn’t taken it off. “Good God, don’t do that!”

She clenched her hands at her side. If only he was human, I could punch him.

Bruce grinned down at her, canines glittering in the pallid orange light, his eyes glowing just like a small nocturnal animal’s. Beneath his loud polyester sport jacket and eye-searing yellow tie, his narrow spotted chest was pale and hairless. “Don’t worry so much, Lena. I wouldn’t dream of taking a taste.

His Highness wouldn’t like that one little bit.” His lips curled back even more, exposing more gleaming teeth.

Selene’s heart slammed once against her ribs. Taking a long deep breath, she willed her pulse to slow.

Focus, goddammit! Danny needs you, you can’t fight anyone or anything if you’re busy screaming.

“I don’t have time, Bruce,” she gasped. “Danny’s in trouble.”

“I’ll go with you.” Bruce shrugged and peeled his lanky frame away from the streetlamp. He had just been Turned, and still looked almost human.

Almost. The feral glow in his eyes and the quick jerking of his movements screamed “not-quite-normal.”

Still, for a Nichtvren, Bruce was as close to human as possible. He’d just been Turned, so he didn’t have the scary immobility of older suckheads. Small blessing, but she’d take it. “That’s not neces—”

she began.

Bruce folded his arms, the smile gone. “Danny’s under Nikolai’s protection too, Selene. If I let you go over there and get hurt, His Highness will peel off my skin in strips and salt me down.” Bruce shivered, his long pink tongue wetting his lips. “Trust me. I’ll go with you.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sweet sake.” Selene wasn’t about to argue with a dead lounge lizard. He fell into step beside her, long legs easily keeping pace as she trotted up the sidewalk. She glanced down. Black loafers and no socks. All you’re missing is a clutch of gold chains and chest hair. She tried to keep her breathing quiet, pushing down a lunatic desire to giggle nervously. Danny, Danny, I’m on my way.

Don’t hurt yourself .

“I don’t…know what…he’s thinking,” she gasped, speeding up. “I’m…perfectly…safe.”

Bruce managed a high, thin giggle. “Oh, no you’re not, chickadee. You should be glad His Highness took an interest in you.” He didn’t even sound winded.

I don’t need Nikolai’s protection. I did just fine on my own.

Okay, so she didn’t want Nikolai’s protection. She’d rather tap dance naked through a minefield singing “Petticoat Junction.” Just because Nikolai was the prime paranormal Power in the city, responsible for keeping the peace among all the other factions of paranormal citizenry, didn’t mean she would ever kowtow to him. His Highness Nikolai indeed. Just another suckhead come out from the shadows under the protection of the Paranormal Species Act.

Only this one had an interest in her.

Don’t think about things like that. Danny, please be okay. Don’t bite your tongue or cut yourself.

Her bag shifted, clinking when it banged against her shoulder. Steel and salt, the tools she needed to banish anything evil or unwanted; it didn’t pay as well as teaching but God knew there was a need for her talents. She’d been so tired when she got home she hadn’t unpacked, poltergeist infestations were like that. Not very difficult, but messy and draining. She pushed the strap higher. “I don’t need his…

protection or…yours, suckhead.”

“That’s what you think.” Bruce grinned down at her, his words soft and even. “Want me to carry your bag?”

“Of…course…not.” Selene sped up. To hell with pacing myself. Danny needs me.

Selene’s medallion warmed against her skin, reacting to Bruce’s presence—at least, shehoped that was what it was reacting to. By the time they reached Danny’s building, the metal thrummed with Power.

Gooseflesh raced down her body; she choked back a final gasp as she rounded the final corner.

Bruce smirked, letting out a soft little snort of laughter. Selene curled her hands into fists, resisting the urge to claw the smile from his face. Jumping the Nichtvren won’t get you anywhere, Selene. Just ignore him, and concentrate on what matters. Danny, my God, please be okay. Remember the visualizations I taught you.

The tall black-clad shape rose from the shadows lying over the concrete steps. Oh, no. Could this possibly get any worse?

Of course not. Of course Nikolai would show up now. He always seemed to know when there was trouble.

Bruce dropped back behind Selene. At least I won’t have to see that fucking smirk on his face. Danny, please be okay, don’t be banging your head on the wall again. I’m on my way, I’m coming.

Her heart slammed once against the cage of her ribs and her fingers curled into fists. Fire bloomed in her cheeks, spread down her neck, and merged with the growing heat of the medallion between her breasts. She fought for control, ribs flaring as she struggled against hyperventilation.