Mona Lisa Craving m-3 Page 4

  Though he was dead, and that organ of life, his heart, dead within him also, love flowed from Halcyon in abundance, in wise generosity, in a river of plentitude.

  “My lord,” Dontaine said, bowing his head down in a deep gesture of respect. “You have my promise. I shall guard her with my life.”

  Halcyon smiled and stopped at the treeline where the forest ended and a wild-grassed meadow began. The cab was parked along the roadside twenty yards distant. He raised my hand, pressed a kiss there.

  “Mea ena,” Halcyon murmured tenderly. “Stay safe for me.” Then he was gone, striding across the meadow. We watched until the cab drove away. An odd sight to see—the ruler of Hell being driven away in a taxi.

  “He called you his wife.”

  My heart tumbled a bit at the word Dontaine used—wife. I substituted it for something I was much more comfortable with. “I agreed to be his mate. To have it publicly acknowledged at High Court this next session.”

  “And me?” Dontaine asked.

  Halcyon had given his blessing and his assurance that I could not pass the demon darkness inside me to Dontaine through sex.

  Dontaine had given his word that he would protect me with his life, with his blood, whatever I desired of him. So generous were the men that I loved. How could I be any less so?

  I took his hand—so different it was from the one I had just held, with nails blunt and short, skin pale, palm callused—a warrior’s hand. Yet they both felt right in mine. With our fingers clasped together, I turned toward home with lightness in my heart and a smile on my face.

  “Dontaine, do you happen to know what a condom is?”

  He shook his head.

  “Let me tell you about them.”

  THREE

  I AWOKE TO bright daylight with a wolf’s painful howl still echoing in my ear. An animal’s call normally wouldn’t wake me from a sound slumber. We were surrounded by a vast acreage of woods and swampland, after all. But it hadn’t been an anonymous cry I had heard. It had been Wiley’s, the Mixed Blood boy no older than fourteen or fifteen who had grown up wild in the swamp. His howl had vibrated with rage and fear, its sound like that of a wild animal caught in a trap.

  I threw on jeans and T-shirt, secured my daggers, one silver, the other not, and crept down the long-winding staircase, avoiding all the creaky spots until I reached the front door. The others slept on undisturbed, and I did not call them because the sunlight that fell softly upon my skin would burn theirs. An hour under its rays would redden their skin. Four hours under it, and they would die. But not I. My one-quarter mixed human heritage ensured that while I had all the Monère’s strengths, I had none of their weaknesses. Besides, with the sun high in the sky, I had nothing to fear. The most dangerous threats to me—another Monère or demon dead—were all tucked away in darkness, caught up in their dreams. I wondered for a moment if demons dreamed. Wondered if I hadn’t dreamed, myself, imagining that cry. Then it came again. The long, mournful howl of a wolf in distress. Wiley.

  I ran east, from where the sound drifted, and covered the distance quickly in loping bounds and unchecked speed. I found him by his heartbeat, pounding rapidly, half-hidden behind a fallen tree trunk, his wrists and ankles bound by ropes. He grew tense when he saw me, and twisted wildly, making muffled sounds under the gag tied over his mouth.

  “Shhh, Wiley. It’s okay, it’s just me,” I said, trying to calm him, but he only struggled harder. I frowned as I approached him, and wondered if human hunters had done this? If so, why? The Mixed Blood boy was dressed in clothes I had bought for him, wearing at least the trappings of civilization. He was not half-naked or as obviously wild as he had been when we had first found him. His hair had even been trimmed. By Tersa, no doubt. Why, then, would someone have tied him up like this? And how had a human managed it even? For that matter, why had mere ropes held him? He was more than human strong, young though he was. Then part of the puzzle became clear when he twisted and I caught sight of the silver handcuffs half-hidden beneath the thick rope. Silver weakened the Monère. Made them only human strong.

  Not humans. Other Monère, I realized too late.

  Something struck me on the back of the head.

  Pain. Splinters of white. Then nothing as darkness swallowed me.

