Demon Demon Burning Bright, Whisperings book four (17 page)

I had so many misgivings about this
adventure, so I determinedly strode to the bike before I could
change my mind.

A familiar rumble made me glance along the
street as I lifted the helmet to my head. You cannot mistake a
Harley and by the sound, it went way too fast for the slick
roads.

The rumble increased to a ground-shaking
roar I felt in my teeth as Chris Plowman turned the corner and
hurtled down the street on a big old Harley Shovelhead. Wearing
mirrored shades, shimmering gray hair a stream of liquid mercury
threaded with glittering black, he was, I admit, a truly delicious
specimen of manhood and the few woman abroad obviously agreed.
Heads turned and mouths widened in appreciative grins. The Harley
logo decorated the heel and side of his black riding boots.
Skintight black leather pants clung to his thighs, the black
leather jacket hung open over a light-gray T-shirt and momentum
pressed a silver crucifix to his chest. He looked wild, dangerous
and utterly masculine.

He pulled up and kicked the stand down. The
bike tilted to one side, the crucifix swung on its long chain and
his hair settled over his shoulders. I will not pretend I didn’t
experience a pleasant squirm as his thigh muscles tightened to bear
the weight of the big machine.

In his expensive suits, I had not noticed
the width of his shoulders, his slender waist and tapering hips,
the muscular thighs. And tight as those pants were, they left
little to the imagination.

Oh my.

What does it say about me that on the brink
of waltzing into alien territory to find my man, I ogled another?
Hey, a gal can look, and sometimes her body totally ignores her
brain as it yells,
down girl
.

“There you are, ladies,” he drawled smugly.
He turned his face up. “Lovely day for a ride.”

I eyed the bike appraisingly. Matte black,
in pristine condition, care had been lavished on the machine.
“Eighty-three?”

If I had imagined Chris Plowman on a bike,
it would be a new custom job, not an old bone-rattler. Shovelheads
are ornery beasts. They leak oil and something is always going
wrong with them. Did he know that, or buy it purely for the macho
image? Still, he would have someone else work on the thing; I
couldn’t see him tinkering with it.

Mind you, I never imagined him in anything
other than a tailored suit.

He fondled the high handlebars with long,
smooth strokes, eyes twinkling as a pleased smile curved his lips.
Snowflakes settled on his hair and melted, glittering like diamonds
before they evaporated. “You know your Harleys.”

Watching the caressing motion of his hands,
a blush climbed my throat.

“What do you want?” Gia’s voice out-chilled
the low temperature by several degrees. “You are conspicuous.”

I agreed. Exotically handsome, in clothing
more suitable for summer cruising, he stood out. I was poorly clad
for the climate in my white cambric shirt, stone-washed jeans and
brown lace-up boots, but I also wore a thick fleece vest which I’d
stow in my backpack when we arrived in Bel-Athaer.

Chris sounded surprised by Gia’s question.
“I’m coming with you.” He placed his palm on his chest as he turned
his gaze to me and declared dramatically, “I swear, fair maiden, I
will protect you with my life.”

I tweaked up one eyebrow. “Huh. Go back to
your fancy hotel in Boston, Plowman. I don’t need your
protection.”

Gia tilted her head to one side, eyeing him
with consideration. “No. Let him come, he could be of use.”

I couldn’t imagine how, except to get in our
way, but I had agreed to follow her lead. However, I was not
pleased.

Chris, on the other hand, couldn’t have been
happier. He beamed at me, managing to look superior at the same
time.

“We will keep a low profile, blend in.”
Gia’s eyes drifted over him appraisingly. “If you can manage
it.”

“You wound me, my Lady,” he replied, trying
to appear offended but not succeeding. His expression seemed to
permanently be one of droll amusement. “I have just the thing.” He
pulled a blue and beige bandana from inside his jacket, folded it
and tied it around his head. The bandana hid most of his amazing
hair but did nothing to disguise the rest of him.

“Hm,” Gia hummed. “It will have to do.”

“Fine.” I slammed the helmet on my head and
stood next to him. He hiked an eyebrow at me.

“I’m riding with you. Any objections?” I
would rather ride with him than draped along Gia’s back. I could
sit upright and keep at least a few inches between us.

