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  “Better than nothing,” he said, taking the can from her and adding some to his own mug.

  They ate in silence, which made Creed more nervous than when Chiana was talking a blue streak. Either she had finally accepted the situation and his authority or she’d used her extended time in the tub to hatch a plan he probably wasn’t going to like. He suspected it might be the latter.

  His suspicion was confirmed after she filled her fork with the last of her hash, slid it into her mouth and settled back in her chair.

  “I’ve been thinking,” she said.

  Creed tensed, waiting for her to say more.

  “I still think I should go it alone. The worst that can happen is that I end up as a handmaiden to a bunch of dead warriors. The best is that I go one-on-one with the thing that’s chasing me and win.”

  “You can’t win. Not here anyway.”

  “Aha!” Chiana pounced on his last words. “You are planning on more than wandering underground until we’re both dead.”

  “You can’t win anywhere, or so Lillian thinks.”

  “She told you that while you were jabbering a dead language, huh?”

  Creed shook his head. “We had a text conversation while you were sleeping at the shelter. She’s done more research.”

  “Oh.”

  The undertone of defeat in that single syllable worried Creed. He wanted to tell her everything Lillian had said and his own only-if-necessary plan. But if Odin’s messenger managed to make contact with her long enough to poke in her mind, Creed would lose the element of surprise. Lillian had said that might be a possibility.

  He reached across the table and pulled Chiana’s hand from her cup. Eyes locked on hers, he said, “Trust me. Please.”

  Chiana longed to do exactly that. She wanted to give the responsibility for her life to this man, to give up and follow for the first time in years. She wanted to lean on him, take his strength for her own. She’d spent every moment since her mother’s death doing what she was supposed to, and what had it gotten her? Some money, some scars and the brick wall she’d been forced to erect around her feelings.

  She and Creed were more alike than he realized. He’d built his own barrier to keep anyone from getting close. She suspected asking for her trust was a hard thing to do. She’d seen a flash of emotion now and again in the two days they’d been together, but he’d recovered quickly, as if being angry or frustrated was a character flaw. Something must have made him that way.

  Gossip flowed through the agency, most of it based on fact. Yet she hadn’t heard much about Creed except that he’d shoot his own mother if the situation called for it.

  She liked the feel of his fingers interlaced with hers. She found herself leaning toward him, swaying toward letting him take charge of her life. He was strong; he could carry the weight for her, take over the need she had to prove herself and the drive that had made her one of the youngest senior agents ever.

  The moment was lost when Creed released her, shoved back his chair and moved to refill his cup. Chiana nodded when he asked if she wanted more as well.

  “So what’s the plan, man?” She was pleased her words sounded flippant.

  “You sleep while I keep watch.” Creed glanced at the clock. “I’ll wake you in a couple hours, and we’ll head for the caves.”

  “I’ll stay awake and you sleep,” Chiana countered. “You haven’t slept since you charged into that old church like Rambo.”

  Creed shook his head. “You can’t stand watch. I have to protect you in case your stalker somehow figures out that we’re here.”

  “Oh, please. I know perfectly well that we were directed to this particular place because it’s shielded against otherworld entities. I figure there’s an alarm system that will wake the dead if any ghosties or ghoulies come calling. I’ll only go to bed on one condition.”

  “Which is?”

  “You go with me.”

  Creed cocked his head and gave a half-smile. “Didn’t I already explain that being deflowered isn’t going to solve the problem?”

  “You are an arrogant ass,” Chiana hissed. “Go ahead and have some more coffee. Pump yourself up so you can’t sleep. When that thing finds us, and I’m sure it will, I hope you have enough energy in reserve to take it down.”

  She stalked off without waiting for an answer. She stepped into the first bedroom she entered and slammed the door behind her. Still fuming, she pulled off her clothes. Wearing nothing but the cotton panties, she slipped beneath the covers of the double bed, punched the pillow more from frustration than to plump it and shut her eyes.

