Till Abandon (10 page)

Damn man was completely nuts. Voltaire kept her eyes on him and reached for Blake's wolf. The human might be MIA, but something told her the wolf was another matter. She conjured the wolf's image in her mind's eye—the huge, powerful animal, its grey coat, green eyes glowing and spittle dripping from its jaws.

Deep inside her man, the wolf roused and stretched when it felt her presence. She murmured reassurance, stroking its back, sinking phantom fingers into its thick fur. Through their bond, she fed the wolf images, allowed it to see the situation and waited until she knew it understood.

As she petted the wolf, Voltaire spoke to Ken.

That's not going to happen, Ken.

He paused, murder blazing in his crazy-ass gaze. “What the fuck did you say?"

He lunged at her, a clammy hand gripping her neck. “It's not up to you, Death Bringer. I decide what happens from here on, and I say yes to the power.” His heavy breath puffed out at her, spit flying everywhere. “I say yes to it all, Voltaire,” he whispered. “I suggest you get on board willingly, or I will drag you on."

Those cold fingers pinched her skin, but Voltaire didn't even wince. Inside Blake, the wolf roared its displeasure and clawed at her psychic hold, fighting to get out.

She tightened her hold on the wolf, promising,
Soon, soon,
while meeting Ken's gaze.
Not going to happen, Ken. Please, don't make me kill you.

He laughed in her face. “Kill me? I'd like to see you try. I've frozen your gifts, I'm in control of the shifter and inside your mind, Voltaire.” A wide grin spread like butter across his face. “I know what you're thinking—I see your every move before you make it."

Voltaire smiled, baring her teeth. “Do you, now?"

At the sound of her scratchy voice, his eyes widened, and he reared back but kept hold of her neck.

"How did your jaw heal so fast?” He flicked his eyes over her face and she felt his probe of her mind. Voltaire allowed it and she knew the instant he bumped into that little road block, the ball of energy hopping along for a ride in her brain.

"What the hell is that?” His face paled, his hold on her slackened.

"That, right there, is what makes me, me."

Voltaire jerked away from him and threw her hands up. Right before Ken flew backwards, he lashed out with his dark magic and she felt it slice though her middle. A fierce burning consumed her body. She toppled over, breath leaving her on a sob.

The wolf reared up and she released her hold on the animal. In a blink, the wolf was unleashed, replacing Blake's naked human form with its powerful frame. Yards away, Ken struggled to his feet and the wolf pounced, going straight for the throat. Ken would've screamed, she knew, but all the crazed man managed was a gurgle as the wolf tore his throat from his body. Blood poured and she watched as the wolf's killer instinct took over, protecting its mate from any danger.

An icy-cold hand swept down her spine and she trembled violently as she felt Ken's soul leave his body. Death made its presence known by kissing her from head to toe with ice, then disappeared, leaving the arctic temperature behind.

The wolf dropped Ken's body to the ground and turned to Voltaire.

Blood coloured its mouth and the animal flicked out its long tongue, washing it away. Green eyes glowed as the wolf stared with its head cocked to the side. She sank to her knees as tears flowed. The wolf licked her face with a whimper and she smiled.

The animal didn't like to see her cry.

"Okay,” she sniffed. “I'll stop crying, but we have to fix Blake. Bring him back to me—I want to see him."

One last lick of her face and the wolf disappeared. Blake lay on the cold floor, naked, motionless.

"Blake, wake up. Open your eyes, shifter."

No movement.

Holding her breath, Voltaire swept into his mind. Blake's mind remained a deep void. No memories, no images of her, of them, of his life.

Coming back out, back to herself, Voltaire took a breath to calm the frantic screaming in her head and forced herself to think.

"Okay, okay. I think I know what to do."

Leaning forward, she pressed her lips to Blake's. She stretched out next to him on the floor and suppressed a shiver at the chilling cold. Linking their fingers, she closed her eyes and concentrated. She found the ball of bright energy in her psyche and rolled it to the corner of her brain she shared with Blake, whispering to him all the while.

"Wake up, my mate. I need you."

Nothing.

She pushed harder, forced the energy when his body would have rejected it.

"Accept it, Blake. Please. Accept me."

