Starry Knight (17 page)

“
Mo dearbadan-de
,” he whispered, but didn’t go on.

Instead, he claimed her mouth, doing to her tongue what she’d done to his cock a few minutes before. As she moaned her approval, he took hold of her ass with both hands and dragged her crotch up and down his erection, moving from her clit to her wetness with masterful control. Each time his blood-gorged sex nudged her aching opening, she wriggled with breathless need. The orgasm rose like a great white shark scenting blood in the water. He withdrew the bait, leaving her trembling with hunger.

“You’re a terrible tease,” she said, breathing hard. “Has anybody ever told you that?”

He let out a small laugh. “I’m only a tease if I won’t give you what you want—and, believe me, I will.”

“When?”

Giving her a devilish smile, he moved his hands to her corset, took out one of her breasts, and set upon the nipple. Pleasure pebbled her flesh.

Coming up for air, he met her gaze. “May I?”

“May you what?”

“Drink your blood.”

Her euphoria evaporated. “From my breast?”

He nodded slightly. “The closer to the heart, the richer the blood.”

She scraped her teeth across her lower lip as she considered his request. “Will it hurt?”

“Only the bite, after which it’s intensely pleasurable. I promise.”

“In that case,” she said, more intrigued than afraid, “go ahead.”

He bit down, startling her with the sudden prick. As he drew her blood, he flicked his tongue against her excited nipple. As the first wave of ecstasy crashed over her, he impaled her with his cock. Still sucking the blood from her breast, he thrust upward, again and again and again, driving into the heart of her being until she broke like a germinating seed.

The week had passed too quickly for Callum. Vanessa was leaving in the morning and, as much as he wished it otherwise, he’d come up with no alternative to taking her memories.

They’d spent their last day together on a bus tour of Orkney. He thought she ought to see the archipelago before she went. The weather was sublime and the coach driver both well-informed and entertaining.

On the ferry over, orcas, seals, and dolphins put in appearances, giving Vanessa thrills he found delightfully contagious. On the trip back, they were treated to a spectacular sunset while snogging at the deck rail. Throughout the day, he strove to savor every moment and not dwell on how soon they’d be saying their good-byes.

Tried, but failed miserably.

At one point, she’d tried again to persuade him to let her keep her memories, but he’d stood his ground.

“I want to remember today,” she said as they stood arm-in-arm looking out to sea. “Take the rest, take what you are, but just don’t take the best day I’ve ever had.”

“Trust me.” He pulled her closer and set his cheek atop her head. “You’re better off not remembering.” With a sigh, he added, “Have you never heard the story of Cuchulainn and Fand?”

“I can’t say I have.”

“Aye, well,” he began, his gaze fixed on the ocean, “Fand was the wife of Manannan mac Lir, the god of the sea. She and Cuchulainn had an affair and fell deeply in love, and when her husband found them out, he shook his magic cloak between them to make them forget one another.” He kissed her softly on the mouth before adding, “Trust me,
mo dearbadan-de
. It is better to forget than to remember with regret.”

Now it was night and they were back at Barrogill, stargazing on the roof of the tower. He’d put it off long enough. Vanessa would soon be gone and Duncan was losing patience. The time had come to consult the stars and planets about running against Sinclair.

Callum was on one end of the roof, surveying the heavens through the bigger of his two telescopes, while Vanessa was at the opposite corner, peering through the smaller at Orion.

The night, though spectacularly clear, was brisk. Chilled by a sudden gust, he turned against the wind and adjusted the woolen scarf he’d wrapped round his neck before coming up. She’d put on her coat, but he nevertheless worried if she was warm enough. He’d come to feel very protective of her. And too fond for his own bloody good. His heart wrenched at the sight of her looking through his Schmidt-Cassegrain. It was a picture he’d like to see on a daily basis, but would likely never enjoy again.

The temperature dropped abruptly. Even for changeable Scotland, it seemed unusual. Hugging himself for warmth, he stuffed his hands into his armpits. As he exhaled, his breath made a small white cloud. What the hell? Just like that, it was as cold as December. He scowled around as if the answer would make itself known out of thin air. Then, it did.

