Demon's Kiss (10 page)

Ciarran glanced at her. There was glass in her hair. Hell. He’d done that to her, taken her through a double-paned window. Slowly, he reached out and freed the glittering shard from a silky brown curl.

“What is it you need, Clea?” He would get it for her. Anything. Everything.

“My purse. It has my money. And today’s the third Saturday.” She said the words as though they ought to mean something to him.

Dark eyes wide, soft pink lips slightly open, glossy hair tumbled and mussed, she looked like she’d just climbed out of bed. And he definitely should not be letting his thoughts drift in that direction.

Her attention dropped to his bloodied shoulder, and she frowned. “I should see to that. Clean it, at the very least.”

“Unnecessary.” Ciarran passed his hand over the wound, cleaning it, partially healing it, repairing the shirt that covered it. He still felt the pain, still needed to heal from the inside, but magic did a good job of clearing out the worst of the wound’s appearance.

“Wow. Okay. Wow.” She swallowed. “That was . . . wow.”

Her reaction made him smile. She faced demons and
hybrids
without flinching, but he used the most basic magic, and she was impressed. Maybe he ought to drag a rabbit out of a goddamned hat.

He returned his attention to the road, knowing that if he kept looking at her, her sexy, pouty mouth, her rumpled curls, her big, expressive eyes, he would pull over onto the wide, paved shoulder that ran along the side of the road, drag her across the center console, into his arms, into his lap, put his mouth on hers, his tongue inside her.

Christe.
She was making him crazy.

And she deserved better. She was grieving for her dead grandmother. She was facing a reality so far outside her normal experience that it was as if she’d just been launched into the stratosphere. Her world was coming apart at the seams, and he was coming apart with sheer, hard-edged lust.

Wonderful.

One would think that in a thousand years, he would have learned some self-control. But that was the problem. He did have control, perfect control. Only, apparently it was less than perfect, because five minutes alone with Clea Masters wiped it out completely.

It had been a long time, years, since he had been with a woman. Not that he didn’t enjoy sex. He did. But joining with a woman by necessity required a certain deliberate vulnerability, a lowering of his guard, an exposure he was unwilling to chance.

After he lost his hand, he’d taken that chance only once, and the memory of the girl’s terrified face as she shrank from him, pressing herself back against the headboard, made him sick. She had invited his touch, pleaded for it. In an unguarded instant he had failed to hold the darkness at bay, and she had somehow sensed what he was. He swallowed, forcing the ugly recollection to the furthest corner of his mind.

The memory was a bitter tonic, the only saving grace the fact that he’d held it together long enough for her to get the hell out of there before he had a chance to do any harm.
Would
he have done her harm?
Could
he? Questions he could not answer. The experience was not one he had chosen to repeat. After that, all his energies remained focused on maintaining his rigid control, on holding back the venom that writhed inside him, seeking release.

Then, last night, he had seen Clea Masters, watched her move, fluid grace and bright intent, seen deep inside of her, valor and intellect and sheer guts. He’d been amazed at her courage, the way she’d grabbed a plastic blade to fend off a demon, the way she’d seized her own fear and wrestled it to the ground, climbing on his motorcycle despite a terror so strong he could feel it pulsing from her in waves. He had wanted her with a near overpowering urgency.

His desire for her had only grown. Sitting here next to her, the scent of her—vanilla and a little bit of caramel—teasing his senses, he wanted to taste her again so badly it hurt. And that had nothing to do with darkness and everything to do with light. Her light. The one that shone from her soul. Goodness and kindness and mercy. An old cliché, but one that applied. Clea Masters knew nothing about the malevolence, the evil, the soul-sucking ugliness that was his constant companion.

He flexed his ruined hand, aware that she was watching him, waiting, expecting some reply.

“What’s so special about the third Saturday?” he asked, shifting gears and lanes to pass slower traffic.

“I have to feed them. Louise and Maggie and Brian. Everyone. They’ll be waiting for me. Expecting me. Gram and I have been doing it for years.” Tucking a curl behind her ear, she paused, then pressed her palm against the dash and leaned forward to look out the front window, a frown creasing her brow.

“Okay.” He had no idea what she was talking about, but it was obviously important to her. Which, oddly, made it important to him.

“There.” She pointed at the big blue Wal-Mart sign. “Let’s go shopping.” Her voice was high, too bright. Definitely too brittle. “Oh, my purse . . . I have no money.”

