Under His Wings (6 page)

“Nico,” she whispered, turning her head to the side as if
searching for him behind the detective. Her frown transformed into a wince at
the movement and his beast snapped and snarled at the leash Nicolai had used to
tether it. Panic flickered across her wan features before she returned her
attention to the nurse and cops standing over her bed.

“Nico?” the same detective asked, tone sharp. “Ms. Ridgeway,
was someone here?”

“I must’ve been dreaming.” She closed her eyes. “I’m sorry.”
The hitch in her throat tugged on his heart as if an unseen chord connected
them.

Then her words slammed into him with the force of a
sledgehammer.

Dreaming?

Impossible…she couldn’t mean… He sucked in a breath. The
last few months—the hot dreams—dreams that had made him eager to fall asleep at
night. Eager to be in the arms of the woman who offered her body up to him with
total selflessness. Allowing him to be rough and dirty when the hunger rode him
hard, or tender and gentle when he just needed to touch and be touched.

Memories of the evening before swamped him.

She’d comforted him, kissing the wound he’d received,
murmuring soft words of concern. Need had driven him and Nicolai had dragged
her close, lifted her over his thighs and impaled her sweet,
tight-as-a-wet-glove pussy with his cock. He didn’t fear hurting her with his
passion. Never had she shied away from the fierce eroticism of his nature. So
he’d fucked her hard, riding out his frustration and anger at his failure to
capture Evander and exact revenge. Pounding away the grief that seemed a
permanent lodestone in his chest for Bastien. And she’d accepted it all, her
slender arms circling his shoulders and holding on. Holding him.

Until this moment he’d assumed those fantasies had been his
alone, yet this woman’s words implied differently. How had she known his name?
Was she his mystery dream woman? Nicolai shook his head, his brain rejecting
the thought. The idea he could have been dream-sharing with this woman defied
every law that had been passed down from millennium to millennium.

Each hippogryph, along with its innate magic and power, was
born with certain gifts. Lukas could conjure shields like the one he’d
materialized the night before to save Nicolai’s life. Evander had been born
with the power of telekinesis—the ability to move objects with his thoughts.
Bastien had been a master healer.

Along with the strength that came with the position of
Dimios
—supernatural
even for a hippogryph—Nicolai was a dream-walker. He possessed the ability to
cross from this world to the realm of sleep and enter another’s dreams, visions
and fantasies.

Bondmates shared gifts. Every hippogryph had a fated mate—at
inception the Fates parted them and only a rare and blessed few reunited with
their predestined half. Bonded pairs represented a unit, equal in might, magic
and spirit. A human could not match a hippogryph in might—their bodies were
much more fragile and weak—and up until ten seconds ago, Nicolai believed they
didn’t wield magic.

His head swam with the questions that mobbed his mind.

“It’s okay.” Dr. Conway’s gentle assurance penetrated the
whirlwind in his brain, one that made a tsunami look like a mild spring rain.
“These detectives just want to speak with you about tonight if you’re up to
it.” The grim frown she aimed at the two men belied the calming tone she used
on her patient. “Only if you’re up to it.”

Taking his cue from the doctor, the taller of the two cops
softened his voice. “Ms. Ridgeway, I’m Detective Scott and this is my partner,
Detective Roland.” He indicated the shorter, older man across from him with a
dip of his chin. “May we call you Tamar?”

“Tamar.” She corrected the pronunciation as if she did it
often.
Tuh-mar.
Nicolai shaped the name on a soundless whisper. Sexy.
Strong. Like her. “And yes, please do.” Her gaze shifted back and forth between
the men. “Resa? Is she…” Tears thickened the question, dampened her eyes.

A hesitation, then Detective Roland stretched forward and
patted her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Tamar,” he said, regret heavy in the words.
“She…didn’t make it.”

Fury blazed inside Nicolai, flaring from a seething ember to
a consuming flame. After the damage Evander had inflicted on Tamar’s friend,
“didn’t make it” was a vast understatement.

