Through a Crimson Veil (25 page)

They’d just turned onto the street where they’d parked when the fireblast streaked by. Mika and Conor tackled each other to the ground behind a parked car. “Not the Dark Ones,” she murmured against his ear as they crouched behind the vehicle. Not when that shot had been directed at McCabe.

As he nodded, a second blast separated them. They dove in different directions. They were facing multiple attackers who, while they might want Conor, clearly weren’t concerned if she took a hit. She assumed this team included the auric assassin, but he was saving his special energy blast for the perfect opportunity.

Like hell, she decided, and looked around. Her vishtau mate was already firing back, fireblasts of his own directed toward their second attacker.

Their foes had the setting sun at their back, giving them an advantage: Mika was blinded. She might not be powerful enough to make a storm, but she could gather clouds, and she did that now, trying to even the playing field. She wasn’t able to block the sunlight completely, but she dimmed it.

Conor spared her a glance. “Nice,” he said, sending out another wave of energy.

Mika whirled, avoiding a shot from the first attacker. She wasn’t positive exactly where he was, but she called on the wind, rotating it until it became a mini-cyclone, and
sent it toward where she thought her assilant was. It might not have stopped the Dark Ones, but these foes weren’t quite so deadly, and maybe some blowing debris would slow them down.

After she sent the tornado on its way, she looked around, trying to find shelter, but the position of their attackers left her and Conor with no place to hide. McCabe was busy exchanging fire with the second, but demon number one was abnormally quiet. Where the hell was he? Mika reached out mentally, trying to locate him, but couldn’t. Which wasn’t good. No way in hell had her trick with the wind been more than a distraction; he wasn’t out of the equation yet.

Maybe it was because she had her senses extended, but she suddenly knew precisely where her enemy was positioned. And as her eyes traced the line, she realized Conor was directly in his sights.

It didn’t require even a split second of thought: Mika launched herself across the distance separating them and put herself in front of Conor. In the next instant, the energy blast hit her.

Mika staggered, tried to keep her feet. Tried to keep Conor protected. Her body refused to obey. She felt herself start to fall, felt McCabe catch her. Part of her retained enough awareness to realize she’d taken a stronger blast than anything the dark demons had leveled at her. But then, this assassination squad wasn’t playing around.

Her lungs burned as she gasped for air. Not a cell in her body didn’t feel as if it had been clobbered by a sledgehammer. The intensity was like nothing she’d ever felt. It was almost a gift when her senses began to numb. Almost, but not quite. Her eyesight began to narrow, her view of the world became distant, as if she were staring down a long tunnel, and Mika knew what was happening.

At least she’d saved her vishtau mate. That’s what counted.

As her life force drained away, she struggled for a moment more of consciousness. She had one thing left to say. One thing left to do. “I love you, Conor,” she rasped.

And then Mika fell.

“No.” He whispered the word, but what Conor wanted to do was howl out to the universe. He gathered Mika’s body up, held her tightly as he scanned the area. Where the hell were his assailants? They weren’t firing. Were they moving into position for another shot? Lulling him into a sense of false security before springing a different type of trap?

He reached for his magic, the power he found too horrible—too demonic—to ever use. If those bastards thought they were going to finish Mika off, they had better think again. His soul was a small price to pay for her life.

He kept scanning, but picked up nothing. Which was odd, since demons rarely cloaked during a battle. But these two obviously were, and had been, only dropping their shields a split second before firing, and raising them immediately after getting their shots off. Why?

The night was quiet. Every instinct Conor had said there was no longer any danger, but he continued to try to locate his attackers. He wasn’t ready to trust they were gone—not when this would be a perfect opening. But as time passed and everything remained calm, he decided he had to move.

He lowered Mika to the ground, cradling her head against his chest. She’d deliberately put herself in front of him, deliberately taken the energy blast. “What the hell were you thinking?” he hissed.

There was no answer, and as Conor looked down at Mika’s face he realized she wasn’t just injured—she was dying.

Too late, he realized she’d meant it when she said she loved him. Probably she was the only person who’d ever cared for him that deeply, and he hadn’t believed her, had scoffed and berated her for speaking the words.

And yet she’d said them again and again.

She’d never given up on him.

