Nightwing (11 page)

“I’m a Cancer,” he told her. “A moon child. My birthday is in July.”

So was Johnny’s. Her grandmother had written it in the purple notebook. A shiver crawled up Willie’s back but she managed to keep her smile and her voice matter-of-fact.

“Really? What date? I have a friend born in July.”

“The nineteenth.” Raven went down on one knee in front of Willie. “Let’s have a look at your ankle.”

Warning, erogenous zone ahead, her brain flashed as Raven cupped her foot in his hand and began untying her shoe. She tried but couldn’t budge it out of his grasp.

“You needn’t bother,” she said. “My ankle feels fine.”

“I’m the doctor. I’ll be the judge.” He scooped off her Reebok, laid it aside and tugged off her sock. “Ah, a brace. Very sensible. Doctors like sensible patients.”

How about insensible ones? Willie wondered, feeling herself tottering on the verge of losing control at the brush of his fingertips on her flesh as he peeled off the brace. His long dark hair gleamed blue-black in the carriage lamps. His lips, oh, those lips, pursed consideringly as he flexed her foot carefully from side to side.

Last night she hadn’t trusted herself to watch him examine her ankle. Now she couldn’t take her eyes off his fingers gently probing the barely sore bone. She felt as if she was melting inside and out, until she saw the hook-shaped scar near the second knuckle of his right index finger—the same scar she’d seen on Johnny’s right hand.

Raven felt her flash of horror, the flood of gooseflesh that prickled her skin all the way down to her ankle cupped in his palm. It was something to do with his hands, some similarity she’d seen between his and those of his Shade, but he couldn’t make out what over the scream he felt tearing through her mind.

“Did that hurt?” he asked, looking up at her.

“No—I mean, yes,” Willie blurted, pushing the terrifying impossibility of the scar out of her mind. “I mean—”

“Never mind. All done. Your ankle should be fine by morning.” Raven handed her the brace and her sock and smiled. “If I promise not to mention the house, will you have dinner with me tomorrow? It’s my night off.”

She wanted to say yes, but she was afraid. Her panic and sudden fear of him made her heart thud and her blood race. Raven felt himself quicken as he watched her put on her sock and shoe, felt his perceptions sharpen like those of any animal on the hunt. The lynx prowling the dunes sensed it, flared its nostrils in the wind and screamed.

Its wild, feral cry startled Willow Evans out of her chair. She spun, wide-eyed, toward the beach and the dunes. Raven rose behind her, cupped her arms in his hands and felt her quiver—with alarm and reaction to his touch.

“What was that?”

“A lynx, I think. I nearly hit what looked like one on the road the other night.”

“A bobcat?” She turned in his hands and blinked at him. “I thought the Puritans shot them all two hundred years ago.”

“Apparently they missed at least two.”

She smiled and rubbed her arms. “That was the weirdest thing I’ve ever heard in my life.”

So far, Raven thought. He felt gooseflesh rise on her skin as he eased her toward him. “You have a beautiful name, Miss Evans. May I call you Willow?”

“I’d rather you call me Willie,” she said, glancing up at him. “Willow makes me sound like a tree.”

“But such a lovely, graceful tree. So hauntingly melancholy. Like Ophelia, born to weep.”

The image made Willie shiver; Raven’s nearness made her weak. His grip on her arms was gentle, the brush of his chest against her breasts warm and seductive. The minty waft of his breath fluttered a chill across the nape of her neck as he bent his head over hers and murmured, “So lovely.”

A thrill coursed through Willie as she realized Raven meant to kiss her. She knew she shouldn’t let him, not until she’d figured out why he and Johnny had identical scars. But she wanted Raven to kiss her, more than she’d ever wanted anything in her life. Enough to tell herself that maybe the scar was just coincidence, enough to lift her face to his and stare, mesmerized, at his oh-so-sexy lips parting over hers.

The wind died and the trees stopped tossing. In the steady, unbroken light she could see that his teeth were very white, and that his incisors, both top and bottom, were very long and pointed.

“Oh, my. Grandpa,” she murmured, a breathy catch in her voice, “what sharp teeth you have.”

“All the better to eat you with, my dear.”

What images that stirred in Willie’s head. X-rated and wild, of twisted satin and tangled limbs. Hers and Raven’s. A soft moan escaped her as his mouth slanted over hers. She parted her lips and edged her tongue toward his.