His Clea sounded like she might be getting a little too close to the edge. He pulled into the parking lot, eased the car into a spot, turned off the ignition. “I have money,” he said, and waited.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “I know I should be telling myself that I
can
do this. Force myself to keep it together, you know?” Her hands were clasped tight in her lap, the knuckles white, as though she was afraid to let go, her body language saying she was determined to keep it together, no matter what.

He recognized that in her. Valiant, calm, controlled Clea. Maybe that was part of the attraction. Part opposites attract, part like to like.

She hadn’t lost it when a demon attacked or when
hybrids
broke into her home. Because that was how she coped. She dealt with it, whatever “it” happened to be.

Just like she dealt with the crash that had killed her parents. Just like she dealt with nursing her grandmother through a cancer that took years to release her finally into death. Clea didn’t lose it.

He liked her. Admired her.

Wanted her.

And she was looking at him with those big dark eyes, so serious, so scared.

“You’re okay, Clea.” There. He was certain he’d sounded reassuring.

“No.” She pursed her lips, considering his assertion, then shook her head. “No, I don’t think I am, and I don’t think I
can
do it. Because there’s just too much . . .” A breathy sigh escaped her, and she narrowed her eyes as she stared at him. “My car’s gone, isn’t it?”

He opened his mouth to reply, struggling to keep up with this odd conversation.

Holding out her hand, palm forward, she stopped him. “No. Don’t answer. I know it. Those
hybrids,
they stole it, right? They used
my
car to hunt me down in
my
home. I saw it parked out front of my building.” She made a sound of annoyance. “And it’s only insured for collision. And the rent’s late on the apartment, because I had to use it to help pay for the funeral. And I can’t pay tuition. But actually”—she paused, sucked in a breath—“that’s good, because I don’t want to be a doctor. I really don’t. Which means I don’t have to pay the rest of the tuition, because I’m not going back.”

She stopped, stared straight ahead out the front window. He figured she was having a bit of a meltdown. Justifiable, in his estimation, and he wanted to gather her close, and hold her, and chase away her demons. Literally.

“And I don’t believe in magic, never have,” she continued, the words pouring out of her. “At least, not since I was eight years old and my parents were killed in a car crash. What kind of fairy godmother lets that happen? Only,
you’re
here, and you’re not human. You’re—what?—some kind of sorcerer, right? Which means that either I’ve had a psychotic break, or you’re real, and those guys were real, and that thing from last night, that demon, was real, and there’s something weird going on with me and with you. I felt it back there. In the kitchen.”

She looked at him then, her body vibrating with tension, her eyes wide. “And I
can’t
do this, not right now. I can’t look for explanations, because I don’t want them. I’ll want them later, in an hour. In a day. But right now, if I’m going to stay sane, I just want to do something
normal
. I just want to
cope
. Not watch you slice up a demon with filaments of light. Not jump out my fifth-story window and land without so much as a scrape. Right now I just want to go into
that
store, right there, and shop for enough groceries to make hot soup and sandwiches for the people who live in Box Town, just like Gram and I have done every third Saturday for the past eight years.”

Slumping back in the seat, she followed her rapid-fire monologue with a deep, cleansing breath that filled her chest, then whooshed from between her puckered lips in a rush.

Box Town. The cardboard box homeless community under the Bathurst Street Bridge. She wanted to go feed the homeless. Even though she had nothing left.

“Okay,” he said.

“I’ll pay you back.” Her breath hitched, and she laid her hand on his arm. His muscles jerked as he felt the contact rocket through him. She stared at him for a long minute. “Please. I need to do this.”

“Okay.” He had no intention of accepting repayment, but this was not the time to argue. For a second, he tried to imagine what it was like to be her, at this moment, in this place, everything she knew about the world tossed in the trash like so much garbage, while she tried to come to terms with a new reality.

She was unbelievably courageous.

And all he wanted to do was keep her safe. The gut-wrenching yearning he felt every time he looked at her was probably her biggest peril, which meant that the best way to keep her safe was to get her as far from him as she could be. Turn her over to Darqun or Baunn or some other sorcerer.

Yeah. Like he would let that happen.

One of your own betrays you, sorcerer. One of your own summons the Solitary.
The dead demon-keeper’s claim ensured that trusting Clea’s long-term safety to another was not an option.

