Flame's Dawn (11 page)

Then again, if he hadn't encountered Jane in the first place, the minion wouldn't have been drawn to her and wouldn't have hurt her.

Ah, shite. No answer worked.

Steering the car up the highway, he turned onto an unmarked dirt road. He prayed that the road was clear of debris, as it had been more than a year since he'd come up here.

After traveling several miles deep into the forest, he parked in front of his cabin. In the late morning light, the redwood-sided cabin thrust a porch off the steep mountainside and suspended it into the pale blue sky above the pine trees. The familiar lines of Loma Yorba's rocky peak to the north soothed him. He so loved nature, loved having a place apart from his sick existence as an Indebted.

Sadly, though, the peace never lasted. Not as long as he had to kill criminals on demand.

Couldn't rightly do that up here, alone in the woods, now, could he?

Before getting out of the car, he woke Jane with a gentle rock to her shoulder. Even then, she startled, her aqua eyes going round until she focused on him, blinked, and relaxed. He may never know more than a fraction of what she'd been through, but he knew what reliving past traumas looked like, and right now, fear was written all over her lovely face.

“We're here,” he said.

Yawning, she glanced around. “Wow. Beautiful.” She pulled the door handle.

He rushed over to help her out of the car. Sure enough, her attempt to stand failed, and he swept her up again.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, giving a vague motion that encompassed the sheet still wrapped around her, the car door, and her legs.

“You've nothing to be sorry about. Ever.” He shifted her into what he hoped was a more comfortable position. Sure as hell was making him uncomfortable, her proximity. Which made him even more of an evil bastard. Maybe he had a reputation as a paramour over the centuries, but no way would Barnaby hit on a convalescing woman.

He breathed in the air, still warm at the end of July, but lighter here in the mountains. Douglas firs and redwoods dominated the chaparral scrub oaks with their rich green leaves shifting in the breeze.

“I hope you like it here.”

Her smile, a rare treasure, lit up her face, giving him a glimpse of what heaven must look like. “I already do. Thank you for everything.”

All of a sudden, something irritated his eyes. “Yes, well. Take a moment to change into this outfit, and I'll give you the grand tour. Then it's time for your next dose of antibiotic and for you to rest.”

When her face fell, he cursed at himself for being such a fool. Great job, reminding her of the trauma. But he'd caused this mess, so he would finish his job and see her healed. He owed her at least that much.

Then he'd leave her the hell alone.

• • •

Jane loved the cabin. Loved how she could view miles of mountains from the airy porch. The redwood plank walls and floor gave it a welcoming, burnt-orange glow. She could breathe in the wood scent of the house, Barnaby's masculine scent, and the fresh air every day of her life and be a happy woman.

Too bad her future didn't include a cabin and happiness.

And it sure as heck didn't include a normal, kind man ... or even a freakishly strong killer.

God, what a mess.

She sat in her position of choice, curled up on a couch with Barnaby nearby. Better to keep an eye on him. He still had that knife strapped to him.

The fleecy softness of the velour tracksuit he'd bought at the store didn't fit right. It hung off her bony frame, reminding her of all that she'd lost.

After quelling a wave of self-pity and then paranoia, she sipped at the double-strength hot chocolate he'd insisted she drink.

She studied his handsome face, knitted tight in concentration, as he puttered around the cabin, putting away food supplies and items he'd removed from his apartment. How did he go from cold-blooded killer to domestic engineer?

And how could he function after being shot point-blank in the apartment? Nothing made sense, and the ends of her frazzled nerves kept buzzing. It didn't take a background in pattern recognition to know that something didn't add up.

The least she could do for both herself and Barnaby was to recuperate quickly and get out of his life and re-create her own.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

She jumped out of her skin. How long had he been watching her?

“Just taking everything in,” she hedged.

At his intake of breath, she figured he would say something, but he clamped his lips together for a full minute. “All right then. So. I have plans to feed you until you burst tonight. Until then, let's get you up and moving.”