Raven managed not to shudder with revulsion, simply broke the kiss and said, “Let’s leave something for tomorrow night, shall we?”

“You mean for dessert?”

“If you wish.”

Willie was way past wishing, had left wanting in the dust. She ached, she throbbed, she needed. Heaven help her.

“Too late for that,” Raven murmured, catching her earlobe in his teeth. He felt her stiffen and draw away, raised his head and smiled at her startled, wary expression.

“What did you say?”

“I said don’t be late. I’ll pick you up at eight forty-five. Bring a scarf for your hair. I like the top down.”

“Eight forty-five,” she repeated, forgetting all about the coq au vin and lemon meringue pie she’d intended to make for Frank. “I’ll be ready.”

“Until then. Don’t forget your mail.” He nudged the watering can aside, lifted the pot of geraniums, tucked the envelopes inside the newspaper and handed her the compact. “Or your mirror.”

“Oh—yes. Thank you.” She tucked the mail and the paper under one arm, and held the compact between her palms, her head tipped to one side. “Good night.”

It was enough that he’d placed the mirror in her hands. He saw it in her eyes, in the brief flicker of her gaze from his face to the compact and back again, in the curious, I-wonder tilt of her chin.

“Good night, Willow.” Raven nodded and headed for the car, knowing she wouldn’t be able to help herself now. That she’d look in the mirror even if it killed her.

Hopefully, it wouldn’t. And then, because he knew what she’d see, he smiled.

Chapter 11

Nothing. That’s what Willie saw. Absolutely nothing in the mirror she aimed over her right shoulder at Raven’s retreating back.

“Wait a minute,” she muttered, tipping the glass higher.

She tipped it lower, angled it to the left, then the right, and still saw nothing in the mirror but the Corvette. Willie didn’t get it, not even when she saw the driver’s door open by itself. She thought there had to be something wrong with the mirror, so she turned around.

In time to see Raven glance up and wave at her as he slid behind the wheel and leaned forward to turn the key in the ignition. Willie frowned and waved back, turned and aimed the mirror at the Corvette. She still couldn’t see Raven, yet the engine started.

The powerful growl sent a shiver up her spine. What was it she’d thought earlier? That she didn’t know much about mirrors? Only that they were expensive to resilver and you couldn’t see vampires in them because they didn’t cast reflections.

“Oh, God,” Willie moaned, the compact slipping out of her suddenly boneless fingers.

It landed with a clunk and a tinkle of breaking glass on the flagstones. She dropped to her heels and picked it up, so suddenly her head spun, so violently she had to grab the table to keep from fainting. She clung to the pebbled-glass edge, her forehead pressed against her wrist, her eyes shut, her heart hammering. She could still feel Raven’s mouth on hers —and bile in her throat.

Dear God. What had she kissed? Not a man. But what? Raven couldn’t be a vampire. There were no such things as vampires. No such things as ghosts, either, yet she’d spent an hour talking to one in a mirror.

Willie wanted to run away screaming but forced herself to stand and open the compact. The glass was only cracked. One more jolt and it would shatter. So would Willie, but she forced herself to look in the mirror one last time. Just to make sure, just as the headlights came on all by themselves.

She winced at the glare; saw the Corvette turn around and steer itself up the driveway. Yet when she spun on one foot, she saw Raven’s hair ruffling in the wind, his pale cotton shirt shimmering in the dark.

A terrified mew escaped Willie. She threw the compact one way, the mail and the newspaper the other and flew inside. She locked the French doors behind her, the front door, too, and raced through the house locking all the windows—even the ones in the attic and the basement. It was a terrified, knee-jerk reaction, and nothing short of a miracle that she didn’t fall and break her neck on the stairs.

But maybe that’s what Raven intended. Maybe that’s why he’d put the mirror in her hand and the idea in her head. Did he want Beaches badly enough to kill her to get it? Was it a warning that if she didn’t give up, he’d get rid of her his own way?

The possibility inched an icy chill up her back. Seeing Johnny in the seashell mirror, standing with his arms spread across her office doorway, the billowy sleeves of his white shirt falling in soft folds like angel’s wings, sat her down on the edge of her chair.

She didn’t know where he’d come from, or how she’d ended up here. She didn’t remember turning on the lights, either, but her desk lamp and the white enamel torchiere in the corner blazed. Johnny looked just as solid in the bright light as he had in near darkness.

