Taming the Heart (Creatures of the Night Book 2) (4 page)

He closed his eyes and tried desperately to recall what had happened when he had turned. It was impossible. Most people thought that when you were immortal you had all these centuries of unlimited knowledge at your disposal. Unfortunately it just wasn’t true. The mind could only store so much memory, only so much information before it just disappeared. It was like asking a thirty year old to recall his birth, or asking a fifty year old to recall his first day of elementary school.

The only reason Braden knew his birthday at all was because he had kept a journal as a human. It was so old now that it was a relic. He’d had it laminated to try and preserve it. Seasons came, and seasons went. Once every ten years or so he made a journal, a short cataloguing of events, but truly he couldn’t recall the change that had occurred nearly a thousand years ago. He could hardly recall what he’d been up to thirty years ago. He knew something of how the change went though. He’d read about some of the experiences the newer hunters had had with it.

By all accountings she should be howling in unspeakable pain, tearing down the walls of his little cabin. He should have already had to have drug her out into the wilderness to fight her until she came to understand her gifts. She should be trying to rip his head off and he was supposed to be teaching her how to hunt. Well not him. The mentor was supposed to be here doing this, not off catering to some mission in another country. Let the mentor in that country handle their own affairs.

His mood did not improve as the temperature began to drop. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy the cold, but he should be in his house in his bed right now. He had been on the hunt for two months and he wanted to be in his own space for a while. He lifted his nose to the air and sniffed. There were creatures, but they were running from him. They would hit Alaric’s territory in the higher areas of Canada soon enough and he would bounce them back down again. Until then it was his turn to rest, not deal with this shit.

He perked up a bit when he heard cries of pain coming from inside. Finally. It was starting. He jumped down from his perch and strode purposefully towards the cabin. He entered and stopped. The cries had stopped which puzzled him again. He heard something crash from his bedroom so he headed that way. He stopped near the bathroom door and waited. There was no sound coming from inside the room. There was no breaking glass. There was no smashing porcelain. There wasn’t even the sound of useless thrashing about on the tiled floor.

He tried the door to find it locked. He rolled his eyes and suppressed a curse. He hated doing damage to his house, but he had known the entire way up here that it was going to happen. He twisted the lock until it crushed beneath his hand and he pulled the door knob from the wood it was set in. The door came open easily for him and he peered inside. He froze instantly at the sight that met his eyes.

She was sound asleep in his bathtub with one of his rifles pulled across her lap and pointed at the door. The front of her white shirt was soaked and clinging to her perky breasts. Her hair was escaping its confines in wild blond curls from her recent struggles and she still clutched her arm to her chest wrapped in his brown towels. He was glad they weren’t white towels or he would have seen…

He felt his eyes change and the hunger slam into him. Damn. She was still bleeding. But that couldn’t be. Her heart should have already stopped beating by now. She should have been changing right now. But she wasn’t. Her heart was still beating, her blood was still flowing. He could hear her heart beat in her chest like a wonderful symphony bass drum, loud and full. And she smelled…

He stepped out of the room and closed the door for a moment. His fangs had descended without his consent. He closed his eyes and willed them away. He took a deep breath and stilled himself. He wasn’t some young hunter that couldn’t control his urges. He’d been around hurt innocents before. He’d smelled blood plenty. He’d also seen a woman’s breasts before. None of it was new to him… but when had he last seen a set of perfect perky breasts like that?

Damn. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been with a woman in any way besides to take what he needed from her. Sex had lost its appeal for him long ago. He’d been married three times only to watch those human women die. He had lost heart after the last one. What was that, a hundred years ago?

He shook his head. None of that mattered now. What mattered was that the woman in the bathroom was still human… what did that mean? Was she just experiencing the change differently than most or was there something else at work?

Stealing himself mentally and physically he opened the door and entered again. This time her eyes flew open and she sat up. Before he could say anything at all she shot him. He felt an explosion of heat in his face and was temporarily blinded.

*

Miranda startled awake and before she could stop herself the gun went off. The tall man fell backwards and sprawled on the ground, blood seeping from an open wound on his face. She threw the gun away as a scream of terror escaped from her lips. She had shot him! She had actually shot him. She had only really intended the thing for bluff. She allowed herself a few more minutes of screams and panicked sobs before she had to stop.

She had killed him. She had blown his head off. The matter on the door made her scream even harder when she tried to look up. She was shivering when she finally stopped sobbing. She heard a gurgle coming from his direction and realized with a horrifying clarity that he had survived.

He had survived and for the rest of his life he would be like one of those tragic failed suicide attempts walking around with half a face. She had to do something, she couldn’t just sit here in this tub or he would die. Rallied to action she pulled herself from the tub with her one arm. The pain in her other arm was like a pain that she could not control. It was a living thing kicking her in the gut. She pulled her way over to him.

She had to look away as she pulled herself up to his side. She was right. Half of his face was gone, eye socket and all. She could see his tongue hanging out of his face. What had she done what had she done! She was patting his clothes looking for his cell when he grabbed her arm.

“I have to call an ambulance,” she said with a shaky voice as she forced herself to look into his one remaining eye. He shook his head before he released her and forced himself to sit up. His hands went to his face and all she could see was his back. “We have to call. You will die if they don’t get here quick. They won’t arrest you right away for kidnapping me. They will make sure you get care first. You have to let them come for you,” she tried again softly, glad that she didn’t have to look at him for the moment. She felt so bad, she just wanted to sink into the floor and turn to dust. She had shot him in the face.

“No need for that.”

She turned a sharp look at his back. How had he annunciated the words so clearly with only half a face? He turned his head to look at her and she scooted away as quickly as she could manage. She looked up into his two eyes. She pointed at him with a shaking finger.

