Moonshadow

Chapter Eight

When they reached the Mini, they discovered the puck, still in the form of a monkey, waiting inside.

No doubt Robin found opposable thumbs more useful than dog paws. After setting the box and the luggage into the boot of the car, Nikolas stood back and watched Sophie drive away, then he walked down the side alley where he had parked his Porsche and followed.

He didn’t like how she had looked. Underneath the thorough dousing of blood, her skin had turned chalky, the freckles standing out in stark contrast, and the shadows underneath her spectacular eyes were as dark as bruises. She didn’t complain, but she moved like she was in pain, stiffly and off-balance.

He pulled into the property drive and parked beside the Mini. By the time he had switched off the engine, Sophie was already at the entrance of the cottage, unlocking the door by the light of her slim flashlight.

He pulled his go-bag out of the car and retrieved her luggage from the Mini’s boot. When he stepped inside an aged but comfortable-looking kitchen, she had turned on all the lights and stuck her head into a cupboard.

“There’s some way to turn on the water heater,” she said, her voice muffled. “The solicitor told me how to do it, but I don’t remember.”

“Sit down,” Nikolas ordered.

That made her emerge so she could glare at him. He could almost hear her say it: Thanks for asking, asshole.

“Seriously, sit,” he told her impatiently. “I’ll take care of the water heater.”

She must be feeling even worse than he thought, because she straightened to ease into one of the four chairs at the wooden, farm-style kitchen table.

He moved quickly through the cottage, taking stock. The rest of the furnishings looked as aged and comfortable as the kitchen. There was a musty, unused smell in the place and a slightly damp feeling.

The sitting room had a gas fire, and he paused to light it so it could chase the chill and the dampness out of the place. There was a minimally furnished bedroom with a bare mattress, a halfway-decent bath with a washer/dryer unit tucked in one corner, and the kitchen, which was actually the largest room in the cottage.

The refrigerator needed to be plugged in. After doing so, he set the bottle of milk in it and checked the contents of the box that Maggie had given them. There were eggs as well as bread, an orange and an apple, a package of cheese, and sugar for the tea, along with a few packets of guest soaps.

“You don’t have to stay,” she said.

He glanced at her. She sat with her forehead propped in one hand, and she looked as weary as anyone he had ever seen. “Yes, I do,” he told her. “There may be more Hounds on the hunt. I won’t have you getting hurt or killed, not when you can be of use to me.”

She laughed and immediately winced. “That’s breathtakingly callous, even for you.”

“So it is.” He had also regretted it as soon as he had said it, but he didn’t bother to apologize. Not only was it true, but he also didn’t think she would believe him if he did. Rummaging through the kitchen cupboards, he found and filled a teakettle and set it to warm on the stove. “In a half an hour or so, you’ll be able to take a comfortable shower, but in the meantime, there’ll be warm water here in a few minutes to wash up at the kitchen sink.”

“I don’t care,” she said as she rummaged through her toiletry bag to locate a small travel-sized bottle filled with liquid. Pushing to her feet, she moved to the sink, turned on the faucet, and stuck her head under the running water, swearing at the cold.

He laughed silently. They had only been acquainted through the course of a very long evening, but she had already surprised him in a multitude of ways. The water ran dark pink as it whirled down the drain.

“If you can stand it for long enough, I’ll help you wash the blood out of your hair.”

“Please,” she said through gritted teeth. “But hurry.”

She thrust the small bottle at him blindly, and he took it to squirt some of the liquid into the palm of one hand. Working the shampoo quickly through her hair, he massaged her scalp until there was a thick lather. The water ran cold enough to make the bones of his hands ache, and he could feel her body shaking.

“Hold on,” he said. Twisting, he grabbed the full teakettle. It hadn’t had a chance to get very warm, but it had to be better than sticking her head under the tap again. Carefully he rinsed the dark stream of wet hair, marveling at how the curls sprang up when he ran his fingers through the long strands. As he worked, she scrubbed at her face and hands.

The act of helping her to wash her hair seemed inappropriately intimate. It was as velvety soft as it looked. He wondered what her skin would taste like at the nape of her neck. He wondered what she would say or do if he bent to find out.

But no, he didn’t have to wonder very much at that.

Thanks for asking, asshole!

Biting back another smile, he found he was reluctant to draw the task to its end, but then the kettle was empty and there was no reason to keep her hanging over the sink any longer.

“Thank you,” she told him, turning her head to one side to squeeze the excess water out of her hair. “My clothes feel vile enough, but somehow it was worse having blood all over my head and in my hair.”

