Tormented by Darkness (10 page)

Groaning, Rhiannon flopped backward on the couch. Dáire didn’t throw out idle threats. He walked the balance, one foot in the light, one in the dark, and if that meant he had to claim a life or two, he’d do so. Had done so. As she had.

Another reason Mick would never accept her, or what she needed from him. He put murderers behind bars.

But somehow, she had to find a way to tell him before he ran into Dáire. She had to convince him to cooperate, because if her demonic nature didn’t steal his life, her brother’s would.

****

Somehow, Mick stumbled through the motions of putting his stepfather to rest dry-eyed. Thankfully, his stepsister hadn’t shown. Still, anguish lashed at him through the offered condolences, the whispered words of prayer, and the final, silent drive to the cemetery. Yet, as he navigated his way through his childhood neighborhood, heading for the home that held so many memories, his thoughts drifted from the sorrow of loss, to thoughts of Rhiannon. As they had throughout the day, surfacing each time he thought he’d succumb to grief.

He clung to the memories of their night of passion like a life raft. Forbidden though she was, he couldn’t stop remembering how perfectly her body fit with his; how her touch soothed parts of him he hadn’t realized hurt. How she filled him with peace and hope.

He pulled into his driveway and turned the engine off. Frustration rose, and anger bubbled. He was being foolish. If he had half an ounce of sense, he’d call her and cancel this trip to the mountains with her family. If he couldn’t reach her, he’d leave the house so she couldn’t goad him into going.

But for some reason sense eluded him. He needed to be around her. Needed to feel the light touch of her palm against his. Needed the life that accompanied her smile.

He thumped a balled fist against the steering wheel, not at all comfortable with the way this was spiraling beyond his control. He made it habit to keep himself emotionally disconnected with the women he took to his bed. What all that involved—well, suffice to say not too many stuck around to discover the full weight of his desires.

Rhiannon damn sure wouldn’t be one of them. Though she’d been perfectly willing to surrender control after her enticingly bold advance, he sincerely doubted she’d tolerate his driving need to never let something he cared about go. Just letting go of that journal pained him. He ached to have it back. And it was something material, just words on paper. That need for control, for possession, crept over him in other ways too. Ways he’d only begun to indulge in last night.

It went deeper than that though. Each day he woke and dragged his ass into work, chasing killers became more difficult. Half of him would rather stuff a bullet between the sorry bastards’ eyes than ever slap on another set of cuffs. Women just didn’t understand that. He was a cop, for god’s sake, one of the good guys. He was supposed to uphold justice, not entertain thoughts of vengeance. The fairer, gentler sex expected him to be above the base urge of murder.

Not that he would ever give in to the desire. He wouldn’t. If for no other reason, he didn’t want to spend the rest of his life behind bars. Beyond that very dissuading fact, however, in his heart, he knew it was wrong. Still, the torment haunted him. Especially when killers walked.

Mick kicked open his car door and let himself inside his house. 3:45—she’d be here soon. She’d get a glimpse of his control-freak nature when he refused to let her drive. Depending on how well that went over, maybe they could talk. Maybe he could put a toe in the dark waters that he was and see how well she responded. If she had ever wanted to kill her father for murdering her mother, she just
might
understand half of the things that kept him awake at night.

He hurried to his room to exchange his suit for jeans and a casual long-sleeved navy shirt. He pulled the card he’d picked up on his way home out of his lapel pocket and tossed it on the bed, refusing to consider what had driven him to acknowledge her birthday. Let alone why he’d chosen a card of sentiment instead of his usual preference for sarcastic humor.

Needing to wash off the burden of Steve’s death, Mick grabbed his fresh clothes and headed for the shower. He couldn’t deny a night in the mountains would do wonders for his soul. Maybe out there, under the stars, he might tap into decency. Especially with an angel at his side.

He grunted as he ducked under the streaming water. Yeah right. Angels and devils didn’t mix. But for a while, he’d let himself believe they could. When they came home tomorrow, he’d deal with reality and the undeniable fact he couldn’t indulge in Rhiannon any longer. In the meantime, he had to keep her from digging any further into his heart.

