Relentless Flame (Hell to Pay) (6 page)

The crippled octogenarian, “Mildred,” had motored around the bookstore like a spry fifty-year-old, ever since Hannah held the woman’s hands. And what about Hannah’s fingers and knuckles when she tried to pick up the coin? She had become positively geriatric in the space of minutes.

Even though she obviously didn’t feel well, she had still been polite to all of the customers, including his persistent self. He didn’t miss the flashes of pain in those gold-flecked brown eyes that the glasses didn’t hide. For a split second when their hands brushed, he’d gotten a brief sensation of pain in his finger. But the feeling was gone before he could examine it. Curious.

At first, he’d figured Hannah to be a meek, demure mouse of a woman, but there was steel beneath her fragile form. She was a walking contradiction. Her appearance said “hands off,” but the kindness with her customers revealed a warmer side. She had rebuffed him, but the cracks in her tough façade fascinated him. He wanted to find out more.

Needing some distance from this woman so he could think, Dante strolled to a nearby café. While he wasn’t exactly inconspicuous, he could at least watch the entrance of the bookstore without encroaching on Hannah. Had she truly taken away the old lady’s arthritis pain? How was that possible? Did she have abilities, too?

Allie, his friend Peter’s wife, could see death when she touched people. It stood to reason there would be other people like Allie, maybe with all sorts of different talents.

As an Indebted, Dante healed quickly, his personal self-repair a side effect of his eternal contract, which made sense. Jerahmeel, his boss, wouldn’t want his employees to die of mortal causes. Fragile contracted killers made for bad investments. Dante had found out about the fast-healing ability when he broke his leg during the French Revolution. Fifteen minutes later, he had been back on his feet again, in pain but leg intact, swinging away with his fellow citizens.

The
Sami
people who inhabited the territory above the Arctic Circle in his native Sweden had been renowned for their healing abilities, so he’d heard of mysterious healers as far back as when he was a boy. If the stories were true, the Sami could make it snow on command and bring in the giant herds of reindeer, so what was truth and what was legend? Things happened in this world that no one understood. Hell, Dante was living proof of that fact.

What about that nasty Raymond Jackson guy? Dante gripped the metal café table until the rim bent as rage rumbled up and threatened to break over him like a tidal wave. It would’ve satisfied Dante more if Jackson’s death had lasted much longer than it had. The knife on Dante’s lower leg pulsed, as he recalled the satisfaction as the knife entered Jackson’s chest cavity, the almost orgasmic relief as that evil soul poured its last drops into the knife until the blade had been sated. Another criminal out of the way.

Knowing that Jackson had apologized for hurting his children, was there any doubt why Hannah was terrified of Dante? Of her own shadow? Dante still needed to tell her about Jackson’s demise. This woman had to be Jessica Miller, now called Hannah. The way she reacted hid nothing. Maybe Hannah would be so relieved at the news of Jackson’s death that she would run into Dante’s open arms. He would be a hero.
Utmarkt.
Excellent.

Mission accomplished.

But unfortunately, killing Jackson did not satisfy the big mission, the Meaningful Kill, as evidenced by the fact that Dante remained an Indebted. Maybe soon, like Peter, Dante might break his contract and be free of the eternal curse.

Didn’t he like his eternally powerful life? When had that changed?

Before he examined his change of heart, a new hunger swelled. It had been nearly two weeks since he’d performed his last kill, and the impulse usually built until he couldn’t think of anything else. Normally, two weeks was right at the limit of his control before the urge consumed him. With effort, he pushed the desire to kill aside. He needed to focus on Hannah for a while longer.

Now that he’d met Hannah and was prepared to deliver Jackson’s deathbed message, so to speak, Dante found he didn’t simply want to be a messenger and then leave. If he delayed his announcement, he could spend more time learning more about this intriguing woman.

And then do what? He had nothing to offer, even if his news endeared her to Dante. His entire existence personified the definition of morally corrupt. At this point, though, his interest was more than professional and more than his usual sexual interest.

When was the last time he’d felt so strongly about anyone? Two, three hundred years ago? Why try again? It would only bring pain for all parties involved.

