Come to Me (4 page)

And again she stopped, her fingertips a mere breath away from his pale forehead. She should be squatting on his chest, to have the best control over him. Impossible, given his position at the table. Clinging to his back would be a fair substitute, though.

She looked at the broad expanse and quivered at the thought. She wanted to lay her breasts against him, to wrap her legs around his waist and to feel the total strength of his yearnings through every inch of her naked body. She wanted to melt into him, wanted to become part of him, wanted—

Her own eagerness stopped her, scaring her in its strength. What was happening to her? Hysterical fright climbed its way up her throat, and she felt on the verge of either wild laughter or a shriek.

Do it
! she urged herself.
Touch him
!

No, there is danger
.… a softer voice within her said.
Think, Samira, something is not right
.

Without moving from her place on the bench, she closed the distance between her fingertips and his forehead.

Energy crackled through her with the force of lightning, slamming into her and blasting her away from the stranger, her hearing deafened by a thunderclap of power even as her mind and senses reeled with a burst of images and emotions, blinding her to the room all around.

Instinct had her fluttering blindly into the safety of the air, images of battle and blood and ghastly, violent horrors swimming before her eyes. She bumped against a spike protruding from a beam, the iron making her yowl in pain and sending her tumbling again through the air. When she came up against a wooden rafter she clung tightly to it as the images and emotions from the man washed through her: Fury. Despair. Utter, soul-destroying loneliness.

Her hearing began to clear, and through the ringing in her ears she made out a whimpering from deep in her throat, and from down below the sounds of the man, awake now and as scared as she was.

"Who's there?" he asked harshly, his deep voice bouncing off the stones of the walls. "I know you're here. Come out!"

The images of bloody mayhem faded from before Samira's eyes, like the afterimage left from staring too long at the full moon. She blinked, and made out the man standing ten feet below her, turning round and round, staring into the shadows in search of the intruder.

Samira climbed atop the rafter, taking careful note of where the iron spikes and brackets were placed on the beam. She lay on top of the beam, a safe distance from the iron, and watched over the edge.

The man moved toward the heavy trapdoor near the end of the bed, his step betraying a limp. His left leg was plainly weakened, and she saw now that his left arm was held closer to his side than his right.

He unbarred the trapdoor and jerked it open, staring into the darkness below, his muscles tense. It was a long moment before he slowly shut the door again and slid the bar back into place. He turned around and looked carefully about the room.

Then he looked up.

Samira quickly hid her face behind the beam upon which she lay.

He can't see you, you foolish creature
! she reminded herself. Nevertheless, it was a moment more before she mustered the courage to look again.

He was squinting up into the darkness, but not directly at her. It gave her her first chance to see his face, his shoulder-length black hair now falling away from his features.

His brows were dark and devilish, with points at the center of their arches. A short, dark v-shaped beard covered his chin and upper lip, framing a masculine, sensuous mouth. Her gaze focused on the subtle lines and arches of those lips, and it was a long moment before she noticed the other remarkable feature of his face: a splash of webbed pink that started below his left eye and then poured down the side of his cheek, broadening to the width of a spread hand along his neck and then disappearing into his tunic.

She recognized the mark as a burn scar. In three millennia of being a succubus, she'd seen everything a human body had to offer, as well as a thousand vividly imagined things it did not. Scars were nothing new, although one like this was unusual.

His gaze was still searching the darkness. Samira turned her head and looked behind her, and saw that the roof of the tower stretched for another thirty feet above, narrowing to a single point at the peak. To mortal eyes, anything at all could be lurking in that vast, dark space.

"I am Nicolae. Who are you?" he asked the shadows.

She caught her breath, surprised beyond words. He was trying to talk to her? No one ever tried to talk to her. In three millennia, no human. Not one.

"Show yourself. I know you're here. I can feel you." His voice was still edged with the harshness of fear, but he was gaining confidence, even his stance becoming stronger. He had his legs braced apart, his arms crossed over his chest.

She suddenly realized that she could no longer feel that unnaturally strong desire coming off him. His latent sexuality, yes; she could still feel that, could feel it pulling deliciously at her very core, but not to the exaggerated, frightening degree of before.

What had changed? Was it only his waking?

And how could he sense her presence?

"Or instead of asking
who
you are, perhaps I should ask
what
you are?" he asked, a brow lifting.

"I am not a
what
," Samira muttered, indignant, and then clamped her lips shut. It was stupid of her to make a sound.

He gave no indication that he had heard her. He stared into the darkness above him for several seconds, then lowered his head and shook it, as if dismissing his fancies. He rubbed the back of his neck and limped slowly back to the table spread with books. He stared at the open book upon which he had been sleeping.

Samira hesitated, afraid he was bluffing, but as the minutes went by and he continued to do nothing but stare at the book, she gathered the shreds of her courage and spread her wings, sliding off the beam. With a few gentle flaps she slowly coasted down to the floor, landing lightly on her feet at the opposite side of the table from him.

Nicolae lifted his face, a frown between his dark brows. Samira froze, fear blooming full force within her. She tensed, ready for flight. His gaze searched the area around where she stood, but again he seemed to see nothing. She saw that his eyes were a warm, clear brown, flecked with yellow, the iris rimmed by a darker brown that was almost black.

She stepped closer to the table, nervously watching his face for reaction and seeing none. She fought against her trembling fear and dared herself to test the limits of what he could sense. She leant her hips against the edge of the wood.

No reaction.

She made herself bend forward, until her own face was inches from his and she could almost imagine the faint feel of his breath against her skin. The puzzled look came back into his eyes, even as they failed to focus on her.

"Are you still here?" he whispered.

She blinked in astonishment.