“Stay put. I’ll get you a towel.” Down the short hall, he found the linen cupboard and brought back a towel for her to wrap her hair in.

When she stood, her face was no longer pale but a deep, pleasing pink, although the shadows under her eyes were still too dark. “If any more of those werewolves crash in here, I’m not going to be much help,” she said. “I’m jet-lagged and exhausted, and I pulled something deep on my bad side.”

He nodded to himself. It was pretty much what he had thought. “I’m going outside to lay some aversion spells around the area. If we’re lucky, the rest of the night will be quiet.”

“Quiet would be good.” Her face tightened. “Those things hardly paused when Arran shot them.”

“He probably didn’t have silver in his bullets,” Nikolas told her. “Most gun owners don’t. The bullets are expensive, and a lycanthrope running wild is pretty rare. Most of them are disturbed by the change, and they’re all too happy to cage themselves during full moons.”

Her expression lit with interest. “Silver bullets affect them?”

“Yes.” He paused, reluctant to look away from her mesmerizing eyes. “They’re still tough to kill, but if you put a silver bullet between their eyes, it’ll kill them well enough. Also, they can’t heal at a magical rate from wounds inflicted with silver bullets or weapons.”

“Good to know.” She clenched her hands. “I’m never going to be able to get a gun legally here, am I?”

“As you’re not a UK citizen, it’s highly doubtful. You would only warrant one if you needed it in some official capacity, and the government approved of that reason. Some demesne leaders and their entourages are granted firearm certificates.” He cocked his head. “Why, do you want one?”

“Oh my gods, yes. Like I told you, my spells are only useful in close quarters.” With an explosive sigh, she said, “The water has got to be at least bearable by now, don’t you think? I’m going to finish cleaning up.”

She had gone head-to-head with monsters that were over twice her size and weight, and she had done it without hesitating. He had seen her race alone toward the pub. It was one of the bravest things he had ever seen anybody do.

As she turned away from him, he caught her by the arm. “What you did back there—”

“Jesus, don’t touch me there!” she cried, yanking away from his hold. They stared at each other. She whispered, “I had one active spell left.”

He clenched. She grabbed his hand and turned it over, stroking his fingers and palm and turning it over. After a moment, she sagged and looked up at him again with relief brimming in her eyes.

She said, “Thank God. The spell didn’t recognize you as an enemy.”

He gave in to his impulse at last and cupped her chin, stepping close so that he could feel the heat from her body. It was a subtle warmth that touched him in places he didn’t understand and had long denied existed. “That’s because I’m not your enemy, Sophie.”

As he watched, she licked her lips. Watching her tongue slide over the plush, pink curve of her lower lip caused him to harden and woke a hunger he hadn’t felt for anyone in years.

Years.

What the hell was happening to him? He jerked away and stalked toward the door. He snapped, “I’m going to lay down those spells while you shower.”

“Right,” she said without looking at him. “I’ll make it quick, so there should be some warm water left for you.”

He didn’t bother to answer that. Instead, he stalked out the door, breathing hard in the cool, damp night air. He had no business feeling any kind of desire for her. She was someone who was possibly of some use to him, nothing more.

She chose to stay when she shouldn’t have. Earlier, she had chosen to engage with the Hounds—and she shouldn’t have. She was also choosing to defend the puck, and by gods, she had already been warned multiple times she shouldn’t have done that.

And he had his mission. There was nothing more critical, more important, than making sure he did everything he possibly could to keep his men alive, to try to find a way back to Lyonesse, and to take down Isabeau and Morgan any way he could.

He had no interest, and no time, for anything else.

After a few minutes, the unwelcome tightening in his groin eased.

He got down to business and set a series of aversion spells around the property, grimly ignoring the ghosts in his head and the ancient memories of the battle that tried to resurface. Whether or not the aversion spells would be useful was anybody’s guess.

The effect of an aversion spell could be directly measured against the intelligence and determination of the creature that encountered it. At least if something tripped a spell, Nikolas would feel it, so he would have advance warning before anything got too close to the cottage.

Also, there were no direct scent trails to lead any questing Hounds to this location. The only way the Hounds could possibly learn to come here would be if they spent some time in human form, questioning people in town. Nikolas and Sophie were probably safe from attack for one night. Possibly not for any longer, but he felt fairly confident about tonight.

Finally he felt like he had done what he could. Only then did he pause to text Gawain. Hounds attacked the pub. Sophie, Robin, and I have moved to a different location.