  WHEN I AWOKE, it was to a raging storm. Not just the one in my head, where I had been struck a painful blow, but a real one. A blinding bolt of lightning split the sky, followed almost immediately by a booming crash of thunder. It was almost as if the heavenly gods were having a temper tantrum, a scary one. Fat raindrops pelted the metal roof of the car I was in, and thick sheets of rain hurled itself against the windows. The noise from that was almost as nauseating as the deafening thunder had been.

  I was laid out on the backseat of a car, with metal restraints biting into my wrists. Ropes tied my feet together. Fucking great discoveries, along with the headache. I didn’t know how much time had elapsed, or if the handcuffs were silver or dark demon metal. The first I could break. Maybe even the second now. If I was bound with the latter, I would find out soon enough.

  Two men—two Monère—were in the front seats. I knew this not by how they dressed, because oddly enough they were dressed like humans—less formal. They risked daylight casually, also like humans. From the back they looked like two ordinary men. But I felt their presence, their power, with that unique sensing we had of like to like. The driver was the stronger of the two, with his dark hair cut short and layered in a contemporary fashion. The one beside him emanated less power, felt younger, actually, in a way I couldn’t explain, although both looked like big men from the back.

  Wiley. What had they done with him? With that thought, and a simple flexing of my wrists, I broke free of the handcuffs—only silver, I saw. The ropes around my ankles snapped like threads, and I was reaching for the driver with mayhem and maybe murder on my mind, depending on the answers I beat out of him, when the other man turned and looked at me.

  He was a boy, or rather a young man around my age, in his early twenties. A beautiful one at that, with a long and lean face cut with high cheekbones, framed dramatically by a curtain of dark, longish hair. He looked model pretty, like he should have been gracing the cover of a fashion magazine or maybe flirting with giggling girls in college. Not kidnapping a woman.

  Soft brown eyes stared at me, startled, arresting my forward lunge. Something about those eyes, or maybe the young power I felt emanating from him…Whatever it was, something about the innocence I saw there checked my murderous intent.

  “Dad, she’s awake.”

  Now “Dad” I would have gladly pounded on. He would have been an equal match for me. But not the boy. I opened the door and jumped from the car. Because of the blinding sheets of rain, the vehicle had slowed enough to make the maneuver less dangerous than it might have been at a higher speed. I landed on my feet running, drenched in an instant. There was just flat land and the highway cutting through it, no other cars ahead or behind. The sun had just set, with only a few rays of lingering light, stealing my biggest advantages from me—daylight and human witnesses.

  True night would fall soon, making it much more likely for them to pursue me. Like a bad thought, I heard the car screech to a stop and the doors open. Yup, they were coming after me. But then I fully expected they would. My capture during the daytime had to have been carefully planned—keeping to the shade until they snatched me, and then suffering the bite of the sun, which they had to have felt discomfort from, even through the tinted windows of the car.

  I ran all-out into the nearby woods, the silver handcuffs still hanging from my wrists. I’d only broken the chain between them. I tore the separate pieces of metal off me and flung them away. A quick glance down my side told me they had taken my daggers. No weapons. But that was okay. My strength was weapon enough.

  They closed the distance between us, moving faster than I was because they tapped into their animal selves—used it to fuel their strength while still in their
upright forms, to enhance their senses, increase their speed. I could have done something similar had I not worried that attempting it would bring that tiny demon piece in me out to the fore. It shouldn’t, but the boy’s face…His soft doe eyes flashed in my memory’s eye and I knew I couldn’t take the chance. I didn’t know the parameters or triggers of what I held inside of me well enough to risk it. So I ran unaided. And they inevitably caught up to me as I hit what had probably once been a mild trickling river, but was now a frothing mass of seething water that had almost overswelled its banks. It was more than twenty feet across, something I could have probably jumped. Probably. But I was loathe to do so. The current was strong, and my swimming skills lousy. I turned, ran parallel down along the bank, looking for a narrower point to jump across.