The sad, I-tried-to-warn-you expression on his face wrenched her still-queasy stomach. Now she knew what he’d been trying to tell her earlier.

“Raven doesn’t want Beaches, does he?” she said to him in the mirror. “He wants
you.”

Johnny nodded, slowly and gravely.

Willie wasn’t sure she wanted to know, but asked, “Why?”

He shook his head,
I don’t know.

“What d’you mean, you don’t know?”

Johnny touched his right thumb to his forehead and then drew a clockwise circle with his closed fist over his heart. Willie started to reach for the dictionary and remembered she’d thrown it in the air.

“Wait a minute.” She saw it under the desk, fished it out and opened it. “Say it again.”

He did, three times, before Willie deciphered the signs.

“You don’t
remember?”
she said incredulously into the mirror. “You’re
sorry?”

Johnny nodded, spread his hands and lifted his shoulders.

“Let me get this straight.” Willie felt an iron band of panic and frustration tightening around her chest. She drew a deep breath, but it didn’t help. “You remember sign language, but you can’t remember why Raven is after you?”

Johnny nodded, watching her cautiously in the mirror, his head tipped to one side.

“Bullshit!” Willie slammed the dictionary against the desk so hard she knocked over the brass thermometer.
“You have to remember!”

He shook his head, struck his left index finger with his right, twice, and repeated the circle over his heart.

“Don’t tell me sorry! Remember!” Willie shrieked at him. “Start with remembering how to talk! If a goddamn vampire can talk, so can you!”

Johnny’s hands were moving rapidly, but froze. He blinked at her in the seashell mirror, his lips parting slowly and his eyes widening. Willie saw the sudden, sharp rise of his chest and his hands fly up to cover his face. He lowered them slowly, a stunned and horrified expression on his face.

Either he didn’t know what Raven was or he really had forgotten. Either way, she wished she hadn’t said it, or at least hadn’t screamed it at him.

He raised his right hand to his forehead and signed, “I remember,” his hand shaking visibly in the mirror.

 Lightning flickered outside the office windows as he signed it again and wheeled away from her. He paced toward the pedestal mirror, swung back and repeated, “I remember. I remember.”

Then he dropped onto the trunk, bent his elbows on his knees, raked his fingers through his hair and clenched his head.

“Maybe I’m wrong,” Willie said, hoping to God she was. “Maybe I’m just hysterical. Maybe the mirror—”

Johnny threw back his head, still clenching it as if it hurt, and screamed. He made no sound, but Willie read his pain and anguish in the twist of his mouth, the distended veins and tendons in his throat.

She wanted to put her arms around him and comfort him, but she couldn’t. All she could do was press her fingertips sympathetically to the mirror. He jerked away, as if he’d felt her touch through the glass, leapt to his feet and bolted out of the room.

“Johnny, wait!” Willie spun her chair away from the desk and pelted after him.
“Johnny!”

He wasn’t in the dining room. Or the living room, the kitchen, or any other room in the house. Willie didn’t see his telltale shimmer, either, yet she could almost feel him dodging away from her, away from the mirrors.

“Talk to me, Johnny,” she called as she raced from room to room. “Tell me what you remember. Maybe we can figure out a way to make Raven go away. Please, Johnny. If nothing else, just tell me your birth date.”

She ran through the house pleading with him until her ankle started to ache and thunder began to rumble behind the lightning flashing against the windows—dull, angry thunder that crashed over the house like breakers at high tide.

Willie gave up and limped back to her office. She set the thermometer up and dropped into her chair. Her grandmother’s notebooks were strewn across the desk. On the monitor, her “Star Trek” screen-save program was busily constructing the Tholian web around the
Enterprise.
She felt as hemmed in as the starship, caught in something so alien it was beyond comprehension. Not to mention belief.

Willie tapped a key and the cursor appeared, blinking at the top of the empty file she’d named JOHNNY. She hadn’t transcribed a single one of Betsy’s notes, and now she couldn’t. Not with rain pelting the windows and thunder rattling the shutters.

Willie didn’t save the file, just shut off the Mac and crawled under the desk to unplug it as she always did during thunderstorms. She was flat on her back wrenching the surge protector out of the outlet when she saw Callie cowering in the dark under the desk, her tail curled around her paws.