The Heat (17 page)

Daniel’s blood went cold. The color drained from his handsome face. His throat was suddenly very dry. “What?” he asked, his voice scarcely above a whisper.

Jonathan Kane only nodded, his expression one of concern and sympathy.

Daniel tried to speak, couldn’t, and cleared his throat to try again. “Are you telling me that there’s a chance…” He couldn’t even say it. The possibility was too sickening.

“Basically, what it comes down to,” Jonathan said quickly, as if to spare his grandson the thought that there was a chance Lily was not meant to be his after all, “is this: the alpha who wins the Dormant over first is the one meant to be her mate.”

The plane’s inhabitants fell silent at this statement. It was a bombshell of information that manifestly took everyone by surprise. Everyone, that is, except Valentine, who continued calmly, “Cole used the witch to locate her, based on the dreams she’d had. The rest, you know.”

“Actually, there is much we don’t know,
Parran
,” Jonathan said, using the Cajun term for “Godfather” to address Valentine. James accepted it with quiet grace. “Why didn’t he do this sooner?”

Valentine smiled. “He didn’t know he could. It was the witch, Black, who filled him in.”

“And how did he find
her
?” Tabitha asked, a blatant aversion causing her lip to curl at the thought of the red-haired woman.

“It’s an interesting story,” Valentine replied. “Black came up to him during a book signing and told him that she knew what he was looking for – and that she could help him find her. For a price.” He sat back. “Apparently, the other members of her coven didn’t take kindly to her going off the dark end. They were after her, and she wanted protection. She knew that he could give it. He agreed.”

Malcolm watched Lily St.Claire with a heightened sense of discernment. He seemed to notice everything. Especially when she thought she was hiding something from him. Like the way she counted the doors, studied the locks on the windows, noted how high off of the ground they were and what there might be to land on if she jumped.

As if he couldn’t tell?

It amused him. He also found it enticing. There was no better way to make a predator chase you than to run from him. He enjoyed the hunt. And little Lily seemed bound and determined to make a break for it one way or another.

He almost looked forward to it.

At the moment, they sat across from one another at the dining table, and he could smell the shampoo in her hair. Lavender and chamomile. He could smell the soap on her skin; the cinnamon on her tongue as she tried so hard not to devour the iced roll in front of her like a hungry animal. He knew she must be starving. But she ate quietly and slowly, her heart hammering away inside her fragile, human rib cage. Malcolm was hungry too.

Just not for food.

None the less, he sliced into the steak in front of him with marked deliberation, enjoying the way it felt to carve through the meat. As he forked the cut piece and brought it to his lips, he caught Lily glancing up at him.

She swallowed, watching him with a growing disquiet that he could both hear and scent. And then, as he chewed, he heard her heart kick up a notch. She was readying to ask him another question. He’d grown accustomed to the pattern.

“How did you know I was a vegetarian?” she asked, gesturing to her plate, which was filled with pastries and fruits and vegetables – so much different from his, which was anything but vegetarian.

He swallowed the meat and smiled, flashing fangs. He enjoyed the rush of fear and anticipation she experienced at the sight of his teeth. He was toying with her. He couldn’t help himself. “I know everything about you, Lily.”

She put down her fork, her jaw setting stubbornly. “How is that?” she asked.

Adrenaline was flooding her system. It always made the blood taste so good. Cole took his sweet time in answering, slicing off another piece of the rare steak and finishing it off before he finally smiled once more.

At this point, she was almost squirming in her chair, for he had yet to take his eyes off of her. He drew out the tension, taking a slow, languid sip from his goblet of wine and setting it back on the table. “I make it my business to know what I need to know,” he told her. “Consequently, luv, you won’t be a vegetarian for long.”

At this, she paled. He hid his smile behind another drink of wine.

“What -” She swallowed hard and tried again. He knew what she wanted to ask. He could have spared her and simply filled her in. But the game was too fun. Watching the play of emotion across her lovely face was utterly fascinating. He waited.

“What are you going to do to me? How do I…
change
?”

At the thought of turning Lily St.Claire, Malcolm’s crotch tightened. His grip on the glass tightened as well and he had to force himself to put it down once more before he shattered it between his fingers.

He knew his gaze was darkening and that his pupils were expanding when she gasped quietly and sat back in her chair, her lips parting in quick, shallow breaths.

He could understand her confusion. After all, she had yet to see any of them change into their true forms. “Where do you think the legends come from, Lily?”

“You mean that people have been confusing werewolves for vampires all this time?” she asked.

He laughed. He loved the effect his laughter had on her. She fought hard not to close her eyes and allow it to wrap around her like a vice. Finally, he leaned back in his chair and draped his arms over the arm rests. “Werewolves love the taste of blood. It soothes us, feeds us, gives us strength.” He paused, spearing her with a hard look before he added, “It turns us on.” He let this last bit drip from his tongue, his accent heavily laced with desire.

Lily bit her lower lip.

He continued. “Our eyes change, our teeth change, we age slowly and we heal from nearly all wounds. Contrary to myth, we can control when and where we change into wolf form, so most of the time – we don’t. You can see where the vampire fables come into play. ”

She seemed to mull this over, all the while watching him with that stubborn wariness. “What do you do when people start to notice that you haven’t aged in thirty years?”

At this, he chuckled again. “In the year twenty-twenty, Malcolm Cole the author will be in a horrible boating accident and his body will never be found.” He paused, letting the information sink in before he continued. “There is an island home in the Pacific waiting for me. I will wait until a sufficient amount of time has passed, and continue with my life elsewhere.”

“Is that what all werewolves do?”