  The father tackled me. I rammed an elbow back into his face and kicked free, springing to my feet, which brought me face-to-face with the boy. Maybe it was the pretty face or the innocence I’d glimpsed in those eyes even though they were no longer that soft, melting brown but a sharp piercing gray now, the eyes of his beast. For whatever silly reason, I hesitated to strike him. Fool, I. Because I saw then what I hadn’t seen before in the car—a black gun holstered at his side, a dagger strapped to his waist, bracelet-bands circling his wrists, protecting his forearms, what warriors of old might have worn centuries ago. He was someone trained in the art of combat, and I should have taken him out, because that very modern gun he wore tipped the advantage over to their side. But he didn’t reach for the gun or jump me as he could have. We froze there for a second, in arm’s reach of each other.

  “Don’t run,” he said with his hands splayed harmlessly out in front of him. “We won’t hurt you.”

  It was his words that broke the spell. He lied. They’d already hurt me. They’d knocked me unconscious, and the blow had not been light. They’d snatched me from my home. Taken me from my people.

  I turned and kicked his father—he’d been gathering himself up off the ground—and knocked him back down. I saw surprise flash in the big guy’s eyes.

  What? Had he thought the elbow I’d rammed into him had been an accident, that the daggers I’d worn had been only a pretty fashion statement? Had he thought I’d just stand there and let them recapture me like a silly, helpless female?

  I darted past him, running upstream. Less than a dozen feet away, a hand caught my arm, and I knew it was the boy who gripped me. Doe eyes or not, I had to get out of there. Big daddy was not far behind him. I turned, struck out at him, and just met air. I struck again, but it was like shadow boxing. A slight shift, a subtle turn of his body, and he slipped out of reach. Each time I turned to flee, his hand grasped me again. Son of a bitch. I had to get in closer to him. Close enough to hit him, make him go down, shake him off me so I could escape. I spun back around into him, and my arm, which he had a solid grip on, unexpectedly twisted back and captured his in turn.

  My touch seemed to shock him still. As if the feel of my body flush against his scattered all his thoughts, rendered useless all his training. I kneed him in the groin, saw the pain flash in his eyes. Saw him go down, and turned to run. And found myself still shackled to him by that hand firmly grasping my forearm. That hand that would not let go of me.

  We tussled on the ground along the bank, fighting each other one-handed, our other hands locking us together. We were both handicapped, and not just by the loss of one arm. We fought each other, but not with the real intent of hurting each other.

  Let me tell you: You can’t fight that way or you will lose. Sure enough, I suddenly felt the ground crumble beneath me, and found myself tumbling down over the edge of the bank. The lower half of my body splashed into the swift-moving water. The only thing that kept me tethered was the forearm grasp we had on each other.

  “Give me your other hand. I’ll pull you back up,” he said, reaching his free hand out to me. I almost took the offered hand. It was the sight of his father coming up the bank beside him that made me change my mind and reminded me once more: Enemies. They’re your enemies.

  I let go of him, and with a powerful levered twist, broke free of his grasp. Had he latched onto me with both hands, I wouldn’t have been able to do that. But it was only a one-handed grip, his other hand stretched out to me. In a one-handed hold, you always have a weak link—the thumb. A hard, concentrated twist there at that point, and it gave as I knew it would. With nothing tethering me anymore, I fell into the raging water.

  The cold shocked a gasp out of me. I had a moment to see the boy jump into the water after me, no hesitation. A moment to worry about him, wonder if he could swim. Wonder if he would float, loaded down as he was with weapons and clothes and those heavy metal armbands. And then the water took me, pulled me under. Washed all thoughts away as I sank down into the icy cold depths.

  It was deep, deeper than my feet could touch. And it kept me sucked down for an interminably long time, sweeping me along in its powerful current. I bobbed up, broke the surface, and gasped in air. Tried to doggy paddle—my version of swimming—in an attempt to keep my head above water. It would have been adequate in a placid swimming pool. Not so in fast-moving white-water rapids. I bashed up against a rock and went down again. Hit another rock underwater with stunning force. I hung there dazed, suspended deep in the water for a few slow-ticking minutes, letting the current take me where it willed, until the need for air tickled my throat. I felt my feet scrape against bottom and pushed up, broke the surface, took in sweet air.