Tamar choked out a sob, tears falling silently down her
face. “I knew that. I guess I hoped I’d imagined—” Another racking sob tore
from her and Nicolai turned and braced his palms flat on the wall. His head
hung low as he fought not to reveal his presence and go to her. Her sorrow and
pain called out to him, clawed at his already shredded control.

“Did you see the person who murdered Ms. Hanson?” Detective
Scott questioned, slipping a small spiral pad and pen from his breast pocket.
He flipped to a page, his blue gaze settling on her tear-stained face, and
awaited her answer.

So did Nicolai. With bated breath.

“Yes,” she replied and the tension in the small cordoned-off
area ratcheted up several decimals. “He was tall, maybe six-four or six-five.
Dark hair and eyes. Handsome. He wore a black shirt and pants.”

“Any distinguishing marks? Scar? Tattoo?” Roland pressed,
though still gently under Dr. Conway’s watchful eye.

Tamar started to shake her head, but grimaced and obviously
reconsidered the action. “Not that I could see.”

“If you didn’t recognize him, do you know of anyone who
would want to hurt you?” the same detective asked.

She parted her lips, shut them. Then finally said, “No, I
can’t think of anyone.”

Nicolai smelled the lie from across the room.

“Can you tell us what happened?” Scott urged, scribbling in
his pad.

Again a pause, and then in a halting voice the story of the
confrontation with Evander spilled out of her. Nicolai listened, as rapt and
entranced by the narration as the police and doctor.

“He stared at me like he knew me. Said my likeness was
uncanny, that he gave him a chance. I’m not sure what he meant by that. He
added he would save me for last. Then…” She faltered, her lashes lowering
before lifting, dread and horror darkening the amber so her eyes almost
appeared black. “Then he changed.” She swallowed hard and Nicolai’s breath
froze in his lungs. Fear of her next words seized him, shook him like a rag
doll in its unrelenting grasp. “He changed into this…this thing.”

Both detectives frowned, shared a confused glance over her
bed, then arrowed their attention back to her. “A thing?” Scott asked.

“Yes,” Tamar said, her murmur so low the two men leaned
forward to catch her next words. “A monster,” she rasped. “A horrible monster
with an eagle’s head, wings and a horse’s back and legs. He leaped on Resa,
tore her apart. I couldn’t see it, but the sound…” She gagged and the doctor
rushed to scoot a small pink pan underneath her chin. After a moment, Tamar
recovered and weakly pushed it away. “Then it turned to me, but another one
crashed into it and I guess I fell, hit my head. That’s all I remember.”

A heavy shocked silence descended in the small cubicle.
Nicolai scrutinized the police detectives’ bewildered expressions, noted the
moment their surprise changed to tired resignation. Scott flipped his notebook
closed.

Tamar sighed. “I realize how it must sound—”

“Don’t worry,” Brenda said briskly. She flicked a glance at
the two men. “It must be the pain medication she’s been given. I warned you she
may not be coherent.”

Roland acknowledged the admonishment with a nod though
disappointment creased his brow, turned down the thin line of his mouth. ”Tamar,
is it okay if we come by your home tomorrow after you’ve been released?” He
paused as if searching for a phrase that wouldn’t offend her…or accuse her of
being crazier than a shithouse rat. “We’d like to go over your statement again
just to clarify a few points.”

Tamar seemed as resigned as the two detectives. “Yes,” she
murmured and closed her eyes.

The men, followed by the physician, exited the bay. Once
their hushed voices faded, she raised her lashes and turned her head in his
direction.

Nicolai dropped his arms and pivoted to the bed. For an
instant that stretched like an eon, he imagined her amber stare pierced his
magic and she spied him standing across the floor. But then Dr. Conway barged
back in and Nicolai exhaled a harsh breath he hadn’t realized he’d been
holding.

The implications of what Tamar had witnessed left him
reeling.

His race’s existence depended on their ability to remain
invisible to the human world. It was Nicolai’s purpose, his mission to defend
that mantle of secrecy.

Not only did he have to hunt the rogue who threatened it,
but now he had to protect his people from a human female who’d seen too much.

