Hunter's Fall (18 page)

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Authors: Shiloh Walker

Tags: #Romance, #Contemporary, #General, #Paranormal, #Fiction

BOOK: Hunter's Fall
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It was a good thing his body would take the choice out of his hands soon. Otherwise Dominic would spend the day trapped in the little house, driving himself crazy and pacing the room as he waited for sunset.
“I’m not peeking inside your thick skull, Dominic.” Malachi jerked a shoulder and stared off into the distance. “We get bit—it does something to our bodies, brings all these crazy hungers. But it doesn’t change the fact that in our hearts, we’re still human. In the end, we’re still men and we have the same foibles and fallacies as every other man who’s ever walked the face of the earth. You’re wondering the same things I’d wonder, if I took a walk in your shoes.”
Dominic cocked a brow at Malachi. “You have foibles?”
Malachi didn’t bother responding. Coming off the chair, he prowled the cabin, studying the windows and then turning to look at the door. “Not the place for a vampire to bed down, you know. It’s safe enough, Kelsey saw to that, but your instincts won’t like it. You won’t rest well.”
“I’ll be good. Going to crash under the bed. It’ll be dark enough, and it’s not like I move around much when I’m out.” Absently, he reached for a pillow and brought it around, holding it in his lap. He could smell her on it. He’d just missed her . . . by a few days. Bringing it to his face, he breathed her scent in. “I’ve slept in worse places.”
A wave of exhaustion rose up, slammed into him. Outside, the sun began to breach the horizon. Dominic fought against the siren’s call of sleep. His tongue felt thick in his mouth as he glanced at Malachi. “You’ll tell me where she is? When I wake up?”
He swayed forward and if Malachi hadn’t been there, he would have fallen flat on his face. “Sleep, lad. We’ll speak more when you’ve rested. Come on now . . .”
Sleep pulled. Beckoned.
Vaguely, Dominic was aware that he was no longer on the bed, but under it. Dim light surrounded him, and he caught the scent of something dusty. Blindly, he flailed around, not even aware of what he was searching for.
Then something soft was pressed into his hands.
Lavender and vanilla . . . it smelled of her.
Peace surrounded him, and then he was lost to the darkness.
CHAPTER 11
 
M
ORGAN knew one thing.
She seriously hated mornings. With a passion. It might be a new development, but somehow, she doubted it. She suspected she had always hated mornings.
She woke up with a skull-splitting headache. Weakness plagued her, and the dream she couldn’t remember haunted her.
If she had her way about it, she would just stay in bed. But she couldn’t do that. So she sighed and rolled out, her body aching, her head pounding.
Stumbling in the small, shabby kitchen, she dropped into the chair and glanced at Jazzy. Her sister stood at the stove, singing along with her iPod as she fried up some bacon.
Jazzy caught her eyes and then tugged out her earbuds. “Wow, Morgan, you fucking look like shit.” Her voice was heavy with the drawl of the Deep South.
Morgan wasn’t sure, but she thought Jazzy had lived in Georgia or Alabama for a while. She didn’t remember which—big surprise there.
She didn’t remember
anything
important.
Oh, she remembered the simple things—like how to tell time, how to tie her shoes, how to turn the TV off and on.
She’d started to remember more complicated things as well. Like the fact that she was a witch. She wasn’t even surprised by that fact. She wasn’t disturbed by the fact that witches existed. She remembered how to cast illusions, how to make fire, although both left her weak. She also remembered how to bolster that weakness by drawing strength from others using her magic.
And she also knew that doing so made her feel . . . dirty. Dirty in a way she couldn’t explain, so she didn’t do it, even though Jazzy insisted that was how Morgan had taught her to use her power. Why drain yourself dry if you didn’t have to, right?
All Morgan knew was that it felt
wrong
. Off, in some way she couldn’t explain. She knew she should know
why
it felt wrong . . . but it was another one of those things she couldn’t remember.
There were too many of those things. Her life was nothing but one gaping black hole. Anything, everything personal, it was all gone. Her life. Her sister. Her mother.
The lost memories of her mother weren’t any tragedy, though. She didn’t need those memories to know the woman was bad news. All she had to do was look into Jazzy’s haunted blue eyes when the girl even mentioned their mother and she knew. More, she
felt
it. In her bones. Bad news? No, the woman wasn’t just bad news.
She was a catastrophe.
Morgan wasn’t going to forgive herself anytime soon for leaving Jazzy alone to deal with their crazy, mean bitch of a mother. That crazy, mean bitch of a mother wasn’t in the picture now, though. For all Morgan knew, she was hell’s problem now.
But sensing Jazzy’s concerned stare, Morgan looked at her sister and forced a smile, reminded herself—Jazzy had said something. What had she said . . . ?
Oh, yeah.
“I didn’t sleep well. I fucking feel like shit.” She sighed and pushed her hair out of her face and then glanced at the coffeepot. The smell of it was rich and she could use the caffeine, but she didn’t care for the taste of it.
Jazzy picked up the pot and wiggled it. “Decided you still have a taste for it after all?”
“No.” Morgan wrinkled her nose. “I’ll make some tea.”
Jazzy made a face as Morgan went about doing just that. While Morgan made her tea, Jazzy started getting out stuff for breakfast and talked about their plans for the day.
“He’s a good mark. Seriously. I’m talking
money
. And he’s a wuss—I’m talking major chicken. All you need to do is throw a few illusions at him, maybe a couple bursts of fire, and he’ll do whatever we want. Trust me—he is
not
getting that money in nice legal ways . . . so we don’t really need to worry about him running to the cops.”
Morgan’s lips twitched in a smile and she shrugged. “Well, it’s not like he could really file a report about how somebody had stolen his money using magic, right?”
Somewhere in the back of her mind, a quiet voice argued,
This isn’t who you are—a con artist, a grifter
.
Morgan ignored it. After all, it wasn’t like she had a whole lot of opportunities at her feet. She couldn’t even produce a high school diploma so she could pick up a minimum wage job.
She had responsibilities. Her sister depended on her.
Taking care of Jazzy was more important than the morality of how she was able to do it. It wasn’t like she was bilking honest people out of hard-earned money.
But you know this isn’t your way.
Damn that voice, anyway. Little wonder she was always so tired.
She poured herself a cup of tea. With a massive headache pounding at the base of her skull, she turned to watch as Jazzy started whipping up some scrambled eggs. Jazzy caught sight of the mug of tea and grimaced. “I don’t know how in the hell you can drink
tea
like that.”
“You Americans went and ruined a fine drink,” she said, her voice cool, crisp . . . unfamiliar, but not.
The cup fell to the floor and shattered. Shaken, Morgan spun around and rested her hands on the counter.
Shit.
The kitchen was silent, save for the hiss and crackle of the bacon as it cooked. Then a soft step, Jazzy coming toward her. Glancing over her shoulder, Morgan scowled, “Stupid bitch, you want to cut up your feet?”
Jazzy went pale.
Appalled, Morgan clapped a hand over her mouth. “Shit. Shit. Damn it, Jazzy, I’m sorry.” She looked away as blood crept up her neck to stain her cheeks red. She grabbed a broom and dustpan. From the corner of her eye, she watched Jazzy.
“I . . . I’m sorry. Honey, I’m so sorry.”
Jazzy sniffed and wiped the back of her hand over her eyes. But her voice was hard and cold as she said, “Yeah, sure you are. You know, here I was actually thinking maybe you did love me after all. But you sound just like the mean bitch who left me alone with Mom.”
A nasty, biting, cruel voice whispered inside Morgan’s head, grating and harsh.
“And you sound just like the annoying, whiny brat I was desperate to get away from.”
But under that cold, uncaring voice there was pain, and regret. Swallowing the knot in her throat, she cleaned up the mess. Jazzy remained where she was, motionless by the stove.
On her way out of the kitchen, she paused. Looking back at the kid, she said quietly, “I am sorry, Jazzy. Really.”
Then she retreated back to her small, dank room and huddled on the bed. Hours passed, Jazzy left, and sometime later returned. And still Morgan hid.
She didn’t know what the hell was wrong with her.
Her head. It had something to do with her head . . . that vicious, pounding pain. And her mother. Jazzy’s mother. Their mother.
There’d been a fight. Morgan didn’t know what happened. She couldn’t remember that night—hell, try as she might, she couldn’t remember
anything
. Not even Jazzy. Somehow she knew she was responsible for the girl, but she didn’t
remember
her.
She just knew she had to take care of the girl.
“Lousy job you’re doing,” she whispered to herself.
Yelling at the kid, looking at her and feeling so angry.
So lost.
So unlike herself.
At least, that’s the way she felt. But since she could barely remember who she was, how did she even know?
 