  “Here, my lady!”

  I turned and saw the boy cutting through the water toward me with strong, powerful strokes. This time I was willing to be rescued by him. Would have waited for him had I been able to, but he was too distant, over twenty terribly long feet away, and I was too weak a swimmer to stay afloat for that long. The current pulled me down under again, but this time I fought it. When I surfaced again, he was closer, his eyes that sharp, fierce gray.

  “Hold on,” he cried.

  I tried to. Kicking to stay afloat, I reached for him. Before he could grasp me, our course shifted. We rounded a bend—God, how swiftly we traveled—and I smashed up against another big boulder and went down. I felt the pain reverberate throughout my entire body, felt all the breath whoosh out of me, and tried to grab onto the damn rock. But the slippery, mossy surface was impossible to hold on to, and the current sped me away in an underwater tumble. Dazed and disoriented, I released my last few bubbles of air, watched which direction they floated, and followed them up, kicking and moving my arms sluggishly until I broke the surface.

  I sucked in air, blinked wildly to clear my vision, and felt a hand grab ahold of one of my flailing arms. “Gotcha!”

  Sweeter words, I’d never heard.

  An arm came around the front of me, pulling me back against a hip, floating me up in the water in a lifeguard’s grip. “Just hang on,” he said.

  I took him at his word. My hands clamped down on that arm, holding him securely to me. It uncomfortably pressed the thick metal wristbands he wore into the tender flesh below my breast, but comfort didn’t matter so much as keeping us together. If he lost me again, I would drown.

  I felt his body surge forward as he scissor-kicked, moving us slowly through the water while the current tried to tear me away—how strong it was. I was like a deadweight, something he struggled to pull along.

  “What can I do?” I asked.

  “Can you kick?”

  I didn’t answer him, just proceeded to do so. And it helped, gave added momentum to his one-handed strokes. He moved us across the frothy water at an angle diagonal to the current. Our progress was sluggish compared to how fast we were being swept downriver, but inch by inch, we cut across the stream. Miles passed by before we finally reach the river’s edge.

  I felt his body twist, reach up for something, and we came to a jarring halt. The force of the water suddenly increased twentyfold, pulling my body past him, trying to tear me from his grasp. But he didn’t let go, and neither
did I, even when I was swept beneath the water. I held onto that arm, felt the water rushing over me, heard the frothy force of it beating above me in that odd quiet-loudness that comes when you’re completely submerged.

  I was no longer sandwiched between his hip and arm. Just held by his hand that gripped my shirt, nothing more substantial than that. It was really my hold now on his arm that kept us anchored together. If I let go, my T-shirt would likely rip and I would be pulled back into the rapids once more.

  I didn’t let go. Not even when time passed and I still remained underwater, unable to breathe. His arm strained and trembled. Slowly, with hard and painful exertion, he hauled me out of the water. I took in an explosive breath as soon as my mouth broke the surface, gulped in both air and water, and started to cough.

  “Grab the branch!” he yelled.

  I blinked the water from my eyes, still coughing water from my lungs, and saw his lined, strained face, his arms bulging with the effort of hanging onto me, a wet and heavy deadweight still caught in the river’s powerful grip. He was hanging onto the trunk of a fallen tree half-toppled into the river, his white fingers buried into the thick bark. A thick branch jutted out a foot in front of me. I reached out and grabbed it.

  “Both hands,” he shouted, “use both hands. Pull yourself up!”

  I was loath to release him, to give up that security. What if the branch broke?

  “Quickly,” he gritted, teeth clenched. “I can’t hold on much longer.”

  I saw the truth in his eyes, in his trembling arms. I let go of him and grabbed the branch with both hands. It held.

  I pulled myself halfway out of the water. But getting the rest of me out was like pulling myself out of quicksand. The swift current tugged insistently at me like a jealous lover, reluctant to give me up.