Bittersweet Blood (26 page)

“Carl, this is Tara.” Graham made the introductions.

“Tara,” Carl said, nodding. He brought her hand to his face and breathed in deeply. “Hmm, I can see why Christian likes you.”

“Well, I hope it’s for more than what I smell like,” she snapped, tugging her hand away.

He let her go and grinned. “I’m sure it is. Now, I hear you want a gun. What’s it for?”

Wasn’t that obvious?

“To shoot things with.”

“What sort of things—big things, little things?”

“Demons,” she said. “I want to shoot demons. And maybe fae.” She thought for a moment. “Make that, probably fae. Does it make a difference?”

“Anything else? Vampires? Werewolves?”

“You never know,” she said. “Ask me again in half an hour.”

He grinned again. “Come on, let’s go down and get you kitted out.”

Five minutes later, Tara stood in front of the gun racks and stared at all the weapons. “Wow, what a lot of guns.”

She ran her fingers over a few and came to a halt at one particular large impressive pistol. “I really like the look of this one.”

Carl ignored the comment and moved along the rack, finally selecting a small pistol. He turned it over in his hands before handing it to Tara.

She took it from him and looked at it dubiously. “It’s not very big.”

“Has no one ever told you that size isn’t everything?” Carl said.

Graham snorted behind her, and Tara scowled. “That’s great coming from someone who’s six-foot-three,” she grumbled.

“It’s a Sig Pro 9mm,” he said. “And I can give you bullets for that thing that will blow a demon into tiny little pieces.”

“Really?”

“Of course, you need to be able to hit something first.”

She held the gun out as she had seen people do on the TV, holding it at arm’s length and sighting down the barrel. “How hard can it be?”

“Let’s go see. The shooting range is right next door, unless you want us to go out and find you a demon.”

“The range will do for now.”

Tara followed him into a long room almost bare of furniture.

Carl took the gun from her. “You need to insert the magazine, like so. Then to load the chamber you pull back the slide, like this” —he demonstrated— “and release it. Easy. Here you go.”

He removed the magazine and bullet and handed the gun and ammunition to Tara. She slotted the magazine, chambered the bullet, and grinned. Carl grasped her wrist, and pressed her hand downward so the gun was aimed for the floor. “Which leads us to the most important rule of all. Never aim your gun at anything you aren’t willing to kill.”

“Oh.”

“Take out the bullets. We’ll have a go without them first.”

He stood right behind her. “Now,” he murmured into her ear, “grip your pistol firm in both hands, but keep your finger off the trigger until you’re ready to shoot.” His hands rested on her shoulders, he was so close she could feel the heat of his body through their clothes, and a prickle of awareness ran through her.

“Your feet should be shoulder width apart,” Carl slipped a leg between hers and nudged them apart. “Stretch out your arms, and lean slightly forward, but stay balanced. Now take a deep breath, exhale halfway, hold it, and squeeze the trigger.”

She squeezed, the pistol made a slight clicking noise.

“Okay, let’s try it with bullets. Load up.”

She took the magazine from him and reloaded while he pressed a button. Halfway down the room, a target swung into position. Carl stepped back from her this time, and she took up the stance he had shown her, arms outstretched, feet apart. She closed one eye, sighted down the line of the pistol, took a deep breath, and squeezed. Her whole body jumped at the explosion of noise, and her finger seemed stuck to the trigger. She kept squeezing but at least she was facing the right way.

After what seemed like an age, she felt hands on her shoulders. “Relax, Tara, let go of the trigger.”

Somehow, she managed to relax her finger. Her eyes were screwed tight shut and her arms trembled. She dropped them slowly to her sides, and opened her eyes.

“Did I hit anything?” she asked.

“Probably, but certainly not the target.”

“Oh.” Perhaps this was harder than she’d anticipated. Graham was standing in the corner, grinning. He held Smokey, the cat’s head hidden in the crook of his elbow. She scowled at the pair of them.

“Okay,” Carl said. “Let’s go again and Tara—”

“Yes?”

“Try not to panic, this time.”

The second time wasn’t much better, but at least she kept her eyes open through the whole thing and saw the bullets miss the target.