Chapter Three

Tamar closed the front door behind Detectives Scott and
Roland with a weary sigh. True to their word, they’d called on her a couple of
hours after she’d been released from the hospital. She’d recounted her
statement of the attack the previous evening, prudently omitting the part about
her and Resa’s assailant shifting to a horrifying monster. Even jacked up on pain
killers last night, she’d noticed their disbelief. She’d been granted a pass
because of her ordeal but damn, if Tamar had been the cop listening to an
accounting of a vicious eagle-horse beast, she’d have outfitted the person for
a new white jacket and the eighth floor of Grace Crossings Memorial would have
had a new resident…after administering a test for hallucinogens. Maybe she’d
cracked her head on the sidewalk
before
the attack…

Another reason why she hadn’t mentioned the troubling
sensation of being followed these past weeks. She could imagine how that
conversation would have gone.

Ms. Ridgeway, did you see anybody?

No, sir. I just had this feeling.

Has anything happened to make you believe you were being
followed?

Um, no. Like I said, I just had this feeling.

Well, Ms. Ridgeway, maybe it was the Easter Bunny as well
as that half-eagle, half-horse monster you told us about. Get a bag of fairy
dust and you’ll be okay.

Tamar snorted. In the hospital when they’d asked her about
anyone who would want to hurt her, she hadn’t confessed to her suspicions
regarding being watched or how the identity of the maybe-stalker could be Kyle.
Her wariness sounded a bit outlandish without proof. As for the other reason
she remained silent… If Tamar named Kyle as the person who might possibly be
following her, then she’d have to admit
why
. She’d harbored her shameful
and embarrassing secret of abuse for years and she wasn’t about to reveal it.
Especially since she doubted the attack had anything to do with her ex.

Rubbing a hand across her forehead, she headed back into the
living room and eased onto the couch, afraid to make any sudden movements.
Gingerly, she touched the wound at the back of her head. The doctor had assured
her that though she had suffered a concussion, her skull was intact and in a
few days she would be fine, even free of headaches. In other words, the claim
her mother had thrown at Tamar since childhood was true—she had a hard-ass
head.

Melancholy swooped in like a scavenger just waiting for the
opportunity to feast on the carrion of her self-pity. God, what she wouldn’t
give to have her mother here with her. Ever since her father had abandoned them
when Tamar was a toddler, it had been her and Jessie Ridgeway. Then her mother
had died from a fast and aggressive bout of pneumonia. Within a week, Tamar had
been alone and scared at twenty years old. At twenty-four she’d been
vulnerable, easy pickins for Kyle.

She closed her eyes and in cautious increments hoisted her
feet to the couch cushions and reclined against the soft pile of pillows
propped behind her. Okay, so this spell of depression could—for the most
part—be attributed to the drugs. They lowered the solid walls of optimistic
determination she’d erected out of necessity through the years. But damn it,
she’d just witnessed her friend get torn to pieces by a monster she’d probably
fabricated from too many viewings of
Harry Potter
. She had been attacked
and suffered a hard knock on the head.

If anyone deserved to indulge in an interlude of
why-the-fuck-does-Fate-hate-me, it was her.

With a sigh she drifted on a nice, hazy medicinal wave and
wondered if she would dream of Nicolai as she’d done in the hospital. The
vision had seemed so real. She snuggled deeper into the soft cushions and let
the dark undertow of sleep seduce her…

He’d
seemed so real.

When she opened her eyes, dusk had overtaken the day and
shadows stretched across her living room floor and walls. A shiver coursed
through her and, in turn, set off a clamor of aches demanding to be addressed.
Little men with chisels who whistled while they worked drilled the inside of
her skull. Her hip and leg complained just a little less vocally at her lying
in one position for so many hours.

First meds. Then shower. And finally, bed. The five-hour
nap—give or take an hour—had only succeeded in making her more drained.

Forty-five minutes later, she emerged from the steamy
bathroom into her bedroom, a towel wrapped around her, the ends tucked between
her breasts. Too exhausted to tangle with the rat’s nest on top of her head,
she’d pinned the heavy mass up for her shower. Even that slight tug on her
scalp had caused her to flinch in pain. As she released the clip and her curls
tumbled to her shoulders, she heaved a breath of relief.

