Whisper to Me (Borne Vampires Book 1) (2 page)

Distantly, he thought he heard a growl. Lifting
his eyes, Rathe saw the wolf was inches away from his face. Her lips were drawn
back in a snarl, exposing her long, sharp teeth. He straightened, and she sank
backward into his arm. Her eyes rolled back in her head.

“No, no, no! Mariah, don’t you dare die on me.” He
laid her down on the ground, shoved his sleeve back, and bit his wrist. Before
the wound could close, he opened her mouth and pressed the wound to her lips. Massaging
her throat, he managed to get her to swallow it.

“Drink, Mariah! Drink my blood,” he urged as he
pumped his fist to make the blood flow faster into her mouth.

When he thought she had ingested enough of his
blood, he pressed his ear to her chest and heard the slow beating of her fragile
heart. She was alive. Checking his wrist, he saw the wound had healed, and the
realization of his actions crashed in on him.

“God in Heaven, what did I just do?” Clumsily, he
sat down beside the unconscious woman. He, who had been fanatical about
upholding the Borne laws, had broken the First Law for a human female he had
just met!

Hell that was the least of his problems when he
spotted the hunters on the hill. Their bodies radiated heat like beacons in the
night. They were sweeping back where he and the woman were. Well, she’d kept
her end of their bargain, so would he.

Lifting her into his arms, he stood and said to
the wolf, “Lead the way to your cabin.”

The wolf and her companion headed down the trail. He
followed them, alert for other hunters and the Damned they served. Passing the
lake, he saw a small cabin emerge out of the fog he’d summoned. He scanned the
cabin and perimeter, finding the two who shot him was heading in the opposite
direction of him.

Stepping onto the porch, he opened the door and ushered
the dogs inside. Closing the door with the push of his heel, he found the
inside of the cabin was a studio-type with a kitchenette. He carried her into
the bathroom and flipped on the light. Stripping her down to her white, lacy underwear,
he saw she wore a silver medallion necklace. Taking it in his hand, he read the
runes marking around the black cross.

A protection spell? Why would Mariah Jordan need a
protection spell?

His questions would have to wait, feeling her skin
ice cold. He wrapped a towel around her and sat on the closed toilet with her
propped across his lap. Turning on the faucet, he took a washcloth, wetting it,
and wiped the blood off her throat and mouth. When he finished cleaning her, he
carried her back to the living room and tossed aside the quilts covering the
bed.

Laying her on the bed, he drew away the towel and
carefully arranged her long auburn hair over her shoulder. The softly curling
mass nearly reached her waist. Thick, black lashes lay against her pale skin,
and he wondered what color her eyes were. Against his better judgment, he removed
her bra. Captivated by the sight of her soft, rounded breasts, pink nipples
erect and tempting, made his mouth water to taste them. Shifting his gaze down
to her narrow waist and curved hips, he slowly drew down her underwear, and his
mouth went dry when his eyes fastened upon the curling nest of auburn hair at
the crux between her shapely legs. All coherent thought fled him. Lust arose hard
and sweet, a delicious feeling that had eluded him for the last thirty-odd
years.

And it had to be a human female who made him feel
again. The same one he could be put to death for. How ironic. Shaking his head
at his bizarre situation, he reached for the quilts and tucked her in. Straightening,
he saw on the kitchen table was a laptop and opened it. Words appeared on the
screen, reading what was typed, the vivid and extremely erotic love scene she had
written made his libido stir. Looking at Mariah, he grinned, having gotten a
taste of the wild side of the romance writer. If given the opportunity, he would
most willingly be a test subject for
any
ideas she wanted to experiment with.

Bloody and dirty, he decided to use her shower to
clean up. He saw her dogs sitting beside the bed, watching Mariah sleep. Kneeling
down, he petted the male, whose silk black fur was broken by a gold mask on his
face that extended down his broad chest, under belly. Two white stockings on
his front feet. Although the animal accepted his touch, the dog kept his gaze fixed
upon Mariah. The wolf, on the other hand, must have decided to forgive him and
pushed at him with her nose until he petted her.