  At the tiny squeak of the door opening, she feigned sleep, making her breaths shallower against the pillow. The next sound she heard was boots hitting the floor, muffled by carpet, then the metallic slide of a zipper being undone. She was slightly lifted when Creed’s body settled on the mattress, and she had to fight to maintain the pretense of sleep.

  She almost gave up when he curved his body against hers, their skin separated only by the thin sheet and lightweight blanket. She wanted to settle into the curve of his chest and feel his arms wrap around her. For the first time in a very long time, she wanted to set aside the persona of Chiana, the strong and proud, and be just a woman in the arms of a man.

  If they made it out of this alive, if she stayed here instead of being transported to the other plane, maybe she could have the wish she’d made on her sixteenth birthday when she blew out the candles on the cake a neighbor provided. She still wanted someone to love her, to hold her when life was unbearable and share her body with during the long nights.

  Eyes closed tight against threatening tears, she willed herself to remember who she was and most of all who he was. Every description she’d heard of him included the words “cold,” “hard” and “uncaring.” If he did sleep with her, and that one act was enough to change everything that threatened her, it would be nothing more than a physical act, with no more emotion attached than eating a sandwich or brushing one’s teeth. It would be like shooting a gun or an arrow, one more weapon Creed had learned to use.

  Telling herself that repeatedly, she finally managed to drop off, acutely aware of the man beside her.

  * * * *

  Mick managed to get back to his place without throwing up or driving into oncoming traffic. Back at his apartment, he swung the truck door open and kept himself from falling on his face by grabbing the armrest. The pounding in his head blurred his vision and dulled his thinking. He staggered toward home and sanctuary without realizing he’d left the truck door open and the keys in the ignition, not even hearing the steady ding-ding-ding of the warning.

  The raven landed on the top of the open door, ignoring the noise. He tilted his head and watched Mick as he wobbled down the sidewalk. Irritation filled him.

  Rhori had expected this man to be stronger. His shoulders were wide; his bulky body that of a warrior. His mind had been sharp when Rhori possessed him, yet he seemed to be oblivious to all around him now.

  Rhori knew he could only inhabit this man once more before the vessel of flesh and bone would be useless. He needed a new host, different than the husk he watched. In this strange land, the size of a man mattered less than the strength of his mind. Perhaps this weak one could lead him to that he sought. Cawing softly, Rhori stretched his wings and flew to a window ledge. There he would rest while the unworthy one slept.

  Chapter Ten

  Caroline had spent an unusually quiet night, her sleep filled with sweet dreams and not the nightmarish images that sometimes came. She wondered if the new medicine she’d been taking was finally beginning to work. She felt like a guinea pig, taking part in the clinical study, but the agency had arranged it. Her bosses still believed her problems might be solved with the magic of modern pharmaceuticals.

  Whatever the reason, she had no intention of wasting this day or this feeling. She was working the dinner shift, filling in for someone who’d called off. But it was barely noon; she had hours befor
e putting on her apron and rubber-soled shoes.

  “Caroline, sweetie!”

  The call in a high, slightly wavering voice came as soon as she stepped outside. Caroline walked over to the low picket fence that marked the property line to greet her neighbor.

  “Are you going to the store, dear?” she heard before she could say hello.

  The question came from behind a row of bushes that showed evidence of being in the middle of a trimming. Caroline shouted back, “Drugstore, library and grocery,” as she waited for the person attached to the voice to appear.

  She fought back a gasp when her neighbor stepped out from behind the greenery, well-used clippers in hand. Hazel was nearly eighty, although she looked a good ten years younger, and as spry as some people half her age. She also bragged to everyone about her good health.

  “Never been in a hospital in my life except to visit,” she told Caroline the first time she met her. “Born at home, see the doc once a year so he can poke me and take some blood, and I ‘spect I’ll go like my parents did, fall asleep and never wake up.”