She sensed a flicker of recognition, then Blake began sucking at the energy, pulling it into himself.

Yes!

She sighed, then panic flared when she realised he was taking her own life force, sucking away her essence. But this was Blake, her mate, and whatever he needed, she'd provide. Even her very life.

Her body grew heavy, her eyes drooped and her head lolled to the side as darkness claimed her.

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Motherfuck, he hurt like hell. Pain pounded behind his closed eyelids and Blake moaned. He pressed his burning cheek against the cold, flat surface he lay on. His fingers curled. His entire body felt afire, but the cold floor was rapidly cooling him down.

He winced and blinked his eyes open. A dark room—that's where he was and for a second he frowned, trying to remember how he'd ended up there. When last he checked, he'd been on top of Voltaire, out in the woods, basking in the heat after a bout of lovemaking.

Then pain. Yes, the likes of which he'd never experienced. And darkness—deep and never-ending darkness.

Swallowing, heart hammering, he forced his wolf senses to the forefront, used the animal's vision to sweep a glance over the room. To the left was nothing but empty space, not even a window. He turned to the right and gasped.

Voltaire lay a couple of feet from him, unmoving.

Something was wrong, had to be—he couldn't even feel his mate's presence in the room. Even now, as he stared at her with his heart in his throat, he couldn't
feel
her.

"Voltaire?"

Gritting his teeth against the pain, he got to his knees. He crawled to where she lay and grasped her hand in his. Her fingers were stiff and ice cold, her skin almost translucent, to the point where he could clearly see her veins.

"Voltaire."

Blake cupped her cheek, shook her. Inside him, the wolf whimpered mournfully, pacing back and forth. He blinked away the burning in his eyes.

"Wake up, Voltaire.” He slapped her across the face once, twice. “Wake up—you said you'd never leave."

Something warm and wet slid down his cheek and dropped on her forehead.

Tears.

"You lied to me,” he whispered brokenly. “You promised me always, and you lied."

Blake gathered her in his arms, buried his face in her hair. Inhaling her lilac scent, he gritted his teeth.

"I want you to open your eyes now,” he commanded in her ear. “Open those weird-ass eyes and look at me."

The pulse behind her ear fluttered and his heart leapt. Blake pulled back, stared at her face, but nothing else moved—her eyes remained closed, body cold and motionless. He pressed an ear to her chest. Her heart beat in quiet time. Voltaire was alive, so something else was going on.

They had no time to figure it out now—he had to determine where they were and get them back home. Once home, he would be able to think more clearly, maybe contact the PSC to find out what was wrong with Voltaire, why his mate couldn't—wouldn't wake up.

Laying Voltaire gently on the floor, he got to his feet and span in a circle. He couldn't see any doors, any openings at all, only four walls and an extremely low ceiling he could reach out and touch. A secret entrance maybe? Hidden door? He walked over to the farthest wall and slid his hands over the smooth surface, pressing, searching for any bumps.

Nothing. Tamping down his frustration, he moved to the next wall and the next, doing the same thing over and over while keeping a worried eye on his mate. After all this time thinking he'd never find his mate, she'd found him. They hadn't been together a week and already he might lose her.

Blake shook his head at his morose thoughts. He wasn't losing her—she'd promised him forever and he would hold her to it. Through the mind of the wolf, he saw what happened after he'd passed out. Voltaire had been intimate with the killer, Ken. They'd had some type of sexual relationship he didn't want to think about, but apparently Ken had wanted more.

All this because Ken had wanted Voltaire and was unhappy she'd thrown him over for a wolf. Blake could understand not wanting to give up Voltaire after having a taste of her, but Ken didn't get that she was more than her prowess in bed, more than the gifts she'd so obviously been burdened with.

She was fire and ice, wrapped in an ivory bundle decorated with multi-coloured eyes. She was Blake's mate and he'd fight to the death to keep her at his side, his woman always.

Nothing was happening with the walls, not a crease, indent, or anything to indicate a hidden door.

"Fuck."

What did that leave, then, the ceiling? He stared upwards, trying to make out any ridges in the low ceiling. Far over in one corner, he spied a wide chip in the white paint and shuffled closer to pull at it.