Tamar crossed the room toward her dresser. She pulled the
top drawer open and removed her favorite pair of cotton sleeping pants dotted
with martini glasses and a black tank top. Within seconds she had dropped the
towel and donned the pajamas, but as she retraced her steps over the hardwood
floor and caught her reflection in the large vanity mirror, reality slammed
into her.

Resa. Image after image of her friend flashed through her
mind. Resa smiling, bouncing around in her perpetual perky manner. Resa
laughing, grin wide and open. Resa belting out a Broadway tune. Resa…dead,
gone, a victim of a madman. Or beast.

“Jesus,” Tamar whispered and the tears besieged her, a flood
shattering the dam that had held back her grief and horror. Resa shouldn’t have
died like that—she hadn’t deserved the viciousness and terror of her death.

Once the sobs welled and flowed, Tamar couldn’t stop them.
How long she stood there, submerged in tears, she didn’t know. It could have
been ten minutes or ten hours. When her sobs eventually abated, leaving a gaping,
empty hole in her chest, exhaustion pilfered every last reserve of strength she
had left.

Thankfully her body took pity on her emotional state and
shut up. Her tread was smooth as she headed toward the bed. Passing the window,
she cast a cursory glance out toward her backyard.

And froze.

God. No.

She was trapped in a nightmare, transported back to that
deadly night on the street with a monster wrapped in a man’s skin. Only the
monster now prowled her backyard.

Its massive bulk, as wide as a minivan, crouched on her
grass. Wings that had easily spanned twelve feet folded alongside its body, the
hind hooves stamping out an impatient rhythm before stilling. Its rounded
eagle’s head cocked to the side as if it listened for the slightest movement
that would betray the location of its prey.

Tamar was that prey.

She knew it. Somehow he—it—had found her, tracked her to her
home and intended to finish the kill that had eluded it the night before. Her
heart slammed against her chest like a rabbit sighted by a great raptor. Yet
unlike that bunny which scampered for its life, she remained rooted in front of
the window, petrified with fear. If the eagle-horse-hybrid mutant happened to
tilt its head in the opposite direction, it would spot her. And attack.

That
mobilized her into action.

She didn’t want to die.

Not like Resa.

Tamar whirled on her heel and ducked out of the line of
sight. She crab-crawled to the bedside lamp and tugged on the chain, plunging
the room into darkness except for the shaft of moonlight that beamed through
the window like a lighthouse beacon.

The soundtrack of Resa’s death played in her head. Looping
over and over. The horrible cracking and crunching of bone. The awful wet
smacks she refused to analyze and identify. She straightened, scanning the room
for anything she could wield as a weapon. Her quick inspection skipped over the
fireplace then careened back to the iron poker. She raced over to the utensil,
snatched it from the set. Its weight was a comfort in her grip.

Her breath thundered in her ears as she crept back to the
window. With her spine pressed to the adjacent wall, she peered around the
sash.
Shit.
Empty. Her backyard was empty. Where the hell had it gone?

The poker hung from her hand as she contemplated her next
move. The eternal optimist in her wanted to believe the beast had left. But
then a picture of the evil delight in his stygian gaze as he promised to take
his time with her filtered across her mind’s eye. No. If the monster had found
her, he wouldn’t just leave. Not with her trapped…nowhere to go…and no one to
interrupt him this time.

A noise, so soft she almost believed her fear conjured it,
whispered through the utter stillness. Tamar sucked in a deep gust of air, held
it and strained to pick up the sound once more. Silence met her ears. And more
silence.

Maybe…
there
.

Like a footfall on carpet.

Or a brush of cloth against a wall.

Outside her bedroom.

Panic drove her to the corner nearest her bed. She wedged
herself between the headboard and wall, brandishing the makeshift iron weapon
in front of her like a club. The moon’s pearlescent light didn’t reach the
corner where she hid and the darkness pressed down on her, an oppressive
weight. Her breath echoed in her head like a shrill wind through a cavern.

Memories of another time when total blackness had borne down
on her threatened to drag her under the looming tide of terror. A time when the
yawning void of light had been as petrifying and painful as the twisted metal
that pinned the left side of her body to the seat of a crashed airplane.

