Brush of Darkness (2 page)

“I don’t know when she’ll be back,” I added. The truth of it galled me because I really didn’t. The Faery woman had left nearly four months ago and, except for that last note taped on her office door, I hadn’t heard from her at all. But this guy didn’t need to know that. Hell, none of them needed to know that. I could barely get the OtherFolk to give me the time of day as it was. God only knew what they’d do if they realized Moira wasn’t here to hold them in line. “If you’d like to sample some of her . . . other wares, I’ll be reopening the shop around back from midnight to one
A.M
.”

“Will you, now?” He stepped closer and I shivered, the quiet power coiling behind the words dancing over my skin.

Sweat beaded on my forehead, cool and clammy. “They don’t call it the Midnight Marketplace for nothing.” I thrust out my chin in subtle challenge, ignoring the rising panic that fluttered at the base of my throat. Piss him off, Abby. That will be brilliant.

His face was quiet and brimming with secrets like a Cheshire cat’s. “You’re her TouchStone, aren’t you?”

“Of course I am,” I agreed pleasantly. “And now that we’ve established the obvious, let’s get back to business. Who are you?”

“Tsk.” He waggled a finger at me, and I rolled my eyes. Something about the gesture was very familiar, but if I’d met him before I couldn’t recall. Then again, I’d only been Moira’s TouchStone for six months and I’d seen an awful lot, much of which had become a muddled mess of fancy sparkles and obscenely beautiful people. Anchoring an OtherFolk to the mortal realm wasn’t an easy—or straightforward—task.

“Fine, I get it. Names have power and all that, but it makes it a bit hard to leave a message, don’t you think?” I
pointed out.

A flicker of a smile showed on that perfect mouth as his gaze roamed about the bookstore. The store itself was fairly plain, but it had high arches, a giant stone fireplace with overstuffed cushions on the floor, and thick crown molding around the top where the paint was peeling off. I had told Moira the whole thing needed remodeling, or at least some fresh paint, but she insisted the place had “character.” Shabby chic, maybe. Sounded like laziness to me, but whatever. It wasn’t my store. I just worked there.

The man wandered through the stacks for a moment. I seized the opportunity to take his measure, or at least attempt to stare at his ass, which was currently encased in delectable black leather pants. Or I assumed it was, based on what I could see below the fall of his duster. Had it been anyone else wearing it, I would have said they were trying way too hard, but he was working it pretty well so I gave him a pass.

The duster hung open, inviting an easy view of his chest, a white T-shirt sticking to the muscled ridges of his abdomen.
Definitely
my type. His dark eyes flicked sideways at me, the edges crinkling in silent laughter, and I shrugged, not bothering to hide the fact that I’d been checking him out. Hell, he’d probably been expecting it.

He lingered over a coverless paperback about a French vampire. It was one of those overblown stories that had been really popular about ten years ago, complete with ruffling white shirts, long dark ringlets, and outrageous accents. Even a duster or two, actually. I’d thought it marvelous and horribly sexy when I’d read it, my sixteen-year-old heart near fit to bursting at the idea of some dashing angel of the night feeding from my inner thigh.

The reality had been a whole lot messier. It didn’t involve my inner thigh either.

He blew the dust off the pages, snorting softly when he read the title. I’d always thought Moira had an absolutely craptacular taste in books. From the looks of it, he agreed. My opinion of him rose a notch.

“It has a happy ending, you know,” I said.

His brow furrowed, lips pursed at me, before his attention flicked back to the book. “Does it?”

“All the good romances do.”

“There are no happy endings. And vampires are overrated, bloodsucking tools.”

“Can’t argue with that.” I sighed. “But the vamp in this one runs off with an emotionally constipated angel, so I suppose it all works out in the end. If you don’t like that sort of thing, maybe I can interest you in one of these great ‘how-to-massage’ books from the seventies. It has pictures, if that makes it easier for you to understand.”

He ignored me, his expression cryptic. “Very clever of her.” He tapped the book with his fingers.

“Clever of who?”

“Moira. Hiding in plain sight like this.” His hand made an eloquent gesture as if to encompass the room. “And all thanks to her little mortal TouchStone, so willing to throw herself away—and for what?” He pointed at me. “Rumors of a magic iPod and seven years of agelessness?”

