When Temptation Burns: A Shadow Keepers Novel (Shadow Keepers 6) (25 page)

“Deadly to my kind,” he said. “Werewolf bite. Curable if I get what I need, but otherwise …” His voice trailed off.

“Otherwise? Otherwise, what?” She bit her lower lip.

“What is it you are? No, never mind. What is it you need?”

Again, he only looked away.

“Dammit, Doyle, I am seriously pissed off at you right now. But at the same time, I’m the only help you have.”

A muffled ring surprised both of them, and she realized it was coming from the phone in the back pocket of Doyle’s jeans. She pulled it out and saw that it was Paul. She answered. “Are you okay?” she asked. “Where are you?”

“A few blocks away. Bryce and I are fine. Aaron’s dead, but so are two werewolves. Where are you? How are you?”

“I’m not sure where we are,” she lied, not wanting him to know they were still in Wes’s garage. Not when Doyle was … well, the way he was. “Wes is dead. It was horrible. The werewolf, he—”

“I know. I know what they can do. How are you? How’s Doyle?”

“I’m fine,” she assured him. “Doyle is—” She looked at Doyle, who tensed, undoubtedly certain that she was about to tell Paul everything that had happened. “Doyle is hurt. He says it’s not bad, but I’m going to get him to a clinic or a hospital or something.”

“Was he bit?” Paul’s voice took on a harsh, demanding tone. “Did the werewolf bite him?”

She wasn’t sure what compelled her to, but she knew she had to lie. “No. It was a knife. Slashed him in the shoulder.”

“Can you handle it?” She heard the relief in his voice. “Do you need us to find you?”

“No. I can handle it. I’ll—I’ll call you later.”

He hung up, and she quickly did the same.

Doyle looked at her, his expression bleak.

“You slept with me,” she said, her voice low and dangerous. “You knew what I believed about you, and you
slept
with me.”

“I did,” he said, and she couldn’t tell if the regret in his voice was for the act or for the lie. “What are you going to do now?”

She punched out a loud breath. “Dammit all, I’m going to do exactly what I said. I’m going to get you help.” She rocked back on her heels. “So what exactly
do
you need?”

What did he need? He needed souls. He needed strength.

The battle had drained him, but the wound had destroyed him.

So what he needed was souls … but he could hardly tell her that. As it was, he was astounded that she hadn’t run. That she hadn’t told Paul what he was, then stood back as the human and his team rushed in with their knives and their stakes and their wretched fury.

“Why are you doing this?” It took a huge chunk of his energy to force the words past his lips. But he had to know. Because she was right—he’d lied by omission. And if she wanted to turn her back on him, he damn sure couldn’t blame her.

Her forehead creased in what appeared to be confusion. “You need help. God, Doyle, you’re a mess.” She knelt down next to him, and he could smell the urgency and fear she was feeling along with her anger and disappointment. “Tell me. Tell me what it is you need.”

“Need … to feed.” He hadn’t wanted to speak the truth, but he was fading. He wanted Tucker to help him, not her, but that would take too long. If he’d fed more recently—if he hadn’t already been fading before the werens’ attack—but none of that mattered now. He was here, and what he needed was souls.

Crouching beside him, she licked her lips and nodded,
all practical, though the smell of fear still clung to her. “Right. Okay. Blood? Is that what you need?”

He managed a shake of his head. “Car. There’s a place …”

“A place? What place?”

“Pico … on Pico.”

“It’ll take forever. Dammit, Doyle, just take my blood. Take a little, please, and then we’ll get you there. You don’t look good, you really don’t.” She was tripping over her words and tears glistened in her eyes.

He drew in a shaky breath. “Just go. Leave me.”

“Screw that.” She got in his face. “I’m not leaving. Do you hear me?” Wildly, she looked around, then pulled the knife from the chest of the werewolf. “You’re feeding, damn you, whether you like it or not.” She lifted the knife over the pad of her thumb, then bit her lower lip in concentration.

“Don’t,” he said.

“Shut up.”

“Not blood.” He blurted it out, the thought that she would bleed for him both unacceptable and absolutely amazing.

“What?” The knife was still poised to cut.

“Not blood. Essence. Energy.”

“Oh.” She stared at him for a moment, then dropped the knife. She rocked back on her heels and her mouth moved as if she were forming words, but no sound came out. “Oh.”

“Orlando’s. Take me there.”

Through his darkening vision she looked hazy, like a ghost. But he could see her swallow. “Is there time? Tell me honestly—
is there time?
” Her voice sounded as if she were talking underwater.

He didn’t answer. He didn’t know.

“Do—do I have to die?”

“Not feeding off you.”

“Do I have to die?”

“No.”

“Then do it.”

“No.”

“Why the hell not?” She straddled him, a blurry, dark vision with beautiful pale eyes. “Do it. Whatever it is you do, do it.”

She was right in his face, and he turned away. He couldn’t bear to tell her what he truly fed upon. He could remember too clearly the horror in his mother’s eyes when she’d learned the truth of it. The way she’d dropped to the ground, praying for God to take him away.

“Doyle. Now, dammit,
now
.” He could smell it—hell, he could practically taste it. Her soul. Rich and deep and as sweet as honey. He couldn’t, though. God, how could he do that?

She slapped him hard. “Doyle! Do it! Whatever it is, just do it.”

He opened his mouth to argue, to tell her to go, that he couldn’t bear for her to know what it was he needed, but she was too close. Too
there
, and he was so damn hungry.