Worry gripped his gut and raised a fine sweat around the edges of his hairline. He wiped his brow and finger-raked his scalp. What was Sorcha about? He came up here all the time and had never once felt her presence. He’d always assumed it was because of the way she’d died; that she avoided the top of the tower on purpose.

He turned toward Vanessa. His mouth when dry when he saw she was no longer at the telescope. For some odd reason, she was leaning over the battlement, looking down. He started over, alarm pinging in his chest. The ping crescendoed to a bong when the stone she leaned against gave way. As it tumbled over the side, he shot forward under a surge of adrenaline. Before he could reach her, her feet left the ground.

Panic kicked him in the chest. He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. Time wound down and stood still. He zoomed toward the broken battlement, arms outstretched, but too late. A scream tore through the night. Ear piercing, blood curdling. It rang inside his head like a bell. He found himself running, trying to catch her. His fingers brushed fabric. It slipped away. She tipped, teetered, toppled. No! The blood left his head. He gripped the stone ledge. It was cold and rough.

The scene below turned his stomach. His heart stopped. His vision swam. His brain refused to take it in. His butterfly was sprawled on the flagstones, legs bent at impossible angles. Blood pooled around her head like a dark halo.

His thoughts spun like a tire trapped in mud. He stripped, spoke the magic words, and dove off the battlement. He underwent the change as he fell, swooping upward when his wings sprouted. As he set down beside her, he folded his wings. The smell of her blood so overpowered his senses, he nearly tore into her.

Shifting back, he bent over her. He reached out a hand, then, thinking twice, withdrew it. What if he caused irreparable damage? She was unconscious, both legs had multiple fractures, and one of the snapped bones in her arm poked through the fabric of her coat. Blood gushed from her scalp. Fearing her neck might be broken, he didn’t dare lift her head to try and stem the wound.

He felt for a pulse. It was weak and thready. The nearest hospital was in Wick. She was too far gone to ride on his back and driving would take too long, as would summoning an ambulance.

From the look of her, she had only minutes left to live.

He couldn’t lose her. The smell of her blood had summoned his fangs, a mixed blessing. He brought his left wrist to his mouth, but stopped before biting into it. Was this wrong? Would she hate him for it? He bit his lip and swallowed hard. There wasn’t time to contemplate the consequences. He’d just have to deal with what came. He sank his teeth into his wrist. As the blood streamed, he bent over her.

“Vanessa, can you hear me?”

She emitted a feeble moan. He pressed his bleeding wrist against her lips. “Drink, lass. This will save you.”

As her tongue fluttered against the wound, hope surged through his system. Her sucking, weak at first, gradually grew more purposeful. When she’d taken enough, he withdrew his arm and checked her pulse. It was strong and steady. He could hear her bones knitting as her limbs straightened. The blood was performing its healing magic, thank the heavens.

He climbed to his feet, now cognizant of his nakedness and the cold night wind. Shivering, he hugged himself and looked up at the tower.

“Sorcha,” he shouted at the stars, “what have you done and, more to the point, why?”

Spitting a curse, he raked a hand through his hair and tried to think. What had motivated the ghost to do it? He could come up with only two possibilities: she’d either done it to kill Vanessa or to stop her from leaving.

If it was the former, she’d gotten the opposite of her wish. If it was the latter, she’d taken a tremendous risk. The fall could have killed Vanessa on impact, though perhaps Sorcha knew it wouldn’t, having taken the same fall herself.

Whatever the reason, he was furious. Shaking his fists at the sky, he cried, “Damn you to hell, Sorcha. Damn your bloody soul to hell.”

* * * *

She was dead. She had to be. There was no way anyone could have survived a fall from that height onto flagstones. Still, Vanessa had expected death to feel differently. Painless, for one thing. Wasn’t physical sensation supposed to cease as the soul took leave of the body?

Either she was wrong or she wasn’t dead, because her head pounded, every bone in her body ached, and something toxic now flowed through her veins. Her mind was a dark sea of nothingness. She tried to focus her thoughts, but it only added to the pounding in her head. She felt weak, feverish, dizzy, and queasy. She opened one eye, but shut it again at once. Wherever she was, the light was blinding. It also looked like Callum’s bedroom.