With a shaking hand, he reached down and smoothed a dark tress off her face. His fingers ran into the goofy little hair clip she’d bought today—it dangled precariously in the ends of her hair—and carefully he unhooked it, slipping it into the pocket of his jacket. His fingers touched his comm unit, which he pulled it out, starting to call for help; then he remembered there was nothing human medicine could do to save her.

“Mika, don’t leave me, okay? Please don’t leave,” he begged.

He jammed the comm back into his pocket and lightly stroked her cheek, ran his thumb across her lips. “Come on, honey, hang in there. Fight. You know you want to tell me I’m an ass. That I should have known you’d never let anyone hurt me.”

Half-afraid of what he’d find, he rested two fingers on the pulse in her throat. It was weak, thready. And there wasn’t one fucking thing he could do to keep her alive.

“You know,” he said quietly, hoping she could hear him wherever she was, “you’re everything I’ve always wanted, all I’d dreamed of finding someday. But I couldn’t trust it, I guess. Maybe that’s why I was so quick to doubt you, so quick to believe the worst. Maybe I wanted to think you were part of that conspiracy, because then I didn’t have to risk anything.”

Conor laughed, but his throat was thick and the sound was choked. “All right, you weren’t on the up-and-up. I know that. But you made that promise before we met—I should have been able to let go of it.” He felt movement. “Mika?”

Spasms wracked her body, and he locked his arms around her, trying to keep her from hurting herself in her thrashing. “Ah, damn. Ah, damn. Honey, please. Don’t die. I’ll do anything, I swear.”

“Anything?”

Conor jerked his head up at the voice. He couldn’t see more than a silhouette, but this was a demon, no doubt about it. He wasn’t completely cloaked, which was why Conor could see him but couldn’t read his energy.

Shit, he hadn’t sensed anyone approaching. Who else was out there? Conor scanned, but only sensed some humans. He couldn’t trust that, though, not when this son of a bitch had gotten the drop on him. He drew on his power again, ready for anything, and growled, “What do you want?”

The demon held up both hands in a universal sign of peace. “It’s not what I want, it’s what you want. I can heal her.”

Eyes narrowing, Conor tried to pierce the shadows surrounding the demon, but whatever obscured him wasn’t natural. If it were, Conor would be able to see his face.

Conor didn’t trust anyone who hid so much of himself and demons lied. “You think I’m going to trust you with her?” he snarled.

The demon’s reply was matter of fact. “Do you have a choice? Another ten or fifteen minutes and it won’t matter. Your mate’s dying, I can feel it from here.”

Conor’s gut told him this demon was concealing something, but he wasn’t sure he could care. Mika
was
dying. He knew it; he felt her life energy decreasing every passing second. And Conor would do anything to save her.
Anything.

“What’s the price for healing her?” he asked.

“It is steep. You may not want to pay it.”

Maybe a demon wouldn’t pay, but Conor considered himself human, and life meant something to him. Especially the life of this woman. Mika was the only person in the world for him—he wasn’t letting her go. Not if he could help it.

“Whatever it is, it’s yours. If she recovers,” he promised.

The demon laughed, and Conor choked back his fury. If Mika died, he would avenge her—and he’d start with this bastard.

“Don’t you know anything about negotiating with a demon?” the cloaked figure asked.

Conor glared into the darkness. Every minute Mika grew weaker, and this asshole wanted to play games? “I know that if you don’t stop fucking around, I’m going to kill you,” he swore.

The demon laughed again. “I’m the only one in Crimson City who can heal her. If I were you, I wouldn’t be tossing out threats.”

“I’m not making a threat,” Conor said. But he made his voice more amenable. He wouldn’t cost Mika her chance to be healed. “You said it yourself: time is short. Let’s not waste it. You want something, I’m willing to give it to you. It’s that simple.”

There was a moment of silence, and Conor’s heart started to race. Had he pissed the demon off? He hated the damn cloak; it left him blind in a situation where he needed to know what was going on. But before he could call out, Conor heard the demon move closer.

“Very well. I promise to heal your mate, and in exchange you promise…” His voice trailed off.

The silence left Conor breathless, but he held Mika and caressed her as a way to remain calm. She was still alive, and if he had to be patient a minute or two longer, he could do it. He
would
do it. His entire world was in his arms, and Conor wasn’t letting go.