Gawain replied almost immediately. Damn. Was anyone hurt?

Four casualties. We’re fine. Nikolas paused, then typed more slowly. Sophie ran into the pub to help before I could stop her. She saved lives. She’s a brave fighter.

He paused and then, choosing not to overthink it, hit send.

Gawain’s reply was a few minutes in coming. I’m glad she’s okay. I filled the others in earlier, after I left. We’re all moving into position so that none of us are too far away. Call us for backup if you need to.

I will.

The conversation finished, Nikolas pocketed his phone. He paused to consider the shadowed manor house sprawling over the shattered land magic. It was an ugly, useless building, sitting on a cursed location. The gods only knew what Sophie saw in it.

Turning his back on the manor house, he strode back to the cottage.

Inside, everything was quiet. Sophie’s luggage had disappeared, while his go-bag still rested in the corner nearest the door. The puck was nowhere to be seen. Walking through the small place, he saw that the bedroom was darkened and the door half shut.

Gently he pushed the door open wider to look inside. As it creaked on its hinges, Sophie’s weary voice said, “I don’t recall inviting you in here.”

Thanks for asking, asshole.

Neither of them had to say it.

She had taken a blanket from the linen cupboard and curled up on the bed wrapped in it, atop the bare mattress.

“Too tired to make the bed, I see,” he said quietly.

“I’m clean, dry, warm, and horizontal. And alive. It’ll do for tonight.” She shifted under the blanket and grunted. “The bed can get made tomorrow.”

He had spent far too many nights with much the same reduced survival list, and he almost turned to go, but that quiet sound of pain, and the memory of how stiffly she had been moving after the pub battle stopped him.

Slowly he said, “I know you’re still in pain. I can help you and give you the chance to get some real rest.”

For a long moment he thought she might ignore him. Then she sighed, and the curled knot under the blanket unfurled. “Come in.”

He pushed the door open the rest of the way and prowled in. That was when he saw the puck. Robin had been perched on the headboard. His dark eyes glistened in the shadows. What was he thinking?

As Nikolas approached, Robin slipped down off the headboard and disappeared into another part of the cottage. With a frown, he watched the puck leave. He would never understand Robin, no matter how long either of them lived.

Then he stood by the bed, looking down at Sophie. Even in a shadowed room as dark as this, her eyes gathered every particle of light and magnified them, gleaming like stars. He could see she was uncomfortable with him standing over her, so he nudged her thigh. As she shifted, he sat on the edge of the mattress.

“Watch yourself,” he said. Reaching over to shade her eyes, he turned on the bedside lamp. Underneath his palm, he saw her wince.

“Is the light really necessary?” she said grumpily.

“I don’t know.” He removed his hand and watched her squint.

“How did you not get splashed with blood?” she muttered, eyeing his shirt with resentment. “I almost drowned in it.”

“I was moving fast, while you were on the floor. I got some splashed on my legs.” He angled his head. “Show me where you hurt.”

She grimaced. “Just assume if it’s between the top of my head and the bottom of my feet, it hurts.”

“You said you pulled something in your side. Was that the place you got shot?”

With a sigh, she replied, “One of them.”

She had been shot multiple times. He took in a deep breath and let it out slowly as he absorbed the news. When he was confident that he could sound calm and steady, he urged her, “Show me.”

She sighed again, this time impatiently, and flung back one corner of the blanket. Underneath, she wore a spaghetti strap tank top and matching shorts that were very short. They showed off the long line of her slender, muscled legs. She pulled up one corner of the tank, and he saw the scar.

It was a skewed starburst of ridged, livid flesh under the right side of her rib cage, still new enough that the redness hadn’t had a chance to fade. Not questioning his impulse—not thinking about anything other than reacting to the visual evidence of how her life had been in jeopardy—he touched the ridged scar lightly with the tips of his fingers.

Watching him, she said nothing, did nothing, although he could tell by her clenched tension that something about revealing the injury was difficult for her.

“Where else were you shot?” he murmured.

“Right thigh, left shoulder.” She clipped out the words.

Now that she had mentioned it, he could see the edge of the scar peeking out from the tank top, in the flesh of her shoulder, just over her right breast. So her body had been strained on both sides tonight.

He could also see large bruises and contusions on her legs and arms. No doubt she had them on her back as well. She had hit the floor hard, and the Hound had landed its full, considerable weight on top of her.