  Caroline imagined Hazel would go that way. She’d never seen her anything but hale and hearty.

  Until today.

  She cursed the ability she’d been born with, a genetic gift that skipped generations so that Caroline inherited it from her grandmother while her own mother moved through life blissfully unaware of anything but what she could touch, feel, smell or taste. She didn’t see the auras like Caroline and Gran did, wasn’t able to know by the color what part of the body was in distress.

  She wasn’t able to see death.

  “Whew, sure is hot today.” Hazel pulled off her wide-brimmed cotton hat and began to fan her face. “The temperature usually doesn’t bother me, but I’m feeling it today.”

  The blue that outlined her body grew brighter in that moment, with the deepest color just above Hazel’s left temple.

  Cardiovascular, most likely an impending stroke. The damn medicine wasn’t working after all. The pills were supposed to deaden the part of her brain that made her psychic as well as suppress the memories that became her nightmares.

  “Honey, you okay?”

  Hazel was at the fence now, reaching over to feel Caroline’s forehead with the back of her hand. Caroline forced herself to stand still despite the tiny almost-electric shocks she felt emanating from Hazel’s fingers. She had to get her to a hospital or live with a heavy load of regret when the older woman was found dead.

  “I’m a little blue,” Caroline said, realizing after she said it how ironic her words were. Hazel truly was blue.

  “I wondered if you’d like to have breakfast with me,” she continued. “One of my customers said the hospital has just remodeled its cafeteria. She said it has French toast to die for, with cinnamon sprinkled on top and real maple syrup.”

  “Oh, my favorite,” Hazel said. “My mother used to make it for me on my birthday or when my brothers were mean to me. Maybe I will go with you. Let me change my clothes.”

  “You look fine.” Caroline didn’t want to waste any time. “It’s not like we’re going to see anyone we know.”

  “Well …” Hazel looked down at her bright yellow capris and matching polo shirt. “I suppose this once I can go in my at-home clothes.”

  * * * *

  The luck that usually eluded her was on Caroline’s side this morning. Traffic was sparse, and she caught all but one light on green. Even better, the hospital was offering health screenings in its lobby in honor of some disease or another. Under the pretense of worrying about her own blood pressure, she coaxed Hazel into a chair first. She held her breath while a nurse wrapped the black cuff around her arm, guessing from the nurses’ tight face that Hazel’s blood pressure was far too high.

  “It may be this cuff,” the nurse said in a reassuring tone. “Sit right here and I’ll get one of the others to take it.”

  While another nurse came over, Caroline quickly called Hazel’s daughter and suggested she meet them at the hospital. Tucking the phone back in her pocket, she returned to Hazel’s side.

  When the cuff reached its maximum expansion, the blue surrounding the elderly woman gained a black tinge. Caroline watched the visitor’s parking lot through the lobby windows, relief flooding through her when she saw Hazel’s daughter get out of a red sedan.

  Despite Hazel’s protests, the decision was made to admit her for observation. Caroline left before Hazel could scold her or the daughter thank her for worrying about her mother. Her hands were tight on the steering wheel as she drove home. What if she was wrong and all the expensive tests they’d been talking about showed Hazel was fine?

  Or worse, what if she was right and whatever was wrong with Hazel was too far advanced to be fixed?

  She longed for Gram’s comforting presence. She’d felt so alone since Gram’s death a decade earlier, adrift in a world where if anyone shared her unwanted talent, they didn’t talk about it. She wanted to be normal. She’d wanted to learn that friends and family were at death’s door through a phone call and not a shroud of color.

  When the tears came, she wasn’t sure if she was crying for Hazel or herself. She’d believed her ability was a good thing until Haiti, when she’d learned the true cost of knowledge.

  Her tears continued unabated as she unlocked her front door and walked straight to her bedroom. Kicking off her shoes, she pulled the comforter over her and curled up in the middle of the bed, fully clothed, seeking solace the only way she knew how.

