From the Ashes (Witches of The Demon Isle Book 8) (30 page)

“We need to stop this,” he waved his hand back and forth between them. “I can’t work toward something that has no future. Or only a possible future. As someone recently put it to me, I’m a pass or fail kind of guy. I’m all in, or all out. I can’t live in the middle ground of, what if…”

“I do love you, you know.”

He nodded. “But the truth is, we barely know each other. Our lives
together
are brand new. Even though in here,” he touched his heart, “it feels ancient. Like it’s always been. I’ve never let anyone into my world, Lizzy.” She wanted the real him, this was all he could give her. “Until this thing is settled, one way or the other, I can’t even try. I’m sorry.”

He was backing out. Being the gentleman she fully expected him to be. Protecting himself at the same time.

It crushed her. And it was crushing him.

She could almost see the walls closing in on him.

“So much for being back in the world of the living, huh?” He tried to crack a smile. It painted itself as more of a wounded frown.

“I’ll still take it over…” Lizzy froze up. Tears welling up. What more could she say? “I’m sorry.” She fled the boat in a rush before losing it in front of Charlie. She hadn’t made it to the end of the dock when the sound of rope burned as it came untied thumping as it landed unceremoniously on the bottom of the boat.

The engine roared to life.

Distance.

Or air to breathe.

There wasn’t enough of either just now.

CHAPTER 23

Riley awakened to a groggy head and a throbbing ache in his temples. Molasses fluttered in and out as lids pried themselves open. Foreign surroundings. And bright. Far, far too bright. What in the name of all that’s holy happened, and where on earth was he?

He groaned, rolling to his side. Blinking. Clearing the fog out of his eyes. It only made things brighter and more painful. After a minute, it subsided some, things getting clearer. He had drunk quite a bit last night, but this felt…

Oh, right. He’d gotten plastered in that pub outside Sorcier after his unasked for psychic reading with Aunt May, and had proceeded to flirt with a young woman and get pummeled in a fight with her boyfriend; a pro-wrestler wannabe over twice Riley’s size. 

Last memories:

Head hitting pavement.

Breath knocked out of him.

An asskicker boot lifting off the ground to crush his skull.

Presumptuous footsteps clopping out of the shadows behind pro-wrestler wannabe.

Riley waiting for the boot blow. Pain, he deserved.

It never came. Only blackness consuming him.

He sucked in. Alive and conscious, wasn’t he? But everything was so bright. A halo of hazy white. Oh funeral bells! Had he died? Had pro-wrestler cross-kicked him straight to wherever he was headed after life?

Heaven. Hell. Nothing?

What waited?

He blinked a few more times, his vision clearing.

There was a glass of water and two aspirin sitting on a nightstand next to the bed.

Somehow, he didn’t think heaven or hell had this kind of service.

He must have survived.

He sat up with a groan. Stretched his face. It hurt like heck, but he’d heal. Didn’t feel like any permanent damage had been done. He breathed out the throb, grasping at the aspirin and water. Downing both. It was room temperature, had been sitting there for a few hours, easily.

He swung his feet over the side of the bed he was laid out on.

“Where the heck am I?”

He got to his feet and steadied himself. There was a mirror hanging on the wall. He tiptoed over to sneak a look at the damage. He held back the gasp. Black eye. Swollen lip. Small cut on his chin. But someone had cleaned him up. He was still dressed, minus his jacket and shoes.

Cautiously and quietly, he opened the door to his unfamiliar bedroom and peeked out, saw nothing but more bright light. His eyes adjusted to the sunshine and upon closer inspection, took in the posh surroundings. Clean, open space. Luscious greenery growing from floor to ceiling. High ceilings. He was upstairs he realized with a dry, hard swallow.

It didn’t vibe out as bad, or unfriendly, but he didn’t like not knowing where he was. Too bad he couldn’t order his gift to work on demand and tell him if he was safe here. Not that it really worked like that anyway. And there was always a chance he was still knocked out and this was all just a dream.

Fat chance…

He opened the door and stepped out, expecting someone to pounce on him, or say something. He listened… voices. But they were outside. People walking by. He was in a city he guessed, he imagined still in New Orleans from the architecture in the home. In the colony, or outside the colony? He had no clue.

Riley tested a few steps, peering anxiously from side to side, making his way down the stairs. No one. The only sounds from outside. He went for the front door then remembered his shoes. They were nowhere in sight and he didn’t feel like snooping. They were only shoes. He’d get new ones. It was much more important to get the heck outta dodge.

A jacket lying over the back of a kitchen chair. Damn, not his.

He crept over to take a look anyway. If he was lucky, there might be something in the jacket to tell him whose house he had slept in. He rifled through the pockets until locating a folded piece of notepaper. He wasn’t quite sure he dared look at it; felt a bit like violating someone’s personal space, but he needed to find out where he was.

He glanced, but it had no address on it. It looked to be a handwritten letter.

William.

My longest friend in this world. I write this letter in case things tonight go badly and I don’t have the chance to speak with you in person. I cannot shake this feeling that I’m living on borrowed time.

First, I must thank you on behalf of Catherine and myself, for looking out for our children after our sudden departure from your lives. I cannot express what your presence in their lives means to me.
You have kept them alive, and seen them through difficult times, and for this, I am forever grateful.

Second, there is something that has become painfully obvious to me in my short hours back on the Isle. And there is something I must ask of you, William.

A terrible thing. Nothing I ever dreamed in a million years I would find myself asking of you. It hurts more than words can express, to do so.

I must ask you to leave The Demon Isle…

Not forever. Just for a time. Weeks. Months, perhaps. Until my children realize they can stand on their own feet, and fully understand all you do for them, and that they can do these things for themselves.

You were right, my friend! I coddled them too much. Let them rely on Catherine and I, and you, rather than push them into the life they needed to be prepared for. I always thought I had more time.

My biggest mistake, and regret.

They are well on their way, they simply need a push. But not from you.

Consider my request a long overdue vacation. Visit with your other family. I’m sure they miss you and we’ve stolen your services for far too long. I’m sure you’ll know when it’s right to return to the Isle.

Forever grateful, and always in your debt,

Jack Howard.

Riley dropped the letter, his brain mired in confusion. This was making less and less sense.

“Hasn’t anyone ever told you it’s impolite to read other people’s letters?”

Riley inhaled sharply. “What the hell?” His body spun, instantly aware and alert as he searched for the face who matched that voice. Something had to be wrong with his hearing because this was impossible.

He was in New Orleans. Not on The Demon Isle.

Wasn’t he?

Vocal chords failed him.

Lungs burned, not nearly enough oxygen making it deep enough for them to function properly. Heart pounded hard, blood rushing to keep up as the vampire he’d mercilessly tortured for an entire night stepped into the open with a growl.

“Hello,
Riley…
”

William Wakefield’s emerald eyes flashed deadly, the corner of his mouth upturning in a presumptuous grin.

Riley’s gaze shifted right and left.

It was useless. He could not outrun a vampire…

#

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