Half a million years later—or exactly fifteen of Mika’s exhalations which Conor was counting—the demon stepped into the light and dropped his shield. “And in exchange, I want your promise not to kill me—or incite anyone else to kill me—by any means whatsoever. Do we have a deal?”

Rage poured through Conor, a rage more intense than anything he’d ever known. No wonder the demon had stayed cloaked, had remained in the shadows. This was the bastard who’d raped his mother.

“You son of a bitch,” Conor growled. Instinctually he gathered power to do battle. “Did you really think I’d agree to that? You deserve to die.”

“But does she?” his father indicated Mika.

Conor glanced down, shifting so that he could see her face. It was pale—not merely white, but gray. She wasn’t dead, he reassured himself. As if in answer, he felt a soft puff of air against his throat, and something inside him relaxed.

“What’s stronger—love or hate? That’s the final question,” the demon proposed. “Do you love her enough to put aside your hate for me? Because if you can’t, she dies and you’ll be as responsible for her death as the Setonian that fired the shot.”

Mika. She loved him. She loved him enough to put up with his bullshit, to apologize again and again for something she’d promised before they’d even met. She loved him enough to try to breach his fears, and he knew how formidable those were after his past. And she loved him enough to take his place, to step in front of the magic meant for him.

But the bastard was wrong. Conor didn’t have to surrender his hate; he only had to give up his need for vengeance. For Mika, he could do that.

Only for Mika.

“I promise not to kill you,” he grated out, “or incite anyone else to kill you by any means whatsoever. Word of honor. Now get over here and heal her.”

Conor gritted his teeth as the Kiverian sauntered forward. He wasn’t moving with as much urgency as the circumstance called for, and Conor had to hang on to his control with both hands. If the bastard let Mika die, all bets were off.

“You need to let go of her,” his father said. Conor held on even more firmly. “I can’t heal her like this. You have to put her down.”

Reluctantly, Conor released Mika and slowly moved back. He stayed close, monitored the son of a bitch carefully. No matter what it took, Conor would watch over his woman.

But the demon never touched her. Instead, he knelt beside Mika, his hands a good three inches above her heart. The only thing that kept Conor from losing his temper was the fact that the energy flowing between the Kiverian’s outstretched hands and Mika’s body was palpable. Maybe it was imagination, but she seemed to begin breathing a little more smoothly, a little more evenly. Conor wanted to touch her, wanted to push the hair off her forehead, but he didn’t dare interfere in any way.

A soft glow developed in the space between his hands and Mika’s chest, and the demon began chanting. Conor could only decipher a word here and there, but he recognized an ancient demon language.

Conor didn’t dare relax his guard, but as the chanting went on, Mika appeared to become stronger. It seemed as if the bastard really was healing her. When her face regained some color, Conor actually felt the knot in his chest loosen. He fisted his hands at his sides to hide their trembling. It
was too early to let relief pour through him, too soon to assume she was going to be fine. When she opened her eyes,
then
he’d believe.

The chanting stopped and Mika’s body jerked. Hard.

“You son of a—”

“Her life force is reentering her body. The movement is natural.” The demon smiled faintly as Conor eyed him with suspicion. “Think of when you’re about to fall asleep and you suddenly jolt awake. Your entire body lurches like this, right?”

Reluctantly, Conor nodded.

“This is similar. It won’t be much longer now.”

Conor growled, but he settled back and waited. The bastard knew his promise only stood if Mika was healed. As long as he remembered that, Conor could remain calm.

The glow receded as another intonation began. This time Conor was unable to recognize a single word, but he had a sense that this language was older than anything he’d seen. Not that it mattered. He didn’t give a damn if the bastard sang “The Star-Spangled Banner,” as long as Mika lived.

As the demon drew out a word, his hands shifted to Mika’s head. Conor’s gaze sharpened, but his father merely circled his palms over her face. Then he went quiet and lowered his arms. Mika didn’t move.

“Call her name,” his father said, before Conor could accuse him of anything.

He eyed his sire with distrust, then lowered his gaze. “Mika, wake up,” he said.

And that easily, her eyes opened. She blinked twice and noticed she was on her back with Conor leaning over her, and her lips curled into a smile. “Now? On the street? Conor, you’re such a pervert.”

For an instant, he stared at her blankly, then he laughed. “Honey, you wish. You’re the pervert who always has sex on the brain.” He started to reach out for her, then yanked his hand back. Almost involuntarily, he raised his gaze to his father.