  Alone. Always alone.

  * * * *

  Creed’s thrashing brought Chiana to the edge of consciousness; his hard slam of an arm across her body brought her fully awake. Mutters came from him in a hoarse, low voice filled with alarm and fear. She wiggled to the edge of the bed, pulling herself into a ball against the headboard. She was afraid to leave. He might think she was one of the monsters they fought and go after her. She knew she might die before this whole thing was over, but she didn’t intend for it to be tonight.

  His mutters became shouts, and she realized he was speaking in a language she didn’t understand. It wasn’t the dead Latin he’d used with Lillian but rather a dialect. She listened intently hoping to hear some word, any word, she might recognize, but it was futile.

  She gasped as his arm snaked out and his hand latched on her leg. She tensed, ready to take him on if a fight was what he wanted. She was perplexed when his fingers moved down and circled her ankle, his fingertips working against her skin as if he was fastening something. Or maybe unfastening something, she realized, like a shackle. Caught in the dark undertow of his dream, he believed he was releasing her.

  Releasing someone, anyway. Someone who understood the words he spoke and who must once have been saved from some force Chiana didn’t want to imagine.

  His fingers soothed the skin where the imaginary band had been, so gentle and unexpected that she felt a prickle of tears. She held her breath as his hand moved to her face, still gentle as he caressed her cheek.

  “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, still caught in sleep. “So, so sorry.”

  Chiana raised her own hand and slid her fingers into his hair as he laid his head against her chest. Who did he think she was? A woman he loved, maybe. Or a female partner.

  Creed sighed against her, his body slumping as he turned from her. She moved her hand down his jaw and across his shoulders, driven by a need to console him. When he relaxed against the mattress, she went with him, curling against his side. Whether she was warding off his fears or her own, she wasn’t sure. She just knew she was tired of being alone.

  And so, she suspected, was he.

  Surrounded by the artificial darkness of the drawn shades, Chiana allowed herself to sleep. Her leg entwined with his, and she rested her head on his chest, skin on skin.

  * * * *

  The high-pitched beep of his cell phone’s alarm brought Creed immediately awake. Chiana was warm against him, her breath soft against his flesh. With the
arm that wasn’t holding her to him, he managed to shut off the alarm without waking her up. He knew the right thing to do was slide away, get dressed and figure out what to do next.

  He wasn’t good at the right thing.

  He lowered his head and touched her lips with his. They were firm and soft, the way he’d imagined. He was about to pull away when she became a partner in the kiss, her hand reaching out to cradle the back of his head as her lips parted to allow his tongue to meet hers. She sighed when he broke the embrace only long enough to adjust her body against his, a knee slipping between her thighs.

  The next kiss was even sweeter. Sensation flowed through Creed, overtaking his cautious common sense. They were supposed to be like this, skin against skin, bodies molding together in an intimacy that seemed completely natural. He wanted her; he needed her. They were meant to be together, now and through eternity…

  No, no, he shouldn’t do this. With a pain that was almost physical, he pulled away from Chiana and grabbed the sheet. Wrapping it around himself, creating a barrier between his body and her touch, he sat up on the side of the bed and buried his face in his hands. Desire roared through him, intensifying when Chiana pressed her cheek against his back and whispered, “Why did you stop?”

  He twisted away before he did something they’d both regret. Standing up, moving to the other side of the room to put as much distance between them as possible, he said in a harsh voice, “It’s sure as hell not because I want to.”

  “Then come back to me.”

  “I can’t.” Creed kept his back to her, not wanting to see the invitation her body presented.

  “Why?” The plaintive plea in her voice opened an emotion inside him Creed had thought lost, the longing for a human connection.

  Silence hung between them; he wanted her to speak again. But she didn’t. Finally, he took a deep breath, turned toward the bed and said, “When I make love with a woman, I want it to be because she wants me. Not because her body is jacked up from some secret formula, or because she’s been bound to me by an archaic spell.