She stared at the pistol in disgust. “I think it might be broken.”

Carl took the gun from her hand, spun round, and shot a bullet into the center of the target without even aiming.

“Show-off,” she muttered as he handed her the gun back.

After half an hour, Tara hit somewhere on the target every time. She was moderately pleased and didn’t feel quite so helpless. Her hand ached, and she handed the gun over with a sigh of relief. Carl emptied the bullets, slotted it into a holster, and gave it back.

He took her hand and massaged the fingers.

“My advice is, lull them into a false sense of security—”

“How?” Tara interrupted.

Carl eyes drifted over her. “I don’t think that’s going to be the problem. Just let them get right up close, and then blow them to bits.”

“Thank you,” she said. “You’ve been kind.”

His eyes were half-closed, a small smile playing across his lips. “Honey, I am never kind.” He took her hand, brought it to his face as he had earlier and breathed in. “If you need any more lessons, guns, knives, hand to hand” —he stroked his thumb over her palm as he spoke, and Tara shivered as sensation shot through her— “just let me know.”

“What was it with you and the werewolf?” Graham said as they got into the elevator. “All that hand holding shit.”

Tara rubbed her hand down her thigh; it still tingled where Carl had touched it. “I was just saying thank you.”

“Well, don’t say thank you where Christian can see.” He looked at her for a moment. “Carl probably just wants to wind him up.”

“Is that wise?”

“Hey we’re talking about a werewolf here. I’m not sure ‘wise’ comes into their decision-making process. He likes Christian, respects him, otherwise he wouldn’t work here, but there’s still friction between the two of them.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well, vamps can control weres, because they start out as human, and I guess the weres don’t like that. But Carl’s pretty high up in the werewolf hierarchy, and I doubt even Christian could compel him to do something he didn’t want to do.”

“So why does he work for him?”

“It’s a good job, pays well, and he gets to play with guns.”

…

Tara felt the moment Christian awoke, like a light flicking on in her brain.

Minutes later, he strode into the penthouse. He hadn’t bothered to dress, just pulled on a pair of jeans, and she stared at him, unable to look away. Then she jumped to her feet, her book clattering to the floor, and ran to him.

He didn’t speak, just gathered her in his arms and kissed her. She melted against him, her fingers digging into the bare satin skin of his back. After a few minutes, he raised his head.

“You smell of werewolf,” he growled.

“I had a shooting lesson with Carl.”

His eyes narrowed. “How did it go?”

“I wasn’t very good.”

“And did he behave himself?”

Heat spread across her cheeks. “Of course.”

Christian smiled. “There’s no of course about it. Tell him, if he touches you again, I’ll rip his throat out.”

“I’m not going to tell him that. He was actually very kind.”

A look of complete disbelief flashed across his features. “He’s a werewolf. They don’t do ‘kind.’ Now come here.”

Tara went into his arms and he kissed her again. After long minutes, he put her from him and stepped back.

“I have to go out. Piers arranged another meeting with the Walker. I’m going to find out what I can about your mother.”

“I want to come.”

He shook his head. “You’re not going to go anywhere near the fae, especially not the Walker. He’s an assassin and he wants you dead. Look, this is our best bet to find out what happened. I’m also hoping we can come to some sort of arrangement with the fae—get them off your back for good. You’d be free.”

“Well, free of the fae, just the demons to cope with.” She forced a smile. “What it is to be popular.”

She didn’t want him to go—it was impossible to shake the worry that nagged her as he got ready to leave. She followed him into the bedroom and perched on the edge of the bed as he pulled clothes from the drawer and finished dressing.

When he was done, he came and sat beside her, picked up her hand, and kissed her fingers. “If you ever need someone and I’m not around, go to Carl. He’s a good guy.”

“I don’t want to go to Carl, and why won’t you be around?”

“It’s unlikely, but just in case. I shouldn’t be too long. Wait for me here.”

He kissed her lips then stood and left the room.

Tara stared after him, biting her lip, and fighting the urge to call him back. For some reason, it felt like he was saying goodbye.