 
D
UST and dim light.
That was what Dominic awoke to—there was a musty scent in the air, something flat and dark over him and off to the side, he could see light filtering in.
For a second, confusion crowded his mind.
Scooting out from under the bed, he glanced around, trying to place where he was. He came to his feet as he studied the golden light creeping in through the narrow slit in the curtains.
Even without the sun’s light, his internal clock told him it wasn’t quite full night yet. The sun wasn’t quite yet ready to set—it was damn early for him to be up. He shouldn’t be awake at all. But here he was, and he wasn’t even that groggy.
Just confused as hell.
Rubbing a hand down his grizzled jaw, he studied the cabin, from the windows that would let in enough sunlight to fry his ass, to the busted bookshelves along one wall.
A familiar, elusive scent tickled his nose and he looked down, realized he was holding a pillow.
The scent came from that. Lifting it to his face, he breathed it in and then shuddered as her scent hit him.
Memory followed two seconds later.
His hand fell slack to his side. He stood there, staring stupidly at nothing as those crazy, rushed minutes from the past night and morning started to spin through his mind.
He was at Excelsior.
According to Kelsey, he wasn’t crazy.
And according to his gut, the woman he’d been dreaming about was real.
She was alive.
Not a figment of his imagination.
Swearing, he dropped down, sitting on the edge of the bed. He covered his face with his hands and held still, stiff as logic tried to creep up.
You don’t know this woman.
You’ve never met her.
She’s not who you think she is.
But logic wasn’t getting a very good foothold. Lowering his hands, he stared all around the little cabin, replaying every last second from the previous night. Arriving here. Following Kelsey across the grounds to one of the rooms designed for the vampires.
But he’d caught a familiar scent in the air, and he’d followed it.
Followed it to this cabin, and the moment he’d stepped through the door, he’d been overcome by a sense of possessiveness, a determination unlike anything he’d ever met.
And longing.
Then seeing Malachi—telling him about his dreams.
There was a quiet knock at the door, and Dominic looked up with a scowl. He was still scowling when he answered the door. Automatically, he flinched against the vivid light of the setting sun but it brought him no harm, no discomfort. It caused a faint sting—the way it might after one had been in the sun a little too long, but that was it.
Kelsey stopped in her tracks and then glanced back over her shoulder at the sun. When she looked at him, she asked, “Doesn’t it hurt?”
“No.”
Her brows arched. “Wow. That’s pretty damn good . . . how long have you been a vamp?”
“Ten years.”

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