This time, without asking, he took the edge of the blanket and lifted it farther to reveal the jagged slash on her leg. The scar was a violation of that beautiful, creamy cinnamon-speckled skin. She would have needed surgery on all three wounds. He had known she was still recovering somehow, but this was more, and far worse, than he had imagined.

With gentle firmness, he laid one hand flat on her abdomen, covering the scar. With his right hand, he covered the scar on her shoulder. She took hold of his wrists but didn’t try to force him away.

Then in his native tongue he said the invocation for healing, and Power flowed into her until her body glowed with it. Connected to her as he was, he could sense her pain lessen. Torn, inflamed muscles eased, and the massive bruises faded. They didn’t disappear totally and still showed like faint shadows of mortality darkening her skin. But the deep, livid red was gone.

When he was finished, he didn’t lift his hands from her body. Instead, carefully pressing down, he leaned over her and met her wide, questioning eyes, his expression hard.

“You had no business running into that pub, Sophie Ross,” he said, quietly stern. “No business, especially with serious injuries that are still so fresh.”

She said in a steady voice, “Fuck you, Nikolas whatever-the-fuck your last fucking name is. I was going to say thank you, but then you ruined the fucking moment.”

“Sevigny,” he said.

He could see in her expression that, exhausted or not, she had clearly meant to rip into him some more for his high-handed attitude, but at that, she paused, thrown off stride.

“It’s my last fucking name,” he told her. “Sevigny. And you say ‘fuck’ too often.”

Something sparked in her eyes, and he could tell she almost—almost—smiled. “Fuck yeah, I do. And it’s none of your fucking business how often I say ‘fuck.’ Nor is it any of your fucking business if I choose to run into a pub because people are being attacked, if I rescue a dog who’s been abused, or if I decide to fucking jaywalk just because I feel like it—”

“You’re actually maddening,” he said on a note of discovery. “You. Madden. Me.”

She rolled her eyes. “Do I look like I care? Let me lay out a few more things for you. Don’t assume I give a shit what you think. Don’t expect me to believe the world revolves around you—because it doesn’t, bucko. It doesn’t. And don’t think just because you helped me to feel better—thank you, by the way, I really do feel better—that I’m going to start paying attention to anything you say to me.”

“Oh dear Lord and Lady,” Nikolas said. “Cease talking.”

She frowned at him, and from the uncomprehending expression in her eyes, he realized he had slipped into the old tongue again.

“Mmm-hmm, and when you talk like that?” she said, drawing a circle with a forefinger in front of his face. “You just sound stuck-up, because you know I don’t understand a single word you’re saying.”

He glared at her. “Stuck-up.”

She nodded. As tired as she looked, the dark shadows under her eyes had lightened, and her eyes sparkled with irate feeling. She repeated, “Stuck-up.”

What an idiotic, immature thing to say. From out of nowhere, a bolt of laughter shot up. He stamped on it hard. She was being ludicrous, and what’s more, he suspected she knew it and didn’t care.

Underneath his hands, her skin felt luxuriously soft and warm. He could feel the rhythm of her breathing. It felt like a heartbeat. It felt alive and vital and as necessary as air or water.

She was something so foreign to how he had grown accustomed to living he didn’t even have words to express it. He thought his shell of isolation had become immutable, irreversible, but with a few words and that diamond-like fire in her eyes, she shattered it.

So much hunger came roaring out from the same, deep, mysterious place the laughter had come from. So much. His fingers tightened on her soft flesh. She opened her mouth, and he could tell from the saucy spark in her expression that she wasn’t done telling him off.

Instead of listening to any more of her lecture, he came down on her, torso to torso. “You’re a damn mouthy broad,” he said and kissed her.

Her curved, generous lips were as soft as they looked. As his body came over hers, the sensation of her lying underneath him satisfied something deep and primal in him.

He could feel the curve of her breasts, her narrower, slighter bone structure. Her warmth burned him, and that mouth, that mouth, he had never felt before the kind of hunger he did as he conquered that soft, lush mouth.

After a moment of shocked stillness came the biggest surprise of all. She tilted her head and kissed him back, molding her lips to his, shifting as he shifted, giving way as he pressed hard for entrance and plunged his tongue deep inside her. He could feel every single one of her fingers as she threaded them through his hair in a caress that sent a shock of pleasure through his entire body.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had been touched with any kind of sensuality or affection. That part of his nature had been cold and unused for so long it roared to life with the strength of a tidal wave.

Hungrily he ate at her. He ravaged her mouth as if it were the first meal he had seen in years. Another shock of awareness bolted through him as her tongue dueled with his.