Wearily, he rose to his feet and undressed. Setting
his boots aside, he tossed his and Mariah's clothes into the fire, adding wood
to destroy evidence of him and her involvement with him. Striding naked into
the bathroom, he stood before the mirror, examining the damage done when he’d
been shot. The bleeding had stopped, but there were ragged, puckered wounds of torn
flesh scattered across his wide, hairless chest. Teeth clenched, he dug the
bullets out and tossed the bloodied lumps of silver into the white porcelain
sink.

His body began to heal when he stepped into the
shower stall and turned on the hot water. Ducking under the spray, he took the
bar of soap and scrubbed the blood off him. When he felt clean, he ended his
bath and grabbed a towel, drying off on his way to check on Mariah.

Sleeping peacefully, she showed no signs of
turning. His relief was short-lived. She was still in danger. To protect her,
he had to make her forget about him, wipe out all memory of their meeting, in
case the hunters found her cabin and questioned her about him.

Whispering in her ear, he ‘willed’ her to listen
to him, “Nothing happened tonight, nothing out of the ordinary. Dogs didn’t
even bark. Sleep, Mariah, sleep, and forget about me.”

Sighing, he stood and tossed the towel on the
recliner. Retrieving his boots on his way outside, he locked the door and
closed it behind him. He stood on the front porch, observing the beauty of the
forest in the predawn hour. Drawing in a lungful of pine-scented air, the demon
in him was quiet, something he’d not experienced in a long time. Whether it was
her blood or his near demise, he did not know, but was grateful for the
reprieve.

Exhausted and sore, he needed to go to ground and
heal. Walking into the woods behind the cabin, the feeling he should stay close
to her struck him. It persisted enough he gave in and stopped. Within sight of
the cabin, he waved his hand and the dark, loamy soil parted, making a grave big
enough for him to sleep in.

Floating down into the grave, a thought struck
him. What if she awakens as the Damned? Perhaps that was the reason for his
reluctance to leave her. It grieved him to think of her turning into a demon
vamp, especially after she had bravely saved his life.

There was another matter bothering him. “How
did
you know where to find me, Mariah
Jordan?”

✝✝✝

Running.

 
She
was running, but she could still feel those terrible eyes on her. Desperate,
she summoned the darkness, hiding in the nothingness. Roaring his fury, the
sound deafening, he cursed her, furious at being denied her flesh and blood — her
soul!

Loud banging on the door tore Mariah free the
clutches of the nightmare and sent Bear into a barking fit. Opening her eyes,
the bright sunlight sent splinters of excruciating pain shooting through her
skull. She ducked under the quilt.

The pounding persisted, and so did Bear’s barking.

Flipping back the quilts, she saw she was naked.
Why did she undress before she went to bed?

The knocking continued.

“Bear, be quiet.” Wincing, her throat sore, she
slipped on her green plaid robe and tied the belt secure around her waist as
she unsteadily made her way to the door.

Opening it a crack, she saw a lanky, heavyset man,
who had his back to her. He wore a white cowboy hat, beige work shirt, and blue
jeans. Strapped at his right hip was a holstered gun. She stifled a groan.

A cop. Great.

“Can I help you?” she croaked out.

He turned around to face her. Tipping the brim of
his hat in greeting, he casually rested his hand on the butt of his gun. “Sorry
to disturb you, ma’am, I’m Sheriff Orland Willard, and I need to ask you a few
questions, if yer up to it.”

 
Opening the
door wider, she tried to smile at him. “Sure, what’s going?”

“We’re conducting a door to door search, trying to
find an escape felon,” Sheriff Willard replied grimly.

A gaunt, blond-haired man stood beside the
sheriff. Clean cut and wearing a black polyester suit, there was a sickeningly
sweet and sour odor emanating from him, reminding her of a landfill after a hot
day baking garbage. When she met his cold, lifeless, blood-shot eyes, she
couldn’t help comparing him to an animated corpse. He put his hand on the door and
shoved, entering her cabin.

Salish growled and lunged at him, forcing him to
stumble backward into Sheriff Willard. Seizing her collar, she was stunned at
her wolf's uncharacteristic, aggressive reaction toward a human.

“Sheriff, what's going on here? What happened last
night?”

What the hell happened
last night, and why can’t I remember anything?