“Your… y-your… but I shot you in the face! Your face should be gone,” she shouted hysterically.

He stood and went to grab one of the towels that she hadn’t knocked down with her rifle. He wiped the blood off of his face and when she saw his face in one whole piece again she dissolved into a screaming fit that she could not seem to stop. He covered his ears and turned to look down at her which only made her scream harder. Finally he strode over to her and the last things she saw was his arm arcing down toward her neck.

A brachial strike put an end to the incessant racket. Why she insisted on screaming and getting hysterical every other minute he did not know. She had to be the most annoying creature he had encountered in a few hundred years. He stood there and looked down at her slumped form. She was also very tiny… so so small. He felt that pang in his heart and rubbed a hand over his chest again.

She was dirty and she was frightened, like a lost little puppy. He preferred a scrappy mutt but then… she was far tougher than she let on. She went into hysterics at every turn, yet she was in a wheel chair. She had been through something. He didn’t get the sense that she had been born in the chair. She also hadn’t opted for one of those motorized deals. She used her arms and they were very strong arms indeed.

She had to of made sure his rifle was loaded. She had brought herself in here and catered to her arm. She had cleaned the wound and set herself in a secure defendable position. All that she had done so far with a broken arm and no legs amazed him. He wondered if he would be able to pull himself around with just one arm. She was no wimp, though she acted like it.

Before he could talk himself out of it he scooped her up in his arms and carried her into his bedroom. After laying her on his bed, he went back to the bathroom in search of her things. He doubted that the military duffle bag was hers and grabbed the pink and purple hand sewn duffle instead. He held it by its frilly lace strap as if it were an offensive insect. He opened it and dumped the contents on the bed.

If he could get headaches, he would have one now. He braced himself as he went through the pink and white fluff. The lacey panties, the gauzy summer dresses, the hello kitty nightgown. He picked up a long white nightgown before he went to her. She was shivering in her sleep. Good. That meant the fever would come soon and her heart would stop beating. Then, when it started again, it would be different. She would be different. Stronger. Tougher. More prone to throw out those stupid frilly girly clothes.

He stripped her sopping wet pants off along with her frilly pinky panties. He dropped them to a heap on the floor. He then pulled away the towels she clutched to her arm. He sucked in a breath as desire slammed through him. She was still bleeding and her pail flesh was born to him like an offering of some sort. She smelled so good to him and her frail vulnerability made something in him come alive. He just barely controlled the slide of his fangs. Pushing past the cravings he reached for her muddy and wet shirt. He ripped it off without disturbing the arm again. Her arm looked really bad.

He had seen his share of wounds, but this… He looked at the nightgown. How was he going to get it on over that wound? He shook his head and threw the nightgown back towards her things. He went out to his truck and grabbed the kit he kept there in case he came across an injured innocent. Since the invention of automobiles, he’d had to save more than one human from an accident caused by one of the creatures who accidentally ran into the road.

He returned to the house quickly and stopped at the small closet in his hallway. He pulled out old clean linens and wash cloths. He then went back to his bathroom and removed a jar with a healing fluid he’d created himself.

He went back to the bed and smelled the fresh blood again. She was so small and helpless. The monster in him stalked, wanting to be released. He wanted to lick at the wound. He wanted to cover her with himself. It would be so easy… Again his fangs slid free and something else in him stirred. He looked down at his pants. Damn. He was hard. What was happening to him? He had lost desires like this long ago. She was a fledgling, a wounded and handicapped human. She was so, so, so… small. That was the perfect word to describe her.

He shook away his apparent desire and didn’t waste any more time with his stubborn fangs. They insisted on being out, so be it. He was not going to bite her. She was going to turn and then her blood would be poison to him. Maybe this was part of it. Maybe Bateman didn’t tell him about this part, or maybe this was why a mentor was supposed to do this and not a hunter.

He shook the jar in his hand and allowed the root to mix with the liquid. He was glad she was sleeping when he poured some on. It would have burned like the sun if she had been awake. He couldn’t understand why the arm hadn’t already begun to heal itself. If she were to turn, not only would her arm heal, her legs would heal as well.

He tore the linens in his hand to strips before he folded the washcloths into squares. He placed them over to the side in preparation. He opened the tool box to reveal an array of medical supplies. He pulled on gloves before he opened the surgical needle and thread. He then took a closer look at her arm. He used a tool to remove any broken bone fragments. There was no way to see how to set the bone properly so he placed it in as natural an angle as possible and began to close up the jagged pieces of flesh to sew them together.

He grabbed her arm and again was glad she was out cold. He pulled a stint from the bottom of the box. He placed it beside her before he pulled the arm straight and laid it against the board. He then put the folded cloths against her arm before he tied them with the linen. He then tied the arm to the board securely. He stood up and took a deep breath. His hands were shaking. There was blood all over his hands and clothes. He snapped the gloves off and threw them on top of the pile of her clothes.

He headed to his closet and pulled out a big black robe, then went back to the bed and lifted her up pulling the giant robe beneath her. It swallowed her up in its big folds. He set her back to the bed before he spread a blanket over her still form. He tried not to revel in the smell of her or to remember how she had looked with no clothes on, her beautiful creamy skin, but it was a trial. After he cleaned up, he grabbed some clothes and headed for the bathroom. He growled in frustration at not being able to close the door, so he propped her sister’s duffle against it.

He quickly showered in cold water before he donned new clothes. Braden took the old clothes out in the yard, along with her suit and shirt, put them in the barrel, and set them ablaze. Despite his efforts, the smell of her clung to him, to his house, in his head. He shook his head and growled yet again. How had he gotten himself into this?