I bristled. “
Enchanted
iPod, thank you very much. And what I’m willing to throw myself away for is absolutely no concern of yours.” The barb had taken, however, and I looked down at the counter before that little sliver of regret could show itself.

He chuckled softly. “Not as good as you had hoped, is it?”

“Neither is your outfit. Did you learn to dress that way in Leather for Bad Boys one-oh-one?” My upper lip curled in derision, suddenly bold in knowing my place. “Sounds to
me like someone doesn’t have a TouchStone of his own.” I noted the time with a little sound of pity. 11:57
A.M
. “How are those CrossRoads treating you?” I asked. At this time of day, any other folk traveling the CrossRoads sans TouchStone would have a helluva time.

“Not nearly well enough, apparently.” His gaze met mine. “Shall I show you?”

I hesitated, watching those dark eyes flare gold with power. For a moment, I was pinned beneath them, drowning in the sudden promise of things best left to the protective shadow of night. It left me raw and aching; my hips trembled with the urge to submit to him. I blinked and realized he had moved closer.

Crap.

I stood my ground. Maybe if I didn’t move, he’d back down and I’d pass whatever preternatural bullshit test he was running.

Or maybe I was in big trouble.

His cheeks curved up in amusement as he reached out to run a lightly callused thumb over my lower lip. “Pretty Dreamer,” he crooned. He leaned close to my face so that his exquisite pout lay within inches of my lips. An electric jolt shot from my breasts to my groin, sliding over my flesh with wicked intent.

Yup. Big trouble.

I swallowed hard, my eyes closing of their own volition. Inside, my brain was working overtime to come up with something—
anything
—to say, but all I could manage was a strangled groan. I was helpless against the rolling wave of pleasure pulsing low in my belly.

The room began to spin, and I staggered backward. My foot slipped on a loose pile of paper, and I grabbed the edge of the counter. The world tilted with a familiar lurch, and my jaw clamped down against the vertigo.

He captured my wrist, fingers digging hard enough to make the bones ache. Fire lanced all the way to my elbow as my eyes snapped open with a cry. The arrogant stranger lunged over the counter to steady me, his face ashen. Whatever he’d intended, this wasn’t it. The thought was somewhat comforting.

“Hold on, Abby,” he whispered.

I had only a moment to wonder how he knew my name before my vision faded into blackness.

. . .
his fingers were sliding down my thigh, his voice husky with whispered promises as his tongue slipped into my mouth. I spread myself beneath him in wanton desperation, filled with the ache of well-used flesh. He moved over me, inside me, through me. I was losing myself in the golden thrum of his eyes as he thrust into me. Somewhere in the distance was the chiming of bells, and my bones vibrated with the implication. I fell away, wrapped in his scent and the dim edge of twilight as something snapped into place
. . .

“Enough.” His voice reverberated like a thunderclap, abruptly breaking the . . . trance? Dream?

“And here I pegged you as the shy, unassuming type.” I pulled back from him as the darkness receded, gagging at another wave of dizziness. Admittedly, I hadn’t taken my seizure meds that morning, but whether the reaction was caused by my condition or his influence didn’t matter. It hadn’t felt like a seizure anyway. Balance slowly regained, I glanced up at him, and slid my hands into my pockets to hide my trembling fingers. “What the hell was that?”

Surprise flickered across his face, quickly replaced by something a bit more appraising. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “It wasn’t supposed to happen.”

His gaze lingered on me, somehow managing to be
impudent and measured at the same time, but the overconfident cockiness was gone.

“Wow. I find myself strangely not reassured by that.” I crossed my arms, hunching my back protectively. I was Moira’s TouchStone, by God, marked by a sacred OtherFolk bond that should be beyond contestation and this asshat had just violated every precept that I was aware of.

I was outraged.

I was livid, even.

I was hopelessly out of my league.

The golden edges of his eyes faded away. “Are you all right?”

The sudden change in his demeanor left me suspicious. “Right as rain. Why the . . . you know?” I tapped my head and tried not to blush.

“Side effect. I’m afraid I got a little carried away.” He eyed me cautiously, all peaches-and-cream polite. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

“Understatement of the week.” I reached out, clinging to the edges of the counter like a barnacle at high tide. “And how the hell did you know who I was?”

His mouth twitched. “Name tag.”

Idiot.