“Generally speaking.” His eyes darkened and his tone lowered as he added, “It is very easy for people to die, Lily.”

At that, Lily’s chin raised defiantly. Something flashed in the gold of her eyes. She seemed to be thinking of something in particular. He tensed, not liking the change in her expression.

“You would know all about that, wouldn’t you, Cole?” she asked then, an impressive amount of bravery supporting her words. “You would know all about death. Killing, maybe?
Murder
.” He could almost hear her steeling her nerves against him. She was on a roll now. “How many people have you killed, Cole?”

“Again, it’s Malcolm,” he responded, his tone deceptively calm. “And I’ve lost count.”

Her eyes widened and her body stilled. Her breathing quieted, freezing in her lungs.

Good
, he thought. It was the effect he’d hoped for. He stood then, pushing his chair back. “You seem intent on delving into my past, Lily, so allow me to save you the effort of an interrogation and simply fill you in.” He moved out from behind the table and approached her side, his long legs eating up the distance between them in three easy strides. She tensed in her chair, every muscle ready to spring into escape mode, but he had to credit her with staying put. She hadn’t run.
Yet.

When he reached her side, he grabbed her chair and spun it around, forcing her to face him. She cried out in surprise as he placed his palms on her arm rests, caging her in, and then leaned forward, pinning her with his green gaze.

He wondered how long her little heart could keep up its frantic pace before it finally gave in from exhaustion and stopped beating all together.

“Yes, I was in the war and yes, I was a soldier in the Nazi German army. Yes, I have marks on my wrists and
yes
,” he hissed, leaning forward a bit more. “They are a curse. And, again, yes,” he continued, gripping the chair until the wood moaned beneath his inhuman strength. “I have witnessed death. More than one such as you can ever imagine.”

*****

It was a good, long while before Lily St.Claire was able to do anything but stare up at the man – the werewolf – who hovered over her. But there was something in Malcolm Cole’s gaze that brought her up short. There was heat there, to be sure. And passion. And anger and lust. Plenty of lust.

But there was something else, as well. She would recognize it anywhere; she’d seen enough of it in her short career. It was pain.

And as she realized this, Lily
knew
. She
knew
that he was lying. She knew there was much more to the story than he was letting on. Oh, he was good at hiding it. Very good. He’d had enough practice.

But this knowledge gave her the will to find her voice once more. “No you weren’t,” she said. It was scarcely a whisper.

Green eyes blinked. Once.

“You weren’t a Nazi. You were a spy. For the British.” She swallowed the dry lump in her throat and let out a shaky breath.
Keep going
, she thought.
The worst he can do is kill you and he’s not going to do that. Probably. At least, not right now
. “But that woman in the camp – she didn’t know that, did she? And she cursed you.”

She could sense Cole’s stillness above her. His expression was unreadable. But shock registered in the jade of his eyes. A muscle in his jaw ticked. To her left, the arm rest of her chair began to splinter.

And then, suddenly, he was rising, releasing the chair, and taking a step back.

She watched him in fascination as his dominance seemed to waver, to falter in the face of her knowledge, in the face of his memories. In a show of habit, he ran a hand through his thick hair and she noticed that it was unsteady. He turned away from her then, releasing her from his green gaze, and paced restlessly to the windows along one wall. They were a common theme throughout this grand house, and she could see why. The view was staggering.

When he reached the window, he placed his palms against it and leaned on them, his gaze skirting out over the vastness beyond. Lily slowly rose from her chair and, just in case, she inched toward the door.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Lily,” he said softly, his gaze still locked on the nothingness in the distance. His tone was different; instead of resonating with the dominance he normally wielded over her, it was instead subjugated.

She froze where she stood and waited, feeling as if she was on the brink of something very important.

“You’re right,” he said and sighed. “I don’t know how you know, but it doesn’t matter.” He shook his head and she could see his fingertips go white against the glass. “I had managed to get myself stationed at Dachau….” He trailed off, lost in a memory. “I’d just arrived and the general told me to have a look around. To get acquainted.” He swallowed and Lily could tell that it was a painful, dry swallow. He closed his eyes and continued. “I wanted to know how bad it was. My superiors wanted real intel. So I entered one of the cabins that would later become a brick row house. The prisoners were already starving. The stench was overwhelming. I was surrounded with faint heartbeats. And no heartbeats at all….”

Lily listened intently. As he spoke, his British accent again wrapped itself around her, but this time, not in pleasure. In sadness. She was once more standing in her dream, amidst the very suffering of which he spoke. And she couldn’t look away from the scene unfolding before her.

“One pulse was particularly erratic. It concerned me. I approached the woman, recognizing her for a Roma.” Cole’s eyes opened at this and he pushed away from the window to turn around and pin Lily with his green gaze. “A gypsy to you Americans. She was close to death. But not close enough.”

Lily cleared her throat, swallowed, and as if sensing she was going to speak, Malcolm waited.

“She grabbed your wrist and said something,” Lily ventured. “In another language. What did she say?” she finished softly.

Cole leaned back against the glass, crossing his arms over his chest. “She called me a soldier of death. A bringer of death. And then she said, ‘If you love death so much, may you be its eternal witness.”

Lily and Cole were both silent then. The space between them was filled to the brim with the growing discomfort that comes with new understanding and stark realization.

“What did she mean?” She finally asked.

Cole was silent for a moment, watching Lily intently. And then he blinked and, moving so swiftly that he literally blurred, he came to stand before her and was ripping the leather bands off of his wrists.

Lily gasped and jumped as he held them up so that she could see them. Blood-red markings of ancient, cryptic origin marred the insides of his arms. They looked painful. Ominous.