Immortal Flame

Avon, Massachusetts

Copyright © 2015 by Jillian David.
All rights reserved.

This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.

 

Published by

Crimson Romance

an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

10151 Carver Road, Suite 200

Blue Ash, OH 45242. U.S.A.

www.crimsonromance.com

ISBN 10: 1-4405-8914-3

ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-8914-0

eISBN 10: 1-4405-8915-1

eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-8915-7

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

Cover art © iStockphoto.com/tioloco and MR.BIG-PHOTOGRAPHY

 

Big thanks to my husband, who kept asking, “When will you stop writing and just go sell that book?” He also posed very helpful advice such as, “Make sure your hero is bald. And short. We need representation, too.”

I would never be writing this acknowledgement page without having met editor extraordinaire, Gwen Hayes. She simply edited and taught. And she did so with kindness and a great sense of humor.

Thanks also to other key editors along the way: Bev Rosenbaum, Devin Govaere, and Annie Seaton with her secret editing associate. I am reluctant to list these folks here only because I'm revealing my secret weapons.

Finally, thanks to editor Julie Sturgeon and the fine team at Crimson. You all have taken a story I'm proud of and elevated it to a new level. Thank you for the patience and suggestions.

• Title Page
  
• Copyright Page
  
• Acknowledgments
  
• Chapter 1
  
• Chapter 2
  
• Chapter 3
  
• Chapter 4
  
• Chapter 5
  
• Chapter 6
  
• Chapter 7
  
• Chapter 8
  
• Chapter 9
  
• Chapter 10
  
• Chapter 11
  
• Chapter 12
  
• Chapter 13
  
• Chapter 14
  
• Chapter 15
  
• Chapter 16
  
• Chapter 17
  
• Chapter 18
  
• Chapter 19
  
• Chapter 20
  
• Chapter 21
  
• Chapter 22
  
• Chapter 23
  
• About the author
  
• A Sneak Peek from Crimson Romance
  
• Also Available
  

Old things weren't always useless. Take the Swiss watch Peter Blackstone wore. Tired leather strap, scratched face, older than most mortals. He had taken it off the wrist of an enemy, a dying
Wehrmacht
captain, in the icy forest of northern France in retaliation for the captain shooting Peter in the arm. Call it a souvenir turned taunting, old, reliable companion.

Not that the damned watch helped the traffic. A cold mist slowed the cars on I-84 outside La Grande, Oregon. Steep, pine-rich mountains rose on either side, funneling bumper-to-bumper vehicles into the narrow canyon. No gritting of Peter's teeth or clenching of the steering wheel could stop that interminable timepiece from tick, tick, ticking down like a demolition bomb timer, reminding him how late he would be and the likely outcome of his tardiness.

His final assignment. He hoped.

Damn endless existence. He needed to complete this last assignment, the Meaningful Kill. Finally put an end to the monster he'd become.

His gut knotted. Being late for his assignment created too much attention. Better to stay inconspicuous. Hell, he wore a seat belt only so police wouldn't have a reason to ticket him. Too much to explain.

The semi ten inches from his front bumper flashed its brakes. Peter slowed and negotiated one of the curves on the stretch of road. He rubbed his jaw and glanced again at the watch.

Hell, even now, he could smell the sweet-sharp scent of snow and blood and hear the moans from the not-yet-dead as bodies littered the forest that ugly night in the Ardennes. Men crying out for their mothers in English and German, the sounds blending into a nightmare of suffering, as they were frozen alive.

He glanced in the rearview mirror out of habit. Even after all these years, his dark brown hair would never turn gray, no matter how much he wished to age. It was the curse of the Indebted.

Screeching tires jolted him back to reality.
Hell
. He swerved and barely missed the braking semi. The driver behind him wasn't as quick, and the pickup plowed into the back of Peter's SUV, propelling it into the concrete barrier. Air whooshed out of his lungs as he jerked against the seat belt. His neck snapped forward as a ripping sensation seared pain into the base of his skull.

His SUV ramped the barrier, the undercarriage screaming against wet concrete. Peter's entire world inverted, sky beneath him and rocks above, with only a thin casing of metal standing between his head and the scraping rocks.
Not good
. He threw his hands over his head and pushed against the charcoal upholstery in time for the airbag to erupt from the steering wheel. His ribcage exploded in sharp, hot agony that sent fireworks of light bursting in his vision.

After that, it was as if his own car waged a personal assault on him. But the blade would be no match against the airborne missiles of glass piercing his face. To make things even more interesting, the SUV righted itself but then jolted halfway down the mountain slope.

Peter's head snapped forward and back, and a loud crack reverberated from his lower back, out of tune with the groans and screeches emanating from the nearly obliterated vehicle.

An eternity later—he didn't use the term lightly—the crumpled metal death trap came to rest at the bottom of a muddy embankment, the yellow hazard lights flashing, horn blaring … and upside down.