In spite of herself, Jane smiled. “What did you have in mind?”

“Nine-mile hike in the mountains.” When he winked, her heart flopped. “Just kidding. How about taking a few steps around the living room?”

Sitting up, she gave him a thumbs-up. “I'll do anything to get better.”

Was that a shadow of a frown below the sweep of thick, brown hair?

“Well, let's get some music to help you along.” He tuned the countertop radio to a Top 40 station.

Ah yes, “The Loco-Motion” by Grand Funk Railroad. Perfect.

He turned to her. “Right, then. Let's see what you can do, turbojet.”

Ten wobbly steps later, and Jane's energy had deserted her. Even with Barnaby at her side, she nearly hit the floor when her legs gave out on that tenth step. Like it was no big deal that an adult couldn't walk, he tucked her into his side and shuffled her back over to the couch.

Damn it, but her legs trembled like she was a newborn foal, and all she wanted to do was sleep for hours. A year of insane levels of stress and several weeks of a life-threatening condition ending in full restraints would do that to a person.

He returned to the couch with a quilt, which he tucked around her. Cocooned in the fleece, the warm, woody scent, and the thick fabric, Jane's tension seeped away for the first time in as long as she could remember.

Unfortunately, she slept.

Typically, when he visited his mountain retreat, Barnaby relished the lack of connection with humanity.

Now? It scared the hell out of him.

Nothing, not disease, not pestilence, not war, and not even death itself, scared Barnaby. Until now.

Sure, he had his uncanny instinct for danger, but it meant nothing if an army stormed the cabin.

Fear, foreign and unsettling, churned in his gut. He paced from the kitchen to the porch, peering out over the once-peaceful mountains and saw nothing but opportunities for danger to hide.

At least he'd fed the knife, albeit unwittingly, with Thompson's crony. That meant Barnaby wouldn't have to leave Jane and travel to a large population center to find a criminal for about a week.

If he weren't an Indebted, he'd be free to consider a normal life with Jane. They could do mundane things like go out on a date. As it stood, the longer he and Jane were together, the danger increased.

However, if he weren't an Indebted, he wouldn't have had the preternatural strength to save her.

Criminy.

Even if she could heal to the point where she might trust someone with her heart and soul, why would a woman like Jane choose an eternal killer?

No woman would want his name on her dance card.

Barnaby was intrinsically corrupted by the evil he had performed over hundreds of years. He didn't care about the people he killed. It didn't faze him to take a meal after a kill, even with the scent of blood filling his nostrils. No amount of atonement could ever purge the taint on his soul.

The worst part of his existence? He no longer felt the modicum of justice or remorse when he stabbed a criminal. It just didn't matter.

Barnaby's connection with humanity had come undone.

Save one last tiny tether to this mortal world. One last trigger for his sixth sense. His damned power kept sitting up and pointing when it came to Jane. Maybe his extra ability was trying to tell him something.

Without Jane, he'd be adrift. Lost.

With Jane, her life would be forfeit.

He'd do anything to protect her. Even it if meant breaking the last ties he had to his humanity. Even if it meant leaving her alone. He rubbed his fists over his eyes.

Because ...

No.

He eyed the darkening skies and breathed in the cool evening air that drifted through the open windows. Shaking his head, he returned to stand over Jane's sleeping form.

When he checked the clock, he did a quick calculation. Jane had slept for more than eight hours.

She needed her rest. Needed to recover.

Only, once she recovered her strength, then she'd leave.

A nasty jealousy for her health flashed by him, like a blast of flame, singeing his good sense as it blew past. He gritted his teeth against the unnatural emotion and tamped it down, like batting out a fire with his bare hands.

The radio faded in and out with the strains from Jim Croce's “Time in a Bottle.”

The quilt rose and fell with Jane's slight breaths, and the evening shadows gave her face an eerie, skeletal appearance.

Because that's what she would be at the end of her natural life: a skeleton, in the ground like every other mortal.