Chapter Twenty-Five

A fierce desire to turn around almost stopped Christian in his tracks. His fists clenched at his side as he fought the need to go back to her, make love to her one last time.

All through the long day without her, he’d gone over and over the facts, searching for a way to keep Tara safe. He’d failed his wife and daughters. He could not fail Tara.

Asmodai was after him, and while the demon hid in the Abyss sending a limitless supply of minions to perform his filthy work, there was little Christian could do to stop him. Images of Chloe’s mutilated body haunted his mind. He couldn’t let that happen to Tara. He had to find a way to stop Asmodai.

Then there were the fae. As things stood, they would hunt down and kill Tara on sight. Christian had come up with a deal to offer the Walker. If the fae agreed, there was a high chance Christian would never see her again. He could find no way around that, but Tara would have a chance at that normal life she craved. A normal life without him.

He went straight to the weapons room and kitted out, pulled a long, black leather trench coat over it all, and went up to meet Piers, who was already waiting in reception.

“Hmm,” Piers said, as Christian approached, “you smell of your little human. Have you marked her yet?”

“No.”

Graham sat behind the desk. But Christian didn’t speak to him. If things went badly tonight then in all likelihood Graham would die. The mark would ensure that. What was there to say to him?

He led Piers out into the night. Only when they reached the brightly lit street did he turn to the other man.

“So,” he asked, “did you organize it?”

Piers nodded. “Are you going to tell me what this is all about?”

“It’s about Tara.”

“Your human? What’s she got to do with the Walker?”

“Well the problem is, she’s not actually human.”

Piers raised an eyebrow. “She’s not?”

“No. That’s what the talisman does. It contains a spell which hides her true nature.”

“And that is?”

“She’s half-fae.”

“Are you kidding me?”

Christian shook his head. “Her mother was fae.”

“And her father?”

“Demon.”

Shock flared in Piers’s eyes, quickly replaced by disgust. “Great, just fucking great,” he muttered. “You know what this means, don’t you? She’s the one they’re hunting for. She’s the abomination.”

“Don’t call her that,” Christian growled.

“Okay, but you admit it—she
is
the one they’re looking for?”

“Yes. They must have sensed her months ago when she took off the talisman the first time. They’ve been searching for her ever since.”

“And couldn’t find her because she’d put it back on. Which is why they came to us.” Piers ran a hand through his hair. “You swore an oath to destroy her.”

“It’s not going to happen.”

“Look, if you can’t do it, I will. I’ll make sure it’s painless. She won’t even know it’s going to happen.”

Christian stopped, swung round, and placed a fist in the center of Piers’s chest. “If you lay one fucking finger on her, I’ll rip you apart.”

“You could try,” he said. “It might even be fun. We’ve never really known which one of us would come out on top in a fight. You want to go for it?”

They stared at each other for long minutes, unaware of the stream of humanity that parted around them. Finally, Christian dropped his hand. “No.”

Piers rubbed at his chest. “I won’t touch her.”

“Good.”

“But you’d better have a bloody good plan or this has all the potential to plunge us back into the dark ages. You remember the dark ages don’t you, Christian? Chaos and mayhem.”

“I thought you liked chaos.”

“That was before I got respectable.”

Christian almost smiled at the idea. Almost, but not quite. The problem was, he did remember. He remembered it well, and even for Tara he couldn’t justify plunging the world back into that. He had to find a way to neutralize the fae without tipping them over the edge into war. He suddenly became aware that they were on a busy street. People gave them a wide berth, but still they were drawing attention.

“Let’s get moving. I’ll tell you on the way. Where are we meeting?”

“At a bar, around the corner from here. I thought it might be better to be somewhere public.”

“The Walker was okay with that?”

Piers shrugged. “He agreed. So what’s this plan of yours?”

Christian spoke as they walked.

“You think she’ll agree?” Piers asked when Christian fell silent.

“It’s what she’s always wanted, and I can give it to her.”

“You won’t be able to see her again. You’ll have to cut yourself off completely.”

“I don’t know how else to convince the fae. Do you?”

“I’m not even convinced this will convince the fae, but it’s worth a try. And if that doesn’t work I vote for killing him.”