Where Dark Collides: Part 1 (Shades of Dark) (2 page)

Blinking back stars of pain, I lurched to my feet, right in time to see Kial’s white fire clash with blue, one emblazoned bolt slithering along the other in a lethal mating dance of flame-encrusted snakes. Threads of burning light frayed into a web around the spectacle as the snakes of pure Angeon power duelled with pure Demor power, reaching and ebbing in the fight for dominance. Kial bucked his white fire and the connection cracked.

The Demor faded.

That’s one accounted for, but there was at least one more. Where was he?

“Good God. Hey!” The voice, filled with concern, was approaching rapidly. “Are you alright?”

My attention split in two.

From one side, the stranger was running, in the wrong direction—he was almost upon me. Fear hammered my pulse. Kial and I could handle ourselves, but this human was as vulnerable as a new born lamb,

From the front, the remaining Demor made himself known with a tell-tale burst of blue.

Without thought, without a blink of hesitation, I flung myself over the hedge. Right on top of my would-be hero, flinging us both to the ground—or rather, him to the ground and me on top of him. The slab of muscle I landed on did nothing to break my fall.

Before I’d caught my breath, Kial was leaning over us. “They’re gone. Faded.”

“This doesn’t make sense.” I pushed to my knees, inadvertently straddling the man between my thighs. “They lured us outside with that window, I’m sure of it.”

“Maybe they assumed you were alone.”

“There were still three of them against the two of us.” I looked down on the ashen face beneath me, suddenly aware the man hadn’t moved or made a sound since I’d tackled him. Not even an ‘Oomph’ from the impact when I’d landed on top of him with my full weight.

His eyes were closed.

“The odds were definitely stacked against them,” Kial snorted. “I’d have run, too.”

“You’re full of it, Kial Callin.” My fingers leapt to the man’s throat, finding a strong pulse. A sigh of relief whooshed from my lungs and reset my pulse. “I only knocked the wind from him.”

“The idiot probably fainted.”

“Play nice.” I raised a sharp brow at him, but chuckled as I wrapped my hands around the stranger’s shoulders, shaking gently. Sticky liquid seeped through my fingers, turning my laughter into a curse.

“He’s been hit in the shoulder.” I scrambled off his body. “Help me, we’ll have to bring him inside.”

Kial was instantly serious, hunching down to lift the man beneath the arms, leaving me to grab his legs. “What in hades was he thinking?”

“I think he was trying to save me,” I said, somewhat bemused.

PULLING A CHAIR UP, I settled down to my vigil, watching the injured man sprawled on my sofa as he slept. Well,
slept
might be a bit of an understatement. For all I knew, he was totally catatonic. The briefest brush with Demor fire could do that—and a lot worse—to a human, and this man had taken a direct hit.

But his pulse was reassuringly steady, and I was reasonably sure he’d groaned once when we’d slathered potion over the jagged slice branded deep into the hollow of his shoulder. I’d give him another half-hour, I decided, then we’d consider calling 999. I didn’t need the attention, but I didn’t need a dead man on my hands either.

With nothing left to do (for at least the next half-hour), I allowed myself to appreciate the finer qualities of my maybe-coma, hopefully-just-sleeping patient. His face was all harsh angles and ridges, a face that would no doubt be ruthless when not softened in sleep.

Thick lashes fringed eyes that would be dark, pewter maybe, or even a soul-absorbing midnight black to match the hair that fell across his forehead. Firm lips slashed a square jaw shadowed with stubble and something more, something dark, as if a lifetime of danger brooded somewhere between those strong bones and golden tanned skin.

I’d been too concerned earlier to fully appreciate the rippled muscle, broad chest and narrow hips, but I’d definitely noticed everything. We’d left his shirt off once we were done, draping a blanket over him instead. Now I wished Kial hadn’t pulled it up quite so high.

I inched forward in my chair, debating the likelihood of Kial walking in, or
him
waking up, if I tugged the blanket lower.