He continued to stare blindly through her. "If you're here, please tell me. Show me, somehow."

She pressed her cheek to his, just enough so that the surface of hers made the lightest of contact with his. It was not a true touch of solid matter to solid matter, but he might feel the faint tingling of it.

He jerked his head back, startled, plainly having felt
something
, and it not having been to his liking. "What are you?" he demanded, the harshness back in his voice.

Something small suddenly broke inside her at the question, for it was as if he were interrogating a loathsome beast he'd found hiding under his bed. She was a
thing
to him. The strange sadness that had plagued her for six years welled up once again, and again she wanted to weep like a human, with tears to relieve the ache inside her.

For what was she? A defiler of a brother's love. A soulless creature with no heart, and no future other than to look from her lonely vantage into the loves and lusts of others, doomed always to pretend to live and never to feel or grow or change.

She fought against the despairing thoughts, her pride begging her not to admit them even to herself. "I'm your every dream come true," she said aloud instead, fighting to believe her own words.

This man Nicolae was no better than she, she told herself. He had no one to love him, and he loved no one in return. He needed a
creature
like her, whether he knew it or not. He needed to be taken by her in his dreams, again and again, until he was drugged with pleasure and woke every morning with the echoes of bliss still in his blood and the horrors of war pushed far to the back of his mind. Then he wouldn't need to ask her what she was. He would know, and be grateful.

Nicolae's gaze suddenly dropped, and she dropped her own eyes to see where he was looking. It was again the book upon which he had been sleeping. The open pages were covered in dense black writing, and in the middle of one was a drawing: a naked female with spread black wings. Before she could make sense of what that might mean, Nicolae touched the page with his fingertips, and suddenly Samira felt a powerful jolt of his sexual desire, the same as had drawn her to him in the first place.

"Good Christ!" he gasped.

Samira looked quickly at him, and found her gaze met by his own wide-eyed one, his face gone pale and frozen as he stared at her. She jerked back, a small shriek escaping from her lips as she realized he could see her.

"What
are
you?" he asked again, his voice hoarse and fearful this time.

She backed away from the table, with his eyes following her every move. Fear coursed through her, chills washing over her skin in waves. He wasn't supposed to be able to see her, not while fully awake. This should not be happening. It
could
not be.

"Succubus," he said, the word as much a statement as a question.

She gathered what remained of her courage and lifted her chin. Could he hear her as well? "Samira!" she said, throwing out her name in frightened defiance. She would not be a
thing
. She had a name. She tossed her head, her crimson hair moving aside to reveal her full breasts.

His gaze dipped to them, and she felt the force of his desire pulse higher. In a desperate bid to use his weakness, to gain control, she reached up and rolled one of her pink nipples between thumb and forefinger. His lips parted, and he stared at her moving fingers as if in a trance.

"Samira," she said again, firmly this time. She was an individual, not just another demon. Even as the force of his desire ran through her, bringing every inch of her to involuntary, tingling arousal, it was her name on his lips that she wanted most.

"Samira," he echoed, granting her wish as if he'd felt her demand.

She sucked in a breath, going as motionless as he was, her nipple in mid-roll. He'd heard her.

Good gods of the night, he'd
heard
her.

Nicolae lay his weak hand on the book and lifted the strong one, reaching across the table as if to touch her, almost as if he had no choice in the matter, feeling as drawn to make contact with her as she was to him. "Samira."

She swayed toward his outstretched hand and took one step toward him, drawn by her name spoken so irresistibly in his deep, mortal voice.

He saw her. He knew her name. He spoke to her.

His fingertips were inches from her skin. If she took one more step, he'd be able to reach her. She remembered what had happened last time.

"You can't," she said on a weak breath, even as she could not stop herself from taking that final step toward him.

And again the lightning bolt of energy blasted her away from him, his emotions and memories storming again through her mind. She tumbled, hitting up against the stone wall and falling half through it before she could stop herself. She crawled back out of the dull ache of solid matter, her vision clearing to see Nicolae sprawled on the floor.

She whimpered deep in her throat. Was he dead? The river of energy had been cut off again.

She launched herself from the wall and with one awkward beat of her wings landed beside him, her whole body shaking with weakness and shock. She squatted down and peered at Nicolae's face, then at his chest. There was a slow rise and fall of breathing. Inside herself, she felt a faint beat. It was an echo of his own heartbeat, she realized with wonder. She had never felt such a thing before, from any man. Was it that lightning jolt of energy that had done it?

His heart might not beat much longer if he received another jolt such as that, she realized. A sense of shamed responsibility for his injury washed through her. She hadn't wanted to hurt him, had only wanted to touch him.

She fluttered up into the air, hovering in the center of the room, not knowing what to do next. Stay or go? Fear, shame, and an unnamed longing—for what? for his attention?—did battle within her.

She should make up for what she'd done to him. It would be cruel to have him wake up feeling frightened and sore. The least she could do was give him a pleasant memory to take into his waking hours.

She floated down to the floor and then gingerly touched his hand. Nothing unusual happened, and she gave a small sigh of relief. As she'd thought, there was no lightning bolt of energy between them without the magical book.

She crawled atop his chest and squatted, her bare feet planted neatly upon his sternum, her body rising and falling with his breathing, as if she were in a boat upon the ocean.

He was a handsome man, even unconscious. His lashes were heavy and dark, and a widow's peak of black hair dipped its spade into his pale forehead. He looked as if he had been physically powerful not long ago, but also as if he had been ill. It struck her as queerly sad, that such beauty as he possessed should spend itself on so frail and impermanent a being as a human.

She wasn't here to lament his eventual decline and death, though. She was here to give the man a moment of celestial pleasure.

She curled her toes in anticipation, reached out, and touched his brow.