Stunned, Peter dangled from the seat belt. His ears rang. His skull throbbed. His left arm had bent into an unnatural angle against the door handle.
Not good at all
. A normal human would be dead by now. Unfortunately, he still lived.

Hell. He was most definitely going to be late for that appointment.

The knife strapped to his lower leg pulsed, warming up in hungry anticipation for the assignment. That damned, cursed weapon tied to his damned, cursed existence.

The sky and ground continued to spin in his vision. Over the hum of his ringing ears, liquid drizzled onto the fabric ceiling, a constant tapping sound in the sudden silence. One touch to his head revealed a chunk of skin partially detached from his skull.

Steam hissed from the engine as the tangy-sweet scent of antifreeze mixed with burnt oil. Taking a deep breath, he dragged fumes into his burning lungs. From far away, voices drifted down to him.

Pain lanced through his neck when he tried to see out the window. He had to fix that broken arm.

Damn, this is going to hurt.

With his right hand, he grabbed his left wrist and pulled. His guttural howl echoed in the destroyed car as he forced arm bones back into place, grinding the broken ends against each other. He squeezed his hand over the injury. The arm had started to knit, but he needed the bones to heal even faster. His body would repair the life-threatening injuries first and his head and broken bones second, but it would take way too much time.

The whine of his car's smoking engine and drone of the horn muffled the shouts of bystanders scrambling down the hill.

Have to get out of here
.

He attempted to exit the car, leaning against the mangled door, but his numb legs wouldn't move. They'd lodged between the pedals pushed in by the crumpled engine block and the steering column. Instinctive fear rose up. Trapped again. He forced himself to relax while suspended upside down. In the distance sirens wailed.

So much for being inconspicuous.

Damn it. He needed to stash the knife before anyone saw it.

Reaching his unbroken arm down—no, up—to the pinned, insensate leg, Peter unclasped the top strap of the holster. One more strap. As he strained against the seat belt, pain erupted in his lower back, but now he could touch the lower clasp.

The voices of his rescuers drew closer, urging him to work faster. Frantic, he brushed the buckle with this fingertips and opened the clasp. Fresh sweat beaded his brow, and his jaw ached from clenching.

The strap slid free of the buckle, and the knife fell to the roof with a dull
thunk
, landing in pooled blood. The physical agony of separation from the weapon hit him like a punch to his gut. The yearning to connect with the blade burned with a searing inferno in his chest.

Focus
.

Stretching, he grabbed the knife and shoved it into the seam of the passenger seat.

He gritted his teeth as another wave of pain swamped him.

• • •

It had been one month and twelve days since her last vision.

Allison La Croix pulled her hair from the jacket collar, straightened her scrubs, and closed the car door. Hefting her overnight bag onto her shoulder, she paused and inhaled the cold, early spring air. Could she do it today? Could she walk through the doors of Grande Ronde Hospital's emergency department?

Every day when she passed through those sliding glass doors, apprehension mounted like a needle tip poised just above her skin. Her right hand still throbbed with residual echoes of electrical fire on her fingertips from her last connection. How long could she avoid touching anyone skin to skin? How long could she avoid triggering her twisted gift? The intervals between her visions were growing shorter, but she had no idea why. How many more could she handle?

With a determined breath, she entered the ER at 7:55 a.m., right on time. Ambulance bays vacant? Check. No screaming family members outside the ER door? Check. No
whump, whump
of chopper blades coming in for a landing? Double check.

Maybe today will be a good day
.

She twisted her long hair into a clip as the familiar flowery scent of chemical disinfectant wafted over her. As Allison reached the registration desk, she waved at a plump, smiling, older woman.

“Morning, Doctor Al,” the woman said.

“Hi, Marcie. How's it been so far?”

The receptionist held up the latest bestselling medical thriller. “Real calm. I've had time to catch up on some reading.”

Allison smiled at her choice of words. Doctors and staff
never
said the “Q” word when they came onto shift. Merely thinking the word “quiet” seemed to magically attract multi-victim traumas, drug-seekers, and large quantities of cardiac arrests.

“You think it's going to rain today?” Allison asked.

She averted her gaze as Marcie changed the computer screen from a shopping website to the hospital registration system.

“Hope so. Maybe light rain later. The Wallowas look good. Might get more snow next weekend.”

To the east, powdery snow covered the 9,000-foot peaks of the Wallowa Mountains. She'd give anything to be up there right now, surrounded by the mellow scent of pine, serenaded by the burble of clear water running down the valleys. Hiking or snowshoeing, it didn't matter; either was like aloe on a burn to Allison's soul.

Walking to the back of the ER, she dropped her overnight bag on an empty chair in the doctor's work area. She waited until her graying counterpart, Dr. Buddy Clark, finished a dictation, his voice gravelly. His shoulders sagged from the twenty-four-hour shift, which had also deepened the circles beneath his kind eyes. She thanked her thirty-two-year-old body for its youth; at least she recovered much faster than her sixty-something colleague.

“Anything I can take care of for you?” she asked.