Wicked thoughts raise the devil.
That had been one of my mom’s favourite sayings. Well, what she actually used to say was, “That’s a wicked thought, enough to raise the devil.” Usually accompanied by a cheeky smile.

And maybe she knew something I didn’t, because right then the stranger stirred. Guilt flushed my cheeks, although I hadn’t really done anything.

His eyes fluttered open.

I found myself trapped in a glazed stare the shade of lightest jade.

“Um.” I cleared my throat. “Hello…?”

The haze evaporated and his vision cleared. His eyes never left me as he tried to sit up.

Straining forward, I placed a tentative hand on his chest. “You’re injured.”
How much does he remember?
“Please, don’t move too suddenly. I don’t want your wound to reopen.”

He fell back from the pressure of my words rather than my hand. His fingers brushed over the bandage wrapped from his left shoulder to his waist.

“What the hell happened?” His voice was honey blended with whiskey, hard and masculine and oddly seductive.

“You were, um, shot.”

His brow furrowed, his eyes narrowed on me.

“I was not merely shot,” he said, each word enunciated with an edge of accusation. “That was a damn Star Wars scene out there. Who were those men and why were they trying to kill you?”

“Men?” I shrugged. “They were just boys. Kids from a local gang, and I’m not sure they were trying to actually kill anyone. Kial and—my friend and I went out there, hoping to give them a scare. We’ve been having some trouble with them lately, you know? Graffiti. Slashed tires.” I could see he wasn’t buying my fibs, so I went in for the kill. “Tortured kittens, that kind of thing.”

Who could resist a tortured kitty?

“A local gang armed with fire bolts,” he said dryly.

“Target lasers would be my guess.” I offered him a dubious smile. “Although I’m no munitions expert.”

Our voices brought Kial into the living room, sparing me for the moment.

“You should drink this,” Kial informed our patient, shoving a mug of coffee under his nose. He hadn’t quite warmed to the man yet. “Sweet and black…for the shock.”

Those green, green eyes hardened on Kial. “I don’t drink coffee.”

Kial stood back and shrugged. “Only trying to help.”

“I’m Raine Shelle,” I said, initiating introductions partly to break the tension, partly because I was curious. “This is my friend, Kial Callin.”

Another beat passed before his stare broke from Kial and came to me. “Roman.”

He pushed himself carefully into a sitting position on the sofa, his hand going to his shoulder in a protective gesture. “Roman La Mar.”

Such a soft, flowing name for a man who was, so far as I’d seen, all hard edges, hard stares and hard suspicions.
Roman.
I liked the way it rolled off my tongue. I liked it a lot. And the longer I looked into his jade green eyes, the more the name suited him.

And now I was staring.

I blinked, and refocused my priorities. “Would you prefer something else to drink? Water?”

A grin touched his wide mouth, not reaching his eyes. “I could do with a decent Scotch.”

So could I.
But… “Not a good idea, I’m afraid.”

“I’ll make it a double,” said Kial, ignoring my eye roll as he walked out.

I turned back to Roman with a sigh. “Is there someone I can call for you? Someone who might be worried where you are?”

“Let’s cut the bullshit, shall we?” Despite the brash words, his voice was warm and husk, designed to lure confessions from the most resistant. Even his gaze softened, washing over me, inviting confidences he had no right to. “I know what I saw.”

“Bullshit?” I stalled, all out of fresh lies.

“My shoulder feels as if it were ripped apart by a sword of fire. Blue fire, to be precise, originating from that… that thing’s palm.”

Ah, so he’d seen that.
I made a sympathetic noise. “You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

“Are you’re suggesting I’m delusional?”

The soft wash caked brittle on my skin. Green eyes that hinted at a league of ancient secrets bore into me with rapt warning.

Not a question. A second chance, a last chance, to cut out the crap and lies. Apparently he’d tried nice and now he was going with threats.

Damn those Demors! What was I supposed to say now?

“Before you say anything else,” he added, “I saw you hold up your hand and deflect the same fire that struck me.”