Tearing away the paint revealed a trapdoor, but there was no handle, nothing to pull on to lower it.

"Crap."

He stood on tiptoes and slid his fingers over the door, looking for anything that would help. Using both hands, Blake pushed upwards. A loud click, then the door dropped open, the stairs attached swinging towards his head.

Barely moving away in time, Blake stared up at the dark sky, breathing in the cool, crisp air. The wolf whined, and he turned to Voltaire. He slung her over his shoulder and climbed the stairs, the frigid cold going unnoticed on his naked flesh.

Back in his apartment, Blake dressed Voltaire in one of his T-shirts and tucked her into bed. Pulling on a pair of sweat pants, he grabbed the pre-paid phone she'd left on the bedside table, sat on the edge of the mattress, and hit redial. He studied her pale face while waiting for someone to answer.

"Yes."

He inhaled sharply at the husky female voice. “Something's wrong with Voltaire."

The woman on the other end paused for only a second. “Who is this?"

"Blake Montez. Voltaire's my mate."

"Ah, yes. And I'm Remi Parascu, President of the PSC. What happened to her?"

Blake brushed a knuckle over Voltaire's cheek. “Someone named Ken killed my best friend and tried to do the same to us."

Remi gasped.

"He did something to us, to our minds. My wolf killed him, but Voltaire isn't waking up or responding.” He forced himself to talk around the lump in his throat. “I can't feel her presence in my head—or in the room, even though she's lying right here. She's gone.” Those last two words were a mournful whisper he couldn't control.

"Christ. All right, take it from the beginning. Don't leave anything out."

He told her everything he'd learnt from the wolf, including Voltaire giving him her life's very essence.

"Did her saving me do something to her?"

And would he be able to bear the guilt if it did?

"I'm not sure. I haven't heard of anyone doing what you said she did. Voltaire—and her abilities—remain a mystery to the Council, even though we reared her. We suspect her gifts are evolving, becoming even more potent and dangerous."

Blake frowned. “What does that mean, exactly?"

Remi sighed. “It means Voltaire is literally one of a kind. We don't even know what she is—a death mage, white witch with dark powers? No one knows, and we don't know the extent of her abilities, what she can and can't do."

"But how do we help her now?” He sounded harsh but he couldn't help it. His mate was slipping away from him. Right now he couldn't care less about what to label her. As far as he was concerned, she was simply Voltaire.

"Another agent in your area might be able to help. I believe you're familiar with Czion Whitehall?” She might have been going for innocent with that question, but Remi didn't quite pull it off.

"Yes, the jaguar and I have a history."

Remi grunted in his ear. “As of now, that history takes a back seat if you want your mate back. Czion is the only one of us close enough, and I'm not even sure he can help. I've already contacted him and he's on his way. Try not to kill each other, hmm?"

Breath left Blake in a rush. He tightened his grip around the phone.

"Thank you, Ms Parascu."

"Don't thank me, thank Czion."

The phone clicked in his ear.

Blake stared at it, then hung up as his wolf growled. A jaguar was at his door and, as much as he hated to think it, his enemy was the only person who might be able to help his mate. He got to his feet and went to let the feline in, gritting his teeth all the way.

Standing in a corner of the bedroom, arms folded, trying to stifle the loud rumblings of the wolf, Blake watched as Czion stretched out on the bed beside Voltaire. The jaguar had kicked off a pair of expensive-looking loafers and was dressed in black slacks and a white, knitted sweater. His long, black hair was gathered at his nape with a rubber band.

Distrust and violence hovered thick in the air between them, their animals itching to get out. Mutually, silently, they both ignored the pull—strong as hell for Blake—and focused on the pale woman lying on the bed. Neither man spoke. Blake had only nodded at Czion when he opened the door, and led the other man up the stairs to the bedroom.

Now he watched. The wolf waited, pacing back and forth under his skin, looking for an excuse—any excuse—to break loose.

Lying on his back, Czion closed his eyes and reached for Voltaire, linking her fingers with his.

The wolf growled a warning.
Mine
.

Blake took a step forward, but forced himself to stop. Breathe. Think. He was out of his element in this arena and his possessive crap might hurt Voltaire. He blinked away the red haze covering his vision.