Sheriff Willard pushed the man aside and shot him
a disgusted glare. “Sorry about Special Agent Murphy, here, he appears to lack
manners. As to your question, last night Murphy called in and said he lost his
prisoner, a
convi
—”

Furious, Murphy interrupted him. “I told you,
Sheriff, the man jumped me and he escaped on foot. He’s around here. I just
know it.”

“Calm down, Murphy, I meant no disrespect. Ma’am,
did you see or hear anything last night?”

Bits and pieces of last night began to emerge. Fog
and fear. Hunters. Hunting what or who? Forcing herself to act casual, she
shrugged her shoulders. “Sorry, I didn't hear a thing. Heck, my dogs didn't bark
or even twitch an ear.” Where had she heard that same phrase before?

“What's your name and occupation?” Murphy demanded
of her.

Wanting him to go away, she imagined he was
standing on hot coals. Building the image in her head, she kept making the
coals hotter. To her surprise, a heavy film of sweat beaded on his high forehead,
dripping down his pasty-white face. Gritting his teeth, he started to shifted one
foot to the other, as if he
were
standing
on hot coals

“My name?”
What’s
wrong with him?
“I, uh, well I’m....”

Sheriff Willard ordered, “Murphy, don’t get
side-tracked. Mrs.—”

“Miss. Never been married.”

“Sorry. Miss Jordan, are you sure you didn’t hear
anything last night?”

“Not a thing.” God, she was thirsty! Rubbing her sore
throat, she tried to swallow, but it was too painful. Her tongue felt like it
was swollen twice its size and kept trying to stick to the roof of her mouth.

“Here.” Sheriff Willard dug his wallet out of his
rear pocket and withdrew a business card from it, handing it to her. “If you
remember anything or if you see anyone acting suspiciously, give me a call.”
Stepping off the porch, he opened the driver’s door of his patrol SUV. “Miss
Jordan, how long do you plan to stay here?”

“I'll be on the road in a couple of days.” She
glanced nervously at the interested FBI agent.

“Well, sorry to hear you leave so soon. Lock your doors
and keep your dogs close while yer here. What Murphy says about his prisoner,
he's a real mean bastard, so be careful,” he warned. “Let’s go, Murphy. We’ve a
lot of other cabins to stop at.”

Not moving, Murphy appeared to be fixated on her
neck. With a sneer on his thin lips, he asked, “Guess you had a late night,
huh?”

“What do you mean?” She was struggling to hold
onto Salish, whose hostility toward the man increased dangerously.

“You just appear to have lost some sleep, or maybe
something more interesting happened to you?” His eyebrow raised suggestively, a
knowing look in his cold eyes.

“I think the sheriff wants to leave. Oh, and a
word of warning — don't come back around my cabin. If you think my wolf is
unfriendly, my other dog will rip you to pieces. Good day!” She slammed the
door shut and released Salish.

The SUV’s engine started, and she heard it drive
away. Letting the dogs outside, she saw rays of reds and pink color the windows
of her car. The sun was setting?

Checking the wall clock, it read forty past six. Astonished
that she had slept the entire day away, she didn't have time to dwell on it, needing
something to drink badly. Reaching into the fridge, she took out the orange
juice and drank it down in gulps. Throwing the empty container in the garbage,
she stumbled into the bathroom, her head pounding with a vicious headache. On the
chance glance down into the sink, she saw the bloodied, misshapen lumps of what
had to be bullets.

Silver bullets.

“What the—” Flashes of a dark-haired man and
blood, lots of it, briefly blinded her. When her vision cleared, she saw
herself in the mirror and gasped. Two puncture wounds were on her neck, the
skin around the marks bruised and purpling.

A little voice in her head whispered,
Vampire
.

“Son-of-a-bitch!” She had to leave. Crap, she had
to turn in her key for the cabin rental and sign out! Someone should be at the
lodge and if not, she’d just push the key under the door!

Tossing her toiletries into the travelling bag,
she hurried back into the main room and put it inside her suitcase. She
realized her pajamas and the underwear she’d worn last night were missing. Where
were they? Deciding it not worth trying to figure it out, she pulled out of her
suitcase and put on a black bra and underwear, a pair of old, cutoff jeans, and
a faded t-shirt, bearing her favorite rock band’s logo. She made to tuck her medallion
inside her shirt, stopping when her thumb touched the runes, feeling they were
flush with the cross now.