“It’s okay,” the demon said. “You can touch her.”

Conor cupped Mika’s cheek in his palm and ran his thumb over her lips. “How do you feel?” he asked.

“Like a twenty-mule team ran over me.” The querulousness in her voice made him smile. “I didn’t say anything funny,” she complained.

“No, I know you didn’t, but the fact that you’re alive to bitch at all is a miracle.”

Well, kind of a miracle. Reluctantly, Conor looked again at his father. He had to force them out, but the words had to be said: “Thank you.”

“Merely fulfilling my end of the bargain.”

“Maybe, but her life is worth more than yours.”

The Kiverian laughed, and for the first time, Mika noticed him. She stared. “You look just like Conor,” she said.

Conor felt his relief start to slip away. “What the hell is wrong with her?” he demanded. Mika never moved so slowly.

“Nothing’s wrong. She merely needs sleep, and lots of it.”

“But—”

“Hey!” she interrupted. “I’m still here, you know.” She tried to sit up, but didn’t make it. “McCabe, help me.”

With one last glower at the Kiverian, Conor slipped his arm behind Mika and gently raised her to rest against his shoulder. She looked around, then leaned more heavily against him. Conor struggled, not wanting to show weakness in front of his sire, but he couldn’t hold out. Bending over, he pressed a kiss to Mika’s forehead.

Smiling at him, she turned to the Kiverian. “You’re Conor’s father,” she said. It wasn’t a question. “I’m Mika Noguchi.” When she held out her hand, Conor barely kept from growling in displeasure. This wasn’t some damn tea; there was no need for social niceties.

“Sebastian,” the Kiverian said, and when his fingers touched Mika’s, Conor struggled to keep from knocking his arm away.

“You resemble him, you know—right down to the eye
color. If you got a haircut, the two of you could pass for brothers.” Conor felt his body becoming more rigid, and only the fact that Mika had nearly died kept him from snarling at her. Maybe she sensed his temper becoming precarious because she changed the subject.

“You’re cloaking us?” she asked.

The demon nodded. “And sending out energy that makes humans find it unappealing to turn down this street.”

“I wish I could do that,” Mika said wistfully. In the next breath, however, she started giving orders. “Okay, we need to get out of here before someone overcomes the shield he’s emitting,” she said. Conor nearly smiled. Her mental slowness appeared to be gone.

“How long does she need to stay in bed?” Conor asked, looking at his father.

“Eighteen hours, minimum, but twenty-four would be better.” The Kiverian shifted his gaze to Mika. “If you can keep her sleeping that long.”

Conor nodded, acknowledging the difficulty. Mika was impatient, impulsive, and she wouldn’t be able to tolerate lying in bed—not for long. “You have a way to make sure she sleeps?” he asked.

“McCabe,” she warned.

His father got to his feet and put his hands in the front pockets of his trousers. “Do you trust me that much?”

Conor didn’t have to think twice. He’d deal with Mika without the bastard’s help. “No.” But…help. That reminded him of something. “You’re working with the dark demons, and they want her dead. Why the hell did you heal her?”

“You won’t like hearing this, but not because I’m frightened of you.”

Conor wanted to stand and face down the bastard, but he fought back his rage. Softly, he said, “You don’t know what I’m capable of.”

The Kiverian shrugged. “Actually, I do know. I’m a
healer, and you’re my son.” Conor tensed. He hated hearing he was related to this monster, but the demon continued speaking. “That means there are only two possibilities. After watching you tonight, it’s clear you weren’t born with the power to treat the injured. That means you must be one of the few who have the opposite talent.”

“If you can call it a talent,” Conor muttered.

“As for the Dark Ones,” the Kiverian went on, “my only promise to them was to do what I could to keep you alive.” He paused, glanced at Mika and then continued, his voice low. “Both of them are gunning for her. The dark demons want you to lower the veil between worlds, and they’ll do whatever they must to achieve that. Protect your mate closely, because they view her as a threat.”

Conor’s father glanced around again, but seemed more at ease when he resumed speaking. “There are two auric assassins sent by the Council to eliminate you—both Setonians. I’d thought she was working with them, but learned differently tonight.”