“The length of your body crushed to mine,
your arms about me? Far from it.”

“Crushing will not be involved.”

Gia shook her head slightly as if bemused as
she pushed her bike to the plain, weathered wood door. Following
her, Chris winked at me. They paused there, eyeing me expectantly,
so I went past them, turned the knob and pushed the door open. It
swung in silently.

The street was miraculously empty at that
precise moment. I stood aside and Gia and Chris quickly rolled
their bikes through. I followed and closed the door with a gentle
push.

The room seemed smaller with the two bikes
in there, and colder. We faced the Gate, entrance to the Way, the
same I took to Bel-Athaer, the one which led me to the middle of a
Gelpha city.

With a jog of her head, Gia indicated I
should open the Gate. I pulled in a steadying breath. My pulse
pounded in my ears, the sound of surf on the shore. Did I really
want to go charging off to Bel-Athaer with a Dark Cousin and an
egotistical Gelpha?

Oh well, another shit-crazy thing to add to
my list.

I pushed the door and held it open. Gia went
through first, then Chris. On the other side, in the corridor, I
let the door close and the soft click sounded final.

I had to get my stupid imagination under
control.

Gia swung a long, slender leg over the
bullet bike and started it up.

The roar about knocked me back. The Way
vibrated. I thought the ceiling would come down. Chris straddled
the Harley. He spoke but I couldn’t hear with my hands over my
ears. “What?”

He patted the seat.

They meant to
drive
along the Way?
They were crazier than me! Sure, the corridor was wide and
straight, but one deviation and we’d hit the walls.

I shook my head. He nodded his. Gia took off
with a squeal of rubber.

Chris engaged the stand and got off the
Shovelhead. The roar of Gia’s bike still rattled the corridor as
she dwindled in the distance. He took my wrists and pulled my hands
away from my ears. “Tiff, you have to get on the bike,” he said,
mouth so close his breath washed over my ear.

“We can’t drive along here!”

“The only way to travel, Sweetness.” He let
go my wrists and mounted the Harley.

I grumbled to myself, but got behind him.
Letting him come along had better be worthwhile. I rested my hands
lightly on his shoulders and made sure our bodies didn’t touch. I
would rather we had a couple of feet between us, but the seat
didn’t allow that.

He brought the Harley to life, gunned it and
started off. Then the devil pulled a wheelie. I squeaked and dug my
fingers in his shoulders as I began to slip backward. I’d have
punctured flesh if I wore my nails long.

The wheel thudded down before gravity tore
me off the bike. In a death-defying move, I let go his shoulders
and spread my palms on his chest, which pulsated beneath my hands.
Was he laughing? Smug bastard.

The passageway became a blur, so I closed my
eyes.

I relaxed after a minute or two. Warmth
radiated through me. It seemed I had not felt that special demon
heat in an age.

The bike shot into thin air with no warning.
We soared over turf and dirt four feet below, then the front wheel
dropped and we hit with a crunch which went through my body from
ankles to the top of my head. I clung to Chris as I bucked off the
seat; a second later I rammed down so hard I thought I broke my
tailbone. Dust burst from the ground and enveloped us. We skidded,
the bike keeling over, but Chris wrestled it upright. We slalomed
twenty feet before he brought it under control.

We pulled up beside Gia. She sat up on her
bike, removed her helmet and shook her hair to send it flying about
her face. Her grinning face.

The gleam in her eyes, the laughter in them,
a flush to her cheeks. She was having way too much fun.

My arms tightened on Chris as I saw we were
mere feet from the uneven rim of a vast, mile-wide gorge.

He patted my clasped hands. “There there, my
Lovely, you’re perfectly safe.” Muscles expanded beneath my fingers
as he chortled. “Hold on tight.”

I couldn’t have held tighter and not cut him
in two.

Where the sun hit the far side, trees,
shrubs and grass clung to the crumbling sandstone until shadow
creeping up from the depths lapped over them. Gia walked to the
brink and gazed down. I would not go over there if you paid me. I
had no desire to see how deep the gorge plunged.

The air felt heavy, sullen. Distance turned
the terrain to misty, faded colors beyond the gorge.