I shut my eyes, cheeks burning. “Where’s a nice bottomless pit when you need one?”

A sharp rap sounded from outside and I started. The figure at the door was young and female and far too perky for a rainy day.

“Shoo,” I hissed at the stranger, uncertain of how much attention he would attract. “Shouldn’t you be moving along now? The CrossRoads will be closing any minute.”

He shrugged and leaned against the wall, a wolfish grin on his face. He raised a finger to his lips as he motioned toward the door.

I rolled my eyes. Leave it to me to attract the tall, dark, and obnoxious ones. I pointed at the sign in the window, hoping whoever it was would cut me some slack and come back after my uninvited guest had left. No such luck.

“Wow.” A head poked through the doorway. “It totally stinks in here. You should open the door or something.” Blond, top-heavy, and rather leggy on the whole, she looked like she’d wandered off the set of a
Girls Gone Wild
audition, wrapped up in denim cutoffs and Skechers. Her eyes were wide and imploring, the color of warm hazelnuts. Innocent.

“Ah, yes,” I said, ignoring the soft snort coming from the corner. “You know, we’re kind of closed right now.”

“Yeah, well, I need some information. Do you have any books on Celtic myths?” She breezed her way in and trotted up to the counter with the self-serving air of the young and stupid.

I chewed on the question, a low throb at the base of my skull signaling an oncoming headache. Or a seizure. Crapshoot as to which one was going to come first. I wasn’t going to get rid of the headache, but I could eliminate the pain in the ass standing in front of me. “There should be a copy of Lady Gregory’s
Gods and Fighting Men
back behind the mirror. It would be a good place to start. Unless you’re looking for something specific?”

“Well . . . uh. Actually, I was kinda hoping you might have something a little more . . .
real
?”

I raised a brow at this. Truth be told, I did; I had books that would damn near bite your nose off if you put them too close to your face. But those were locked away in the back, not for public consumption. Moira had drilled that into my head often enough, but I would have figured it out on my own. I’m lazy, but I’m not a moron.

“Real?” I mimicked.

“Yeah.” She leaned in so I could see the roots of her hair. Her voice dropped to a conspiring whisper. “You know . . .
OtherFolk
?” She turned her head to take in the quantity of shelves. “You have a lot of books here.” Her gaze became slightly unfocused as it slid past the corner, and I realized my visitor must be hiding behind a Glamour.

“I’m not quite sure what you mean,” I said, deciding to play dumb.

“Oh, I get it.” She winked at me. “It’s okay. Brandon sent me. Said you would set me straight. Something about TouchStones?”

“Brandon,” I repeated, my voice careful and quiet. I would have to have a little chat with that sometimes furry bartender. I don’t mind helping out, but I didn’t have time for another one of his strays. “And just how did you run into him?”

“I tried to get into the Hallows last night.” She flushed beneath my stare. “Everyone knows this town is full of weird shit. Why shouldn’t I be a part of it?”

“Did you find your way there by yourself?” I phrased it casually, but my estimation of her slowly began to rise when she nodded. There was a pretty heavy Glamour on the OtherFolk nightclub, geared toward warning away an ignorant mortal public. If she’d had the determination to push her way through it . . .

Still. Even if she was right about people being aware, I wasn’t going to go shouting it from the rooftops. The OtherFolk guard their secrets well. Spilling them was a really awesome way to end up on someone’s private shitlist. And that didn’t even include the one currently laughing his ass off in the corner.

“Listen, you don’t want to get involved with them. Trust me. It messes with your head and the only thing you’ll have when you’re done is a big pile of regret.” I held up my
hand to forestall what would surely be a whining protest. “However, seeing as Brandon sent you my way, I’ll throw you a bone.” I resisted the impulse to giggle at my own pun, though something told me the werewolf wouldn’t have approved. “What did you say your name was?”

“Katy.” One perfectly waxed brow arched, daring me to make an issue of it. It would have been more impressive if the expression on her face wasn’t flitting between hope and suspicion.

“How old are you, Katy?”

“Seventeen.” I glanced over at the mirror in the corner, as though to argue with my reflection. Seventeen. Jesus. Had I ever been that eager to throw myself off the cliff? I let my gaze go slightly fuzzy, the blue of my eyes fading into the glass of the mirror, the pale, freckled face curving away into some far-off piece of my past.