Thoughts churned in his mind until he gave up trying to create order out of chaos. His unhappiness changed nothing. At a loss to raise his spirits, he simply tucked into a delectable multicourse meal.

Just after seven o’clock, the faint jingle of the bookstore door drifted over to him in time for him to see Hannah leave the store and walk up the street. Her hips swayed unevenly under the long skirt. He briefly indulged in envisioning her body beneath her clothes. Would his hands span her tiny waist? What would she feel like, folded into his arms or, even better, lying beneath him?

As if he had the right to think about such things. He did not.

He easily caught up to her slow, limping gait. “Hello, Hannah.” He spoke without preamble, pouring on the charm.

She gurgled a cry and jumped back, tears welling in her bespectacled eyes. It was true: He was an idiot. Damn it, he had to consider what she might have endured with Jackson. Time to back off and try a softer approach.

“I’m sorry to scare you,” he said, letting his deep voice vibrate the air.

When he reached out to her, she flinched away like a wounded bird desperately trying to fly away. He cursed himself again.
Gently, man. Tone down the machismo.

“What ... what are you doing here?” She flicked glances up and down the street.

He could listen to her low, breathless voice for centuries, and it wouldn’t get old.

“I, uh, was walking by when you came out of the store. Would you like a ride home?” He cringed. Still didn’t hit the right tone. He needed this encounter to come across as less creepy stalker, more casual happenstance.

“No, no. That’s not ... no. I’ll just walk like I usually do. On my own. Alone.”

Okay. Kid gloves, then. “Could I walk with you?”

“No, I don’t—no. But thank you.”

He enjoyed how the flush crept over her face and neck, and his hands itched with the desire to see if that skin was as baby soft as it appeared. And that pulse jumping at the base of her neck?
Ja
, he wanted his lips there.

“I’d really be more comfortable walking you home. It’s getting darker earlier these days. Um, because it’s fall,” he stammered.

Lame. Where had the smooth operator gone? He’d deserted Dante, pure and simple.

“Yes, but it’s more than a mile,” she said.

“I think I can manage.”

“I’m not sure ...”

When she crossed her arms, the barest shadow formed in the fabric nestled between her breasts. It took all of his unnatural strength not to stare at that spot.

He kept his arms close to his body but turned his palms up to her. “Look, we got off on the wrong foot, and I apologize. Sometimes I’m less than ... couth. I truly want to walk you home, nothing else. I promise. And I do sincerely believe that it’s dangerous for a lady to walk home alone in the dark.”

He pretended to consider the twilight sky, drawing her attention upward, then stood still for a full minute. Her silence nearly killed him. He wanted to plead his case, try another round of sure-fire seductiveness, but he now knew those tactics wouldn’t work. Quelling the urge to squirm beneath her scrutiny, he tried to come across as nonchalant and nonthreatening, which for someone of his size was an almost impossible task.
Please
.

“Okay. Big streets only. And I have pepper spray.”

She stood as tall as possible, which wasn’t saying much. Dante tried not to laugh out loud. If only she knew what he was capable of, with his unhuman Indebted strength, his occupation, she would never walk with him. Barehanded, he could destroy any mortal man, to say nothing of this scrap of a female. But her safety was his paramount concern, even if she didn’t realize it.

Trying to pour reassurance into his reply, he smiled. “Sounds reasonable. You can pepper spray me at any time. Actually, you can do it once for practice if you will feel more secure.”

Forty years ago, he’d been pepper sprayed at an environmental protest in the Redwoods. He so did enjoy participating in citizen revolts over the ages.
Ja
, damn spray hurt like hell, but with his superhuman self-healing, the effect only lasted a minute or two. If Hannah needed to burn out his eyeballs to accept his company, he’d gladly let her do it.

At her hesitation, he added, “Would you like to carry the bottle in your hand? You’ll be ready to take action, if needed.”

She wrinkled her nose at him, rotated her purse to sling it in front of her, and damned if she didn’t fish out the spray can and palm it. Her sweet lips pressed into a thin line. Spectacular
beståmning
. Determination. Grit.