Half-mad from need, he gripped her shoulders and pulled her close, then closed his lips over hers.

She tensed, then relaxed, her mouth opening and a soft moan escaped into him, along with the sweet, delicious threads of her soul.

She was floating
.

She twined with him, not her body, but her essence.

Her eyes were closed tight, but it didn’t matter. Andy could see the two of them and they were bathed in a glow of light.

No, it was
her
light, and it was spilling out over him. Vibrant, shining colors twisting around him like silken threads.

She could feel it, like the brush of satin against bare skin and it was the most erotic sensation she could ever remember feeling. Magical and pure and—

He broke away.
“Enough.”

The spell shattered, and she scooted backward, unsettled. This wasn’t right. He’d done something to her. Put some kind of spell on her. He’d taken her energy, her essence. Pulled out the essential strands of
her
.

And dear God, she’d enjoyed it.

She scrambled to her feet, confused and scared. And not just of Doyle—whatever the hell he was—but of her own roiling emotions. Of this desire to pull him close and hold him instead of running as far and as fast as she could.

That’s
what she was running from. From herself as much as from him.

An old flannel shirt hung from a nail, and she grabbed it and pulled it on, covering her blood-spattered shirt. Then she hurried back to the alley door and pushed it open. A stream of light burst in, illuminating Doyle’s battered, bruised face.

She hesitated.

“Go,” he said. “Just go.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll be okay.”

She pushed on the door, undecided. Then she let it swing shut. “Did you get enough?”

“I’m not taking any more from you. I got enough to survive. I’ll be fine.”

“Orlando’s? That’s where you need to go? Where is it?”

He was silent.

“Dammit, Doyle, how are you going to get there? Drive? You going to call Tucker? In case you hadn’t noticed, this place looks like a war zone. What happens if someone else gets here first? Tell me where Orlando’s is. I’ll take you there. I’ll take you,” she added, “and that’s the end of it.”

His eyes met hers. “Head north. I’ll tell you where to turn.”

“Keys in your pocket?”

He nodded, and she leaned close, trying to ignore the intimacy of her hand in his jeans. She found the Pontiac’s key, then slipped out the alley door and ran around the house. It was bigger than any car she’d ever driven, and she moved slowly, afraid she was going to scrape the sides on the narrow bricks of the alleyway. Finally, she brought it to a halt by the door leading from Wes’s garage.

She opened the car’s back door, entered the garage, and helped Doyle to his feet. He was weak, damn him. No way could he have managed on his own. Together they stumbled to the Pontiac, and she helped him crawl inside and stretch out on the backseat.

“Phone,” he said. She still had his in her pocket and she passed it to him. As she pulled out of the alley and onto the street, she heard him telling someone named Lissa that he was on his way and that she should have a
room ready for him. “And call Tucker for me,” he asked, before ending the call.

“Where now?” she asked, then followed his directions. She could have looked it up on her phone, but she wanted to keep him talking. Maybe it wasn’t the same, but she felt a bit like he was a concussion victim, and she needed to keep him awake.

“Use the parking garage,” he said when she told him they were close. “It’s off the side street. You’ll see the sign.”

“Right. Okay.”

She maneuvered the boat of a car down the twisting drive, then pulled into a nearby space.

“This is where I get out,” she said. He had his phone. If he needed to call for someone to come help him inside, he could. But Andy had reached her limit on all things strange and disturbing, and she didn’t want to meet anybody who ran a business designed to sell Doyle the kind of sustenance he needed.

“Andy,” he said, and she stopped before slamming the driver’s door shut. She forced herself not to turn around. Not to look at him. And she forced herself not to cry. “Thank you.”

“Goodbye, Doyle,” she said, then she let the heavy door swing shut and she jogged across the parking lot.

She knew she should walk away, but despite all her talk about getting the hell away from Doyle, she couldn’t quite bring herself to abandon him. She found a dark alcove, and she slid into the shadows. She’d wait there to make sure someone came out and took care of him.

Two minutes passed, and she thought that she was going to have to go back or call Orlando’s herself and tell someone to get their ass to the parking garage.

Then she saw headlights. A moment later, a sleek black car with tinted windows pulled up next to the Pontiac. The doors opened, and Tucker stepped out, followed by another man. Without thinking, Andy took a step forward, trying to get a clearer view.
She knew that man
. The massive build. The dark hair. The scar that slashed across his right cheek.

She even remembered his name, because it was so damn unique. Luke Dragos.

What the hell was CeeCee’s guardian doing with Doyle?

Just go. Not your problem anymore. Go
.

Good advice, and she decided to take it. She cast one more look back toward the Pontiac, where Luke and Tucker were helping Doyle out. Then she headed up the exit driveway, being careful to stay in the shadows.

There was a convenience store at the end of the block, and she bought a T-shirt with the logo for some band she didn’t recognize. She changed in the bathroom and left her soiled shirt in the trash. Then she called a cab.

She sat on the curb drinking a Slurpee as she waited the full twenty minutes for it to show up. She’d intended to have it take her home, but once she slipped into the backseat, she found herself giving the driver her father’s address, and then she leaned back against the sticky upholstery and tried to figure out what the hell had happened. How she could have misjudged a man so dramatically. Because on the surface, Doyle was everything she’d ever hoped to find in a man—attractive, strong, funny, and a damn good kisser. He’d even stepped into the knight in shining armor role, rescuing her from an evil beast that was out to kill her. And that wasn’t just metaphorical, either.