Conor read between the lines and made a guess. “The Setonians broke off their attack because the dark demons arrived. That’s why they disappeared after Mika was hit.”

His father inclined his head. “All demons—even auric assassins—fear the Dark Ones. And with good reason. Whatever stories your woman’s told you, believe them. She’s not lying. They’re the closest thing to true evil I’ve ever seen.”

Then, without waiting for questions, the Kiverian stepped back and faded into his magical fog.

Conor scanned for his father, but picked up nothing. He knew the bastard was still there, though, and he fought to ignore that. Bending down to Mika, he said softly, “Come on, honey, we need to get out of here.”

She murmured, and Conor realized she was half asleep. His heart thudded wildly, but some sense told him she was okay, that this was a healing state. He assisted her to her
feet and then lifted her into his arms, carrying her to his pickup.

Once there, though, he didn’t want to let go of her. Damn, he had it bad. Conor had to force himself to stop holding her, and secure her in her seat. And yet he hesitated, watching the rise and fall of her chest until he was satisfied that her breathing remained even and steady. Then, gently, not wanting to disturb her, he leaned in and brushed his lips across hers before closing the door and going around to the driver side.

Maneuvering the truck home through the streets of Crimson City, Conor drove more carefully than he ever had in his life. But then, he’d never carried a more important passenger. His sole focus was getting Mika home safely.

Mika tried to figure out what was brushing across her forehead. She felt…achy, stiff—as if she’d been immobile for days or something. And her head throbbed.

That soft grazing came again, and reluctantly she opened her eyes. McCabe was leaning over her, a concerned expression on his face. “Sorry,” he apologized, “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

It was only after he pulled his arm back that she understood Conor’s fingers had been stroking her forehead. She missed their light touch as soon as they were gone. “How long have I been asleep?” she asked. “A hundred years?”

“Nah, only about twenty hours or so.”

“Twenty hours? Hell.” Mika slipped out of bed and moved.

“Where are you going?”

“Bathroom,” she said, and tossed him a get-real look. Did he really think her incapable of going alone?

McCabe was waiting outside the bathroom door when she reemerged. Before she had a chance to protest, he swept her up in his arms and carried her back to bed, carefully tucking her beneath the covers. Once she was settled,
he lay at her side, propped himself on one arm and leaned over her.

Mika wanted to sit up, but with Conor hovering, she couldn’t, not without bashing her head into his. Of course, there were worse things than being held prisoner by a sexy man wearing nothing except a pair of shorts.

His expression sober, he asked, “What do you remember about yesterday?”

“Everything,” she said. When Conor looked skeptical at her assertion, she elaborated. “I took a hit—a serious one, if the way you’re hanging over me is any indication—and your father showed up.”

“Don’t refer to him as my father.” Conor’s voice was hard.

Mika reached up and lightly circled the muscle jumping in his cheek with a couple of her fingers. “All right,” she agreed easily. “Sebastian is the one that healed me, right?”

“Yeah.” There was reluctance in Conor’s voice. “But don’t ascribe any altruistic motives to him. The bastard only did it in exchange for my promise not to kill him.”

Damn, Mika thought. She wished she knew what had gone on after she’d passed out. Obviously, she’d missed a few important moments.

Since she didn’t feel up to tackling the issue of his heritage, not with her head aching, she simply said, “Thanks.”

Some of the fierceness left McCabe’s face. “You don’t have to thank me. You took that blast because you thought you were protecting me.” His expression hardened. “Don’t ever do anything like that again—do you understand me?”

“You’re welcome,” she replied.

Conor sat up and gave her a look she couldn’t decipher. “You have no idea how close you came to dying, but I do. I held you in my arms and felt your life seep away.”

He didn’t say any more, but stared straight ahead. Mika slowly shifted to her knees, the blankets falling away from her as she moved. She smiled faintly at her clothing. Mc-Cabe had put her in the purple panties and a matching tank top. She adjusted one of the spaghetti straps and
pressed against his back. “I didn’t die, so don’t think about that.”

He didn’t reply, and the silence lengthened. Mika leaned forward, ran her hands across his chest, and nipped at his nape before kissing it. She considered it a victory that he didn’t tell her to stop or pull away.

“Why did you do it?” Conor finally asked.

Mika froze for a nanosecond, then rested her chin on his shoulder. “That’s easy. I love you.”