Chapter Eleven

Rhiannon pulled into Mick’s driveway to find him waiting on the front porch, duffle at his feet, one shoulder braced against a white-painted post. He pushed off the support as she turned off the engine and straightened to his full six-foot-two height. Broad shoulders filled up the narrow entry space.

For a moment, a fleeting second of time that didn’t last nearly long enough, peace filled Rhiannon’s veins. She eased from the car, her heart tapping an anxious cadence against her ribs, and greeted him with a genuine smile. But as the breeze ruffled through her hair, claws of evil raked through her soul. Begging for freedom. Demanding to be cut loose from the chains of light that dominated for so many centuries.

There were two ways to satisfy that dark calling. Death and lust. It needed to possess, and though the dominant need to feed on life would eventually overrule all else, for now, her father’s blood would be tempered by the physical indulgence. Rhiannon fed it willingly. As Mick approached, she rushed to greet him and slipped her arms around his neck, pressing her body suggestively into his. His hard contours, the strength in his arms as they wound around her waist, shocked her to the core. But his mouth was pure bliss. It captured hers, instantly greedy, seeking to satisfy the hunger they had sparked the night before.

All sense of time, place, and circumstance fled her mind beneath the intoxicating kiss. Where they meshed together, her skin tingled. Against her breast his heart drummed a hard, fierce, beat. Heaven. Right here she could exist forever. Ignorant to Drandar’s dark poison and sailing on a cloud of sensation.

Mick pulled away suddenly. Though his breath came in hard puffs, and the hand he raked through his hair shook, his gaze avoided hers. “Easy, Rhiannon,” he exhaled. He nodded at her SUV. “Hop in, I’m driving.”

She blinked. Well so much for a warm greeting. Then again, he’d set the rules earlier. There was no future here. He didn’t share the same overwhelming intensity of feeling.

He wasn’t in love with her.

He didn’t wait for her to object either. Making himself right at home with her SUV, he tossed his duffel in the back and climbed behind the wheel. She should be annoyed. If he didn’t want some sort of connection between them, he shouldn’t be acting like he had a right to drive her vehicle.

Still, some buried sense of femininity thrilled at the way he comfortably filled up the driver’s seat. She let herself into the passenger’s side and folded her hands on her lap.

“Where to?” he asked as he backed out of the driveway.

“Head north toward Pownel. We own some acreage just north of Bradbury State Park.” She stared out the windshield, intent on ignoring the way his obvious distance stung.

She’d heard him before. But this morning she’d been too consumed by the newness of evil flowing in her blood to pay much attention. Too preoccupied with fleeing his house before she lost control of herself and tore open his throat. Now, his rejection hung over her like a thick black cloud. He was using her. For pleasure. For escape—whatever the reason didn’t matter. Mick was using her.

And that realization hurt more than she cared to admit.

More than she dared let on if she intended to keep his company through the very necessary night ahead.

A measure of satisfaction inched down her spine as she stole a glance at his profile. Two could play his game. After all, she was using him too. To keep the balance. To keep death from overriding life and taking what it wasn’t meant to possess. Sure, she would sacrifice, but that was a cost she was willing to accept.

She just hadn’t counted on her heart being affected. Not like this. Not when all she wanted was to link her hand through his, feel the strength of his fingers, and pretend this little weekend rendezvous was real. That Mick wouldn’t very likely hate her come the light of dawn.

Still, she couldn’t just toss him to her brothers and force him to accept the ritualistic demands. Doing so compromised the other half of her nature. That act would border on the death rites her father carried out when he sacrificed her infant siblings and bathed in their blood.

To gain Mick’s cooperation, however, required careful strategy. Twisting in her seat, she braved conversation. “You said Steve was Catholic, but you aren’t anymore?”

“Nope. I went Methodist in my teens. Because Steve wasn’t.” Attention focused on the road, his answer was nothing but rote recitation.

Not exactly conducive to approaching him about alternate beliefs. She twisted the tri-color, gold ring of oak leaves on her right thumb. “Have you ever considered what’s out there? I mean, beyond us. The mountains always make me wonder about the majesty of the world. When I was a kid I used to think the old cabin up there was haunted.” She forced out a laugh, making up the story as she went along.