I slid sideways off the saddle. “What the
hell! Did you know we’d come out here?”

Gia smirked. “This Gate is nearest our
destination. Is something wrong?”

You evil bitch.
“Not a thing.”

Grinning, Chris stood beside his Harley. I
swung on him. “And before you laugh at me again, remember if I
throw up it’ll be down your back.”

He warded me off with upraised hands. “Laugh
at you? I would not dream of it, Sweetness.”

I put one hand on my hip and gave him
attitude. “Okay, enough. My name is not
sweetness
, or
lovely
, or anything else along those lines.”

He made a half bow. “As you wish, fair
Tiffany.”

Ooh.
I wanted to swat him alongside
the head. I fought the impulse; he’d zip out of reach if I
tried.

A windowless, yellow adobe hut with
brown-tiled roof and a wood door with heavy hinges squatted behind
us. Not an imposing structure, but none of the Gates were. A black
paved path the width of a footpath looped from the door and off to
our left, paralleling the gorge until it dropped behind lower
terrain. The ground rose again far in the distance and a low-lying
shadow which could be anything spread over the horizon.

A vast, undulating plain of yellow grass
dotted with foliage-topped buttes stretched behind the hut. The
wiry grass and stark terrain reminded me of some areas of Wyoming,
except no mountains. The pale sky seemed to go on forever. I’d
never seen a sun here, but the daylight had to come from somewhere,
didn’t it?

“I thought we’d come out in a city.”

“Communities grow around or near active
Gates. This Gate was last active, briefly, over two centuries ago,”
Gia said. “Come, we should go.”

Gareth was right, the Cousins could
manipulate the Ways, which Gia did to bring us close to Burch
Mountain. If the shadow across the horizon was a mountain range, we
still had some way to go.

I had to get out of my vest before I started
sweating. I slipped my backpack off. Folded and rolled, the vest
just fit inside.

“Miss Banks!”

I twitched, turned back to Gia and Chris and
slung my pack over my shoulders.

On the Harley again, I sat back away from
Chris. The wind channeled around him as we roared along and I
enjoyed the air seeping beneath the visor to bathe my face. The
passenger saddle put me a few inches higher than Chris, so I was
glad of the visor as protection against bugs. He didn’t have a
helmet; he’d get plastered. Or maybe Bel-Athaer didn’t have bugs. I
didn’t notice any before, but I wasn’t looking.

I enjoyed the ride at first, deciding
nothing could be better than the feeling of being unencumbered, the
thrill of tearing along at high speeds. I imagined perching behind
Royal, holding on tight. Would he get a bike if I made the
suggestion? What could be better than clinging to Royal’s broad
back as we tore along?

I could think of a few things, but they are
private, if you get my meaning.

We rode for hours until the novelty of
driving through Bel-Athaer paled. The monotony of the landscape
became wearying. My mind twisted this way and that: Royal,
Lawrence, the High House Council, that pickup. Perhaps I’d have
survived the river if the Xterra landed right side up and stayed
that way, but for some mysterious reason known only to Murphy’s
Law, autos which go into the Snake tend to land on their roof after
tumbling down the bank. Did the driver know that?
Did
he or
she want to kill me, or scare me near to death?

We were nearer the smudge on the horizon,
which resolved into a forest backed by a low mountain range. Not
the scarps of my Wasatch Range, but mountains nonetheless. Narrow
streams wound through the plain to merge into a broad, shallow
river. We were higher now, imperceptibly climbing mile by mile. The
gorge had petered out five miles back. The path widened and became
a paved road.

The sky darkened as the hidden sun sank
toward the horizon.

We crested a hill and rocketed down the far
side, a long, nearly vertical drop. I didn’t expect that. I clung
to Chris again, fingers fisting his T-shirt. The wind caught his
whoop
and carried it away.

Christopher Plowman enjoyed my discomfort
far too much.

The path took us down to a dry gulch. Chunks
of rock had tumbled from the bank to the road, which made for an
interesting ride as Gia and Chris slalomed to avoid them. We came
up out of it before too long.

The land became hillier and I saw signs of
civilization: a broken fence, a derelict shack. Then, off to our
right, a fence in good repair, water troughs for livestock, even a
few cows in the distance.