I lurched to my feet, wiping damp palms on the back pockets of my jeans. This was going so, so not well. What about the duel Kial had engaged in? Had he seen that? How did I explain snaking swords of fire?

Demors I could face without breaking into a sweat, but explaining the intricacies of my world to a human was new, terrifying territory. My gut told me—screamed a pithy siren against the back of my skull—this human was a danger to our very existence. He’d seen too much, but it wasn’t only that. It was… I didn’t have a clue, just a vague feeling, maybe born from the ancient secrets buried in his black eyes or the danger-laden valleys of his jaw. If I had the gift of premonition, I’d call this one at 7.2 on the Richter scale of bad.

For a second, for the briefest, darkest second of my life, I considered the advantages of cleaning up this mess the Demor way.

“Forgive me, Raine Shelle.” He slumped back into the sofa, his face contorted in pain. “I’m not usually this abrupt.”

Immediately ashamed at my black thoughts, I wrung some sort of smile from my grimace.  “You’ve been through a lot.”

Premonition wasn’t my gift any more than mind reading was. I had nothing scientific or concrete to back up this very bad feeling. And if I had, I’d still never trade the life of a human for my own. Well, not unless he held an actual gun to my head or a knife to my throat. Even then, I’d aim to stun or maim rather than to kill. Mercy comes easier to those with staggering advantages. Sometimes.

Kial returned with a tumbler of whiskey and I grabbed the opportunity, fleeing to the kitchen, disturbed by the way this Roman La Mar had managed to unnerve me.

He was bluffing. He must be. What man could be so confident, so self-assured, to believe his own eyes over every natural law? Humans made excuses, they spun improbable tales of yarn a mile long to explain away the impossible.

I set about making a pile of sandwiches to replace our ruined meal, needing to keep my hands busy.

There wasn’t much I could do about the hot mess inside my head.

Kial had cleared all evidence of the exploding incident and he’d closed the drapes on the shattered window while our unexpected guest had been out for the count. Roman La Mar would just have to accept the possibility he was confused, concussed, and there was nothing currently evident to dispute it.

All I had to do was deny, deny, deny.

Kial’s arms came around me from behind to steal a ham sandwich. “Do you think he’s going to leave it alone?” he said near my ear.

“Do you think getting him drunk is the answer?” I hissed quietly, glaring over my shoulder as he drew back.

“A fuzzy head in the morning might save us from being front page news.”

“He saw everything!”

“I know,” Kial grunted. “I was listening.”

I looked at him, hoping for more, but it seemed both our solution tanks were empty.

“C’mon.” I handed over a plate of sandwiches, taking another with me as I nudged him out the kitchen.

Roman was fast asleep.

I strongly suspected Kial had slipped more than ice into his whiskey, but I had no argument with that.

We dropped onto opposite ends of the unoccupied sofa, munching on our sandwiches in comfortable silence.

My gaze kept drifting in Roman’s direction.

No restless tossing and turning.

No fever.

Just that lethal power lurking in the hollows and carved into the angles of his face. My gaze lingered on his lips, slightly parted with his shallow breaths.

Gods, this man was seriously gorgeous. He had enough sex appeal to turn a cloister of nuns and I hadn’t had any in a long, long time.

With a sigh, I tucked my legs beneath me and snuggled deeper into the sofa.

Maybe I was making this out to be worse than it had to be. Roman La Mar was…
different
. He’d rushed into danger without a care for his own life. His pain threshold, either that or the magnitude of sheer determination to push through the pain, rocked the charts. Demor fire crept into your body like a million marching ants, biting, tearing, searing, driving one to near madness. I’d taken a direct hit, I knew what it felt like, and Roman didn’t have the advantage of Angeon internal-defences and self-healing abilities.

Self-doubt was clearly not part of his vocabulary. He knew what he’d seen and apparently nothing could shake that. All at once I knew,
knew
, I could deny all I wanted—and he’d never have any proof—but he’d never be talked out of the truth of what he’d witnessed.