“We all have demons, Rhiannon.” He repositioned his hands on the wheel. “But if you’re asking me if I believe in ghosts, and an afterlife, or poltergeists…” Mick shrugged. “The devil made me do it is a great fall back for murderers. Ironically, it’s the sane ones who claim that shit.”

His gaze drifted off the road and latched onto hers. For a second, the hard set to his jaw hinted he had another scathing remark prepared. But his dark eyes flickered, and simple curiosity smoothed the tightness at the corners of his mouth. “What about you?”

She hadn’t prepared for the conversation to be turned on her. What exactly could she say? She knew firsthand the powers of the other world? If she told him she was over two thousand years old and the product of an incubus’ lust for power, he’d pull over before they ever reached her family’s land.

Troubled by the opposing desire to explain what she was, and the need to keep him in the car, she turned her stare out the passenger window. “There’s something out there more powerful than us, and yet we’re part of it. The Celts used to say,
Is leor nod don eolach
—A hint is sufficient for the wise. We are the hint.” After a thoughtful pause, she forced a light chuckle. “But what do I know? It’ll be nice to sit beneath the stars and the weather’s supposed to be clear.”

As Rhiannon stole another cautious glance at Mick, she berated herself for her cowardice. Instead of telling him outright, she’d waxed philosophical. And judging from the way he chewed on the inside of his cheek, he wasn’t any too impressed with hearing her theories on the world.

****

Mick hadn’t made Lieutenant by not hearing what people said between the lines. She was telling him something, giving him a
hint.
What that something was remained elusive. Yet as her words soaked into his topsy-turvy system, it became imperative to understand her on a deeper level and learn all he could about the obvious link between her vague reference and the woman she was. He relaxed his grip on the wheel and slid his gaze to the intricate tattoos on her face. “You’re proud of your heritage, aren’t you?”

Her eyes widened infinitesimally, but enough to tell him he’d caught her off guard. She cocked her head to the side as she asked, “It’s that obvious?”

He couldn’t help but chuckle. “I don’t know too many women who’d tattoo tribal art on their face.” Reaching across the center console, he dropped his hand onto hers and added more quietly, “Or too many who could wear them so well.”

“Oh, those.” She pushed a thick lock of hair out of her face. “I’ve had them so long I forget about them. And actually…” A frown marred her high forehead as she paused. Delicate teeth worried her lower lip.

“Actually?”

“I didn’t do them. My mother did when I was born.”

It was his turn to blink. He didn’t know a tattoo shop around that would put ink on a baby. Much less a school system who wouldn’t turn said mother in.

Then again, Rhiannon had said her mother died when she was five. Maybe there wasn’t anyone to turn in by that time.

“Your mother,” he repeated flatly, dumbfounded by the concept.

Rhiannon shifted uncomfortably in her seat, not unlike a suspect in the hot seat. “Yeah. It’s a family mark. Passed down through generations. All my siblings have one somewhere. Dáire and I wear ours on our face.”

Odd. Damned odd. But those unique whorls and lines had drawn him to her in the first place. Not that he could have missed her fire-red hair or the twinkling of her cerulean blue eyes. The artwork though…it explained how herbal remedies blended with floral arrangements and added to Rhiannon’s mystique.

“My father—not Steve, my real one—was Irish.”

“
Uí Fhearghail.”

“Huh?” His gaze snapped to her.

Rhiannon flashed him a bright smile. “Descendant of Fearghal, those who fought with Brian Bóroimhe
at Clontof and went on to become princes of Annaly. Farrells have been noble for centuries. Your heritage is rich in history.”

“I, ah…” He cleared his throat. Damn. She knew more about him than he did. “I never really gave a damn. He was just the sperm donor.”

Turning her palm up, Rhiannon laced her fingers with his. An impish grin danced over her lips. “How’s it feel to descend from a king? Shall I fall to my knees and bow at your feet?”

Mick’s pulse kicked up a notch. He could think of a hell of a lot of other things he’d prefer if she was on her knees. But somehow, he doubted she’d appreciate hearing them. Reining in the misdirected path of his brain, he let out a light cough. “Ah—”