She lifted her head off the pillow in order to kiss him back, following him up eagerly as he tried to ease back to take a breath, to take stock. Her fingers worked at the back of his neck, wordlessly asking him for more.

It brought him down again. Cupping her head in both hands, he kissed her wildly while his cock stiffened into a hard, painful spike of hunger that he pressed against the curve of her hip. Her legs shifted restlessly, entwining with his.

Just like that, he was crazy to discover what she felt like naked. As he cupped her breast, he could feel the jut of her nipple through the thin material. It would be as plush as her mouth and just as pink. Maybe a darker, dusky rose.

It would taste fantastic. She had generous breasts. The curve fit beautifully into his hand. He molded the lush mound of flesh while he licked at her mouth. Her breath was coming fast, soft, urgent puffs of air against his heated skin, egging him onward.

Her fingers closed around his wrist, and she turned her face away from his kiss. “Stop,” she said, her voice strangled. “This—we—I shouldn’t be doing this.”

Nikolas froze. His heart pounded as he tried to make sense of what she was saying.

Then her words sank in, and they leveraged a glimmer of sanity into his overheated, lust-filled brain.

Her heart was pounding as hard as his, and they were both breathing heavily, the sound ragged in the quiet room.

Her expression held a wry vulnerability he had not seen in her before. Carefully he lifted his hand from her breast and told her, “I had not intended for this to happen.”

“No,” she said. “Of course you hadn’t. Neither had I. You are not one of my short-term goals, and you have no part in my life plan.”

“And you are certainly not in my agenda, in any way.” He narrowed his eyes. “I don’t even like you.”

She threw open her arms and let them fall onto the bed. “Exactly! I don’t like you either! In fact, you’re pretty insufferable.”

At that, he cocked his head and glared. “As are you.”

She shrugged. “I’m blaming my part in all of this on jet lag. I haven’t slept in so long everything feels unreal. Why not kiss the hot guy in my bed? It’s all a dream anyway, ha-ha. You’re going to have to come up with an explanation for your own behavior.”

“I have no explanation,” he said between his teeth. “This is inexplicable. You’re a pain in the ass, you make foolhardy, dangerous decisions, and I don’t think you know how to have a normal conversation.”

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly while something darkened in her expression. Something that might look a little like disappointment. “Glad we cleared that up.”

His eyes dropped to watch her lips form the words.

And then there was that mouth of hers, that outrageously sensual, generous, responsive mouth. He bent forward again slowly, giving her plenty of time to respond as he lowered his mouth to hers. She scowled but didn’t push him away, nor did she say anything, and as his lips brushed hers, she lifted up her face to kiss him back again.

This time the kiss he gave her was gentle and fleeting, while his unruly cock throbbed with the most painful hard-on he’d ever had, and all he wanted to do was rip her clothes off and take her until she screamed with pleasure.

As he lifted his head, he told her, “Sleep now. Tomorrow you can show me how to make the colloidal silver and cast the rune.”

A glint appeared in her eye, which was his warning. “Can I? Oh, thank you, thank you! I’m so glad I can do this since I had absolutely nothing else on my agenda for the day tomorrow, other than serving your needs. Asshole.”

Earlier, her insouciance had made him angry, but this time he laughed. When she would have said more, he put his hand over her mouth.

Looking into her angry eyes, he said, “And when you teach me, I am going to get you a gun, along with silver bullets. It won’t be legal, so you’ll have to keep it hidden, but at least you’ll have an effective weapon you can use if you run across another lycanthrope, and you won’t have to rely on your contact spells.”

Her expression changed, the anger vaporizing. As he lifted his hand away, she said, “You’ve got a deal.”

“Get some rest.” He lifted off her, and in the absence of her body in alignment with his, the air felt cold.

It wasn’t cold enough.

As she curled in the blanket, he left the room, pulling the door closed but not latching it. He grabbed his bag from the kitchen and stepped into the bathroom to take a biting cold shower. Only then did his erection finally subside.

Afterward, he grabbed a blanket from the linen closet and went to the sitting room. The settee wouldn’t be the worst place he had used for a bed.

Robin perched on the arm of a chair near the gas fire, his skinny, hairy arms wrapped around himself. When Nikolas entered the room, the puck glanced at him, then went back to staring at the fire.

Nonverbal, Sophie had said. Possibly trauma induced.

As Nikolas stretched out on the settee and plumped a pillow under his head, he said quietly, “Good night, Robin.”

Just before he closed his eyes, the monkey slipped off the chair and loped back to the bedroom.