Was she in heaven or hell?

She’d never given much credence to religious mythology—heaven, hell, holy ghosts, virgin births, or any of the other patriarchal nonsense designed to control the masses and keep women, especially, brainwashed and disempowered. She believed God was energy, not an entity. He was pervasive, not in some magical kingdom in the clouds.

So, where was she then? Her mind rooted around for other possibilities. In Dante’s
Inferno
, the gods condemned astrologers and other soothsayers to the Ninth Circle of Hell. To punish their hubris for looking ahead in life, they were doomed to spend the afterlife looking backwards.

Bloody hell.

Was her head on backward? Panic rising like a fever, she felt for her breasts, relieved to find them where they’d always been. So, not in the Ninth Circle of Hell, though, ostensibly, still dead.

Her hands clenched at her sides in frustration. It seemed so unfair that her life should end when it was finally starting to get good. She’d only just landed a full-time job in her chosen profession, had only just met someone who might make her happy.

The thought of Callum clawed her heart, giving her more pain than anything her body could dish out. Hang on. If she still had a body, she couldn’t be dead. Which must mean, by some miracle, she’d survived the fall.

It seemed improbable given the height of the tower and the solidity of the landing. Luckily, the shock had veiled her awareness, sparing her the horror of the impact. Even so, the memory of falling turned her stomach and brought bile into her throat. The burn made her cough and the cough made her grimace in pain.

Her eyes fluttered open. She called his name, her voice a feeble creak. She tried again with more force.

“Callum? Are you here?”

“Aye.”

Squinting against the light, she looked around. She lay on his bed, propped up on pillows, while he stood at the foot, leaning against the bedpost.

He looked different. More radiant somehow. She smiled and glanced around, seeing with a jolt that everything had changed.

Colors were more vivid, textures more defined. It was as if she’d spent all her life looking through a filter. Everything was brighter, crisper, sharper, and cleaner.

She met Callum’s gaze and, enthralled by the luminance of his eyes, made no attempt to look away. She became aware of the sounds from outside. The screeching of gulls, the sigh of the sea, the whisper of the wind in the trees. Nature’s symphony, the most astounding composition she’d ever heard.

“Something’s happened to me.”

He flew to her side, sat beside her, and enfolded her hand in his own. “How do you feel?”

She licked her dry lips. “Like I’ve risen from the dead.”

He gave her a tepid smile and squeezed her hand. “That sounds about right.”

Squinting at him, she asked, “What happened?”

“Aye, well.” He looked sheepish. “You fell from the tower, didn’t you? And would have died had I not, well,
intervened
.”

She blinked at him in confusion for a moment before understanding dawned. “You turned me?”

“I had no choice,” he insisted, flustered. “It was either turn you or let you die, which I just couldn’t do. What happened was my fault.”

“How do you figure that?”

“If I hadn’t brought you here, you couldn’t have fallen off the tower, eh?”

He had a point, not that she blamed him. Had she been in his shoes, she would have done the same. Still, it changed things. Not between them necessarily, but everything else. Her job, her diet, her life expectancy, her sex drive. It was all too much to think about. Overwhelmed, she shut her eyes and turned away.

He squeezed her hand. “Please don’t be cross with me. I did what I felt I must. What I believed was for the best.”

A hash of feelings sizzled inside her, but blame wasn’t one of them. Confusion, disorientation, fear, and angst, yes; but not the need to point the finger of blame at anyone. She needed to sort through it all, let her new reality sink in, get her mind around how to cope. At the moment, however, her brain steadfastly refused to cooperate. Try as she might, she could not retrieve the memory of falling. “How did it happen? Did I slip somehow?”

He stroked her hair. “A stone broke loose. I suspect Sorcha may have had a hand in it. I’m not certain, mind, nor can I do more than speculate about her reasons. I only know I felt her presence on top of the tower just before you went over.”

Vanessa bit her lower lip. Callum didn’t know about her last encounter with Sorcha’s specter. She’d meant to tell him, but the right moment never presented itself. It would seem the moment had come. “I didn’t tell you, but I had another encounter with her a couple of days ago.”