And Barnaby would continue unto eternity his maudlin existence, numb to his kills, driven only by the knife's impulse until ... what? Until nothing. He had no end to the evil.

Jane shifted and frowned, as if sensing his unsettled mood. Cursing himself as a selfish fool, he eased away from her, taking his black thoughts with him, and stood on the porch, gripping the rail. The only light in the cabin came from a single lantern on the mantel.

He had lived for more than 400 years. What had he done with his time to make this world better?

Nothing.

He had immense Indebted strength. How had he used his power to help humanity?

Save dabbling in a war here and there, he'd done nothing with it, other than impressing the ladies with his prowess in the bedchamber.

How about his fortune amassed over the centuries? Had he endowed a university or created a legacy?

No. He'd done naught with any of it.

The railing creaked under his grip, and he forced himself to relax his hands lest he destroy one of the few things in this world he cherished.

A whimper behind him made him whip around.

Had he misheard?

“No, not ... please, no ...”

He skidded to a stop next to the couch, half leaning over as a shield, his senses alert for whatever could hurt her.

In the twilight, sweat glistened on her forehead as she feebly thrashed on the couch.

“Jane?” he ventured.

A moan like an animal being tortured rent his soul in two.

“Sweetling? Are you all right?” Z'wounds, he hadn't used that endearment since his time with Bess. Not the time to think about that significance.

When Jane didn't answer, he touched her wrist, just the lightest touch.

The scream that burst from her dry lips terrified him like nothing he'd heard before on this Earth.

When it continued despite his murmured reassurances, his blood iced.

Jane's eyes were open, but she looked right through him. He could only encourage her to wake up and prevent her from falling onto the floor.

Midscream, she stopped.

And blinked.

“Barnaby?” Her hoarse voice abraded his heart like sandpaper.

“I'm right here.”

He would give his own life to stop her desperate, heaving gasps. Cursing, he pulled her awkwardly onto his lap on the floor and crooned nonsense to her, repeating childhood rhymes from his youth.

When her shaking subsided, he kept rocking her and singing.

She leaned back and stared at him.

He stopped in the middle of “For Want of a Nail” and focused on the shadowed face before him.

“Hi, Jane.”

“Hi. Listen, I'm so—”

“Stop. No apologies here. That's the rule.”

She rubbed a damp cheek into his shirt, blessing him with the gesture.

As darkness fell in earnest, he kept her in a loose embrace, present but not confining. The last thing he wanted was to re-create any more nightmares in the dim light.

It was one of the witching hours, when day turned to full night. Barnaby sighed. So different, this modern world compared with the one he'd left centuries ago.

“Want to talk about it?” he asked after a time.

Rubbing at her arms, she shook her head. “No, I want—I want this off of me. All of it. No more darkness. No more pollution.”

“What do you mean?”

“I want light. I want to be clean.” She scratched at her arms, and he deflected her gently, not wanting to see her do injury.

He eased her back onto the couch and bowed. “At your service.”

In no time, he had every lantern and candle lit. Bright light bounced off the walls of the cabin. A fire crackled in the grate, and he placed a large pot of water on to boil. He also fired up the propane stove and placed another pot of water on it as well.

As her opened mouth, he held his hand up, stilling her words. “Your wish is my command, milady, and I'm not done yet.”

Returning from the small outbuilding, he carried a large iron tub back into the house and set it in the middle of the living room floor.

“Your bath is coming up.”

“What? No, you didn't have to—”

“Who says it's for you? I don't smell so fabulous, if you hadn't noticed.”

Despite her red-rimmed eyes, she giggled, the tinkling sound shaming his dark soul.

With quick work at the sink pump, he filled the tub halfway with cold water. Adding in the hot, he tested the temperature. Hopefully, it was about right.

“Oh my God, you just ... did all of this? Because I asked?”

He shrugged. “Of course. Now, if you'll allow me to lay out some toiletries on this chair here, I'll leave you to your ablutions.”