Tamar fought not to give in to the dread that poked at the
periphery of her subconscious. Sweat dotted her forehead and a bead rolled
lazily down her temple. It coated the skin between her breasts and made a
mockery of the deodorant she’d applied after her shower. Her fingers tightened
around the poker, her damp palms slick against the heavy metal.

The bedroom door opened as slowly as a swinging pendulum.
She almost expected gnarled, clawed fingers to curl around the edge like the
imagined goblin that’d lurked inside her closet when she was ten. From her
hiding place, she couldn’t see who entered the room and her nerves stretched to
the snapping point as she waited.

A shadow separated from the void that surrounded it and slid
over the floor toward her bed. Toward her. Her heart slammed against her chest,
a wild animal frantic to escape its cage. Every survival instinct screamed
run
,
get out
! But it was too late—had been since she’d spied the beast
outside her window.

Now all she could hope for was a quick death…and maybe to
make the intruder hurt a little, she vowed, lifting the weapon higher.

The figure moved closer. Tamar tensed, ready to streak out
of the corner like a bat out of hell. It shifted direction, nearing the window.
Moonlight glanced off it, revealing the faint outline of a large man. The
shades of black lightened to gray, bringing its shoulder, neck and face into
focus.

Shit.

The poker lowered, her arms going limp with shock. Her lips
parted and a soft gasp escaped her throat. It couldn’t be…

“Nico?”

The man who had haunted her dreams and saved her sanity for
the last three years stepped fully into the shaft of light. His thick blond
waves appeared silver in the moon’s beam, but the strong carved-from-granite
jaw was the same. As were the slashing arch of his brows, the arrogant,
aquiline blade of his nose and the full erotic curves of his mouth.

She knew his face well—had traced its beautiful features
with her eyes, fingers and lips many times.

But always in her fantasies. Never in real life, in the
flesh.

Joy hurtled through her, lit her up on the inside like a
Fourth of July firecracker. Her lips tilted upward, her smile widening, and the
warm glow of delight spread as if she’d downed a shot of whiskey. The tip of
the iron poker hit the floor as her arm dropped to her side.

For years she’d anticipated each night when would she escape
to the place where she could see Nicolai, be with him, make love to him. And
for years she’d dreaded the morning when she’d awaken to an empty bed, alone and
lonely.

But Nicolai was here. In her bedroom.

In…her…
bedroom
.

Suspicion wormed its way past elation. Her smile faded as
the stain of doubt expanded like an ink blot across paper. How was it possible
he’d strode straight out of her dreams? And why now? Her gaze shifted to the
window. Her thoughts strayed to the backyard and what she’d seen crouched on
the grass.

No. That’s crazy.

But the last two days had been the epitome of bizarre. A man
had changed into a monster before her eyes. Her friend had been ripped to
shreds by the same man-beast. And now the winged warrior who had existed only
in her imagination stood in front of her.

Her breath snagged in her throat. Images from her dreams of
magnificent wings extended high and wide flashed in her head. She swore she
could feel their feathered gentleness as they closed around her, sheltering her
as securely as his muscled arms.

“Who are you?” she whispered.

Nicolai didn’t say anything, his expression closed, as
inscrutable as the unblinking stare studying her. Her unease ratcheted up a
notch and her grip tightened on the poker once more.

A corner of his mouth twitched as if he’d noticed her
defensive action.

“You know who I am,” he said and she shivered under the
sensual power of that low midnight rumble. The seductive drawl too was the
same. “I think your question is
what
am I?”

Yes, that question had taunted her. Yet even as she’d
thought it, the answer had risen to her mind, swift and certain.

“Hippogryph,” she blurted.

Surprise flared in his eyes—eyes she knew were the exact hue
of the most perfect violet—before his lashes lowered, his inspection of her
becoming hooded, appraising. Blood heated, coursed through her veins,
transporting desire along the vascular highways until it pooled in her sex,
pounded in her clit. Between her thighs, her folds swelled, moistened. He
stepped closer and the moonlight caressed him like a doting lover, illuminating
the striking planes of his face, emphasizing the wide shoulders.