• • •

The walk home flat out hurt. Between her headache, every joint in her body aching—save that one finger—and the blond giant next to her who, bless him, hadn’t tried any funny business, Hannah had zero energy left.

Despite her exhaustion, she didn’t miss when several women flirted with him on the walk home. Beautiful women with hungry glances that locked onto him; a few women even licked their lips. What hurt more was the way their expressions changed as their eyes slid from Dante to Hannah. She wasn’t a threat to these women, just an aberration, a peculiarity, like a puzzle piece that didn’t belong. Despite the attention, Dante appeared to ignore it all and concentrated solely on Hannah, and that focus unnerved her.

Why
was
he here with her? As she drifted along with their light conversation, she only half listened. She kept searching for an ulterior motive, a hint of pity, an angle having to do with Ray, anything.

Somewhere a few blocks north of the bookstore, she’d returned the pepper spray to her purse. It hurt her fingers to hold the bottle. Besides, she could scream pretty loudly if he tried anything.

To his credit, Dante had planted his hands at his sides and hadn’t moved them for twenty minutes. He walked close enough that his massive frame gave her the perception of safety, but he didn’t encroach on her personal space.

Hannah experienced a fleeting illusion of companionship, rapidly replaced by a wave of terror. She was alone with a man. Never mind Dante’s kind, blue eyes and the heat that somehow radiated out from him and wrapped around her like a warm blanket. Despite the fact that he had made no advances, had done nothing improper, she couldn’t overcome the quaking inside her body. Her shivers had nothing to do with the handsome man next to her and everything to do with her wrecked state. Even the slight movement of his light hair in the breeze made her flinch.

God, her mind was a disaster zone.

If he noticed her jumpiness, he gave no indication.

Instead, their conversation, or mostly his, centered on weather, things to do in Portland, and one of her favorite topics, books. He’d transformed from a beefy flirt into a perfect, nonthreatening gentleman. He didn’t even seem bothered when he had to adjust his long stride to match her ridiculously slow pace.

But he paused a few times during the conversation, as if he wanted to say more but thought better of it. What was he hiding?

As if reading her mind, Dante finally cleared his throat. “May I share something with you?”

“Maybe. Depends on the information.”

“Good point.” His lips thinned. “Are you Jessica Miller?”

“What?” For the second time today, he rendered her speechless.

And terrified. With her bad foot, maybe she couldn’t run, but she could damn well pepper spray him.

She fumbled in her purse.

Dante didn’t move.

Relief washed over her like a cool shower when her fingers wrapped around the metal tube, and she raised it in front of her. Damn how her arm shook.

“What do you want?”

He still hadn’t so much as twitched a muscle. “I need to deliver a message to you. I’m not here to harm you whatsoever. Please believe me.”

“Who sent you here?”

“I met a man in Philadelphia a little while back. I believe you know him. Raymond Jackson.”

Nausea churned in her belly. “Oh God.”

Her legs went weak, and when he reached for her, she waved him off with a menacing wave of the pepper spray. “Don’t touch me.”

He dropped his hand. “I met Raymond Jackson at the end of his life in Philadelphia.”

“Ray’s dead?” Damn it, but sound and light slid from side to side. She had to concentrate on Dante’s face to remain upright.

“Yes, he’s dead.”

“How did he die?” Like it mattered. At least that monster was gone for good.

He couldn’t look at her. “Stabbed in an alley. But before he died, he asked me to give you a message.”

“Okay.” She spared no sad emotion for that sick animal, dying in the streets of Philly. Good riddance.

“He said he had roughed up his children.”

That’s putting it lightly
.

“And?” With her fingers still wrapped around her puny weapon, she dropped her shaking arm to her side.

“He was sorry for everything he had put you and your brother through.”

Dante smiled as though he’d delivered her the Ark of the Covenant.

Poor guy had no idea.

A simple apology didn’t undo Ray’s destruction. A simple apology only ripped open wounds that had started to heal.

But there was a tiny spark inside of her. A tendril of relief surrounded by layers of pain and fear. She’d have to take time to absorb this information. Maybe Ray’s death would help her move on with her life. She’d never be normal, but knowing that he couldn’t hurt her again gave her a flicker of hope.