Closing his eyes, he felt the pull of her, the draw on his magic, their close proximity offering a unique complication. She could drain him, tap into his power, and she had no clue.
Christe,
the energy she’d pulled from him back there in her kitchen had been enormous, and she had no idea how to channel it, how to guide it or pull it back. She’d just siphoned it from him, and then let it burst out of her like fireworks. If he let her drain him, how the hell was he supposed to protect her? And if he kept her with him, how was he supposed to keep her from sucking him dry?

He glanced out the window, toward the crowded supermarket, then back toward her. “That’s fine, Clea. We can get whatever you want.”

A part of him wished he could give her what she must
really
want. Her life back the way it was before she found out that monsters actually
did
live under the bed.

Looking into those amazingly luminous brown eyes, he couldn’t help himself. He reached out, let the side of his finger graze her cheek. Her skin was soft, so soft.

She inhaled sharply but didn’t pull away. Her eyes widened, darkened, and he trailed his finger down along her cheek, her jaw, her throat, feeling the wild leap of her pulse.

His gaze drifted to her mouth, her lips parted and moist, and he felt a hard kick of desire. He wanted her, any way he could get her. Wanted her enough that he’d risk draining his power just to have her.

He was in so deep, he didn’t have a hope in hell of swimming his way to the surface. He was centuries old. Old enough to know better. Old enough to recognize primitive attraction. And this wasn’t mere lust. Which made it something more, much more. Something incredibly dangerous.

My Clea,
his soul whispered again, more insistent than before, and this time he didn’t ignore it. This time he let the feeling wash through him, terrible and terrifying and wonderful, and he slid his fingers to the base of her skull, tangling them in the silky curls that tumbled to her shoulders.

She wanted those strong, muscled arms around her, holding her close, keeping her safe. He’d kept her safe. Last night. Today.

And he’d turned her world upside down.

She needed air. She needed out. She needed . . . him.

Oh, God.

“Don’t kiss me,” she whispered desperately, knowing that she wanted him to, wanted it almost more than she could bear. The way she ached for him was terrifying. She’d been attracted to men before, sure. A teenage crush. A mild attachment. There’d been a doctor at St. John’s. He’d asked her out after they met in the cafeteria, but she’d hesitated, somehow unsure about him. A few conversations over tepid cups of coffee, and she’d known he wasn’t for her.

But this,
this
was different. Ciarran was different. She felt like she had
known
he would come, had waited for him her entire life. How crazy was that? Fate. Karma. But still, she felt the choice was hers, to accept him or reject him. Her free will.

She couldn’t believe she was actually considering having a relationship with a sorcerer.

Relationship? Could she call it that?

She was the queen of safe. She’d spent her entire life trying to build a nice, secure environment where the most exciting thing that ever happened was when the garbage truck changed pickup days to accommodate a long weekend.

In the space of a day and a night, that had all changed. She’d just leaped out a flipping window to escape inhuman assassins.

Ciarran definitely was
not
safe. He lived in a world of demons and
hybrids
and magic. And suddenly, so did she.

He was watching her, his expression inscrutable, his hand resting on the nape of her neck. His fingers were strong, massaging her muscles lightly, drawing a sigh of pleasure from her lips.

The power that had arced between them in the kitchen was dormant now. She felt only his touch, warm, enticing. The frightening spike of electricity, of magic, was absent, as was the shimmer of darkness she’d sensed deep in his soul.

That darkness frightened her. It had woven through his light, then through her, into her. And it had left her afraid.

“Please don’t kiss me,” she said again, stronger, firmer. “If you kiss me, I won’t stop. And I can’t do that again, feel that again, the light, the heat. The pain.” She drew a slow breath. “The shadows inside of you that flow into me.”

His eyes widened. The most stunning eyes she had ever seen. Multifaceted, rich with color, vivid against the golden cast of his skin and the dark frame of his lashes.

“Are you afraid of them? Of the shadows?” she asked, and at his faint hiss of breath, she wished she hadn’t. She wanted to think he wasn’t afraid of anything.

Sometimes, deep inside, she thought she was afraid of everything.

He pulled away, dragging his fingers along the curve of her jaw, her lower lip, and then he broke the contact entirely. She sighed, half-disappointed, half-grateful for the respite.
Don’t kiss me.

Because he would steal her breath, steal her sanity, steal her heart.

Oh, man, she was in such trouble.