Yearnings: A Paranormal Romance Box Set (82 page)

From doing what?

He didn’t know. The sensation was undeniable, though.
Stop. That. Man.
Every cell of his body tingled with the urge.

But how?

The foot traffic only thickened. Grant’s heart hammered in his throat. The man glanced back. His eyes locked on Grant’s. They perceptibly flashed. Grant’s breath caught. Son of a bitch. Grant knew he should look away, nod, and act casual. He couldn’t.

The man let his gaze fall from Grant’s, looking sideways in a clear fake. then picked up his pace. Grant mirrored the pace, hanging back, his eyes constantly scanning for an opportunity to detain the man.

What if murder pulsed through his veins? The awful thought sent bile up his throat. This voice in him. It was the wolf, not changing...but merging. Grant’s step faltered, making him stumble. He clasped a shoulder for balance. The shorter man scowled, shaking Grant off with a few French expletives. On a mumbled apology, he righted himself.

The need to get to the man ahead of him itched higher, clawing at his chest.

No.

He’d lost his mind. What possible cause did he have to follow this man let alone approach him?

Not approach. Grab him. Stop him. Now!

Grant neared a jog, closing the yards between him and the man. The scruff of his hair peeked out from his bowler hat, and damned it if it didn’t have the faintest golden shimmer to it. Grant ditched the remainder of his doubt.

Was that what Lijuan had been warning him of? The wolf getting in his veins? His mind flashed with an image of the old woman, hugging herself, nodding, pointing at the symbol, nodding. He would get so frustrated with himself for not getting her meaning that he’d fake understanding.

The wolf’s power grew, gripping him more and more often these last few months. How Grant now wished he’d been honest and made Lijuan act out more, draw more.

The dark shadows of an alleyway loomed ahead. Grant fell back and to the side. The man looked back, searching the pedestrian crowd now thick with bodies and chatter. Grant ducked a bit, fixing the timing in his mind.

Another glance at Grant and Bowler took off at a run, barreling past two pedestrians, knocking a short man into a storefront. Grant sprinted after him. The sensation in his gut overcame his entire body, right down to his skin, to his fingertips.

His lungs hurt. His thighs ached. He ran hard, weaving around bystanders, certain authorities would join the chase at any moment.

Bowler ducked down an alley.

Grant followed.

The alley stood empty. At the end of the narrow corridor, he glimpsed the man’s brown overcoat. Ignoring his body’s protest, he chased Bowler down.

He turned the corner, scanning the thin crowd in the graying evening. A man in the distance ran down another slim corridor. Grant pursued. His heart hammered at his ribs. A very faint glow shimmered from the corridor. He reached it, aware only of the screaming need to catch this man.

A roar thundered in his ears.

He fell to a stop at the entrance.

Dead end.

Yet empty.

His breaths came hard and fast. Where was Bowler? Where?

A soft scuffing noise to his left spun him around. Bowler launched from the shadows for the street. Grant attacked, shoving the man to the wall, pinning him there with his forearm. His similar height but smaller build helped Grant overpower him.

The man yelped a litany of French.

For a split second, Grant faltered. Rational thought forced through the primal urgency. What was he doing to this man? Fear shone bright in the man’s eyes. So bright, his eyes nearly glowed. More than his eyes. The man’s hairline shimmered as well.

Grant shook his head. “What are you?”

The golden orbs flashed. Bowler’s eyes widened. “I’m nothing,” he said, his accent heavy. “Nobody. I swear.”

“
No. You’re something more. I can see it. I can see the way you glow.”

The man’s brows drew sharply together. He shook his head, fighting to free his arm of Grant’s hold. “I do not glow. You, my friend, are a crazy person. Here. Money? Take it.”

Grant’s fingers tightened around the meat of the man’s arm, pressing his thumb deep into the underside. He leaned in further. He could feel the lie out of the man’s mouth. Feel it in his very body. A low growl rumbled in his chest and Grant knew, the wolf was sensing this. The wolf he’d had no conscious connection with, in that moment merged into Grant’s senses, pushing him with pure primal instinct. Nothing this man said would dissuade what he felt. The icy certainty cemented his resolve. Any wisp of empathy the man could have beckoned evaporated. “Tell me now, or I’ll rip you limb from limb just to see the light escape your limp, dying body,” Grant said, the words feeling foreign in his mouth.

The man’s eyes bulged. His Adam’s apple bobbed under his stubbly throat. “You don’t understand. It was my only hope. I had no other choice. My wife, my children.”

“
Liar. You have no wife. No children. A man with children doesn’t smell like you do,” Grant barked. His words made little sense once they left his mouth, but explained what he sensed in his bones.

Liar. Greed. Wrong. Wrong that he walks this earth.

What a thing to think! Grant’s mind rebelled. What right did he have?

Wrong that he speaks these words.
How could he possibly know such a thing?

Thief.

Liar, thief, killer, in the hands of others. Blood on his hands. Innocent blood beating through this man’s damned veins.

A low, shrill howl ached to drive out of Grant’s chest. Oh, no. The wolf. He couldn’t let the wolf through. A snarl escaped his lips as he fought to control the animal rising up inside him.

“
Please, I beg of you, monsieur. You do not know. It is all I could do to live. It was the last chance I had.”

Grant’s hand squeezed the man’s Adam’s apple. The bump strained under his palm. The color red filled his peripheral vision like paint on edges, staining his vision. “Explain yourself.”

The man furiously nodded. “Yes. Yes, I swear this to you. Please.” He clawed at Grant’s hand, his body fighting upward, as though being taller could somehow save him, get him fresh air to fill his vile body. His bowler hat tumbled off.

Thief.

Tears streamed down the man’s cheeks. Grant eyed them, breathing so hard that he wondered if biting the man at the throat would calm them both.

His teeth craved the pressure of flesh between them. The bizarre idea that just one deep bite would release all that glowing light filled his mind. It took every ounce of his control to hold back, at least long enough to get the man’s explanation.

What made that glow?

What did the wolf in him see that his mind wouldn’t accept? The scent in the air changed. Grant eased his hold long enough for the man to breathe. That cloying sweetness that he mistook for a woman’s perfume filled the air. Roses. Too strong. Mixed with something else. Something more base.

The smell of a baby’s skin, sweaty from a night of slumber, mixed with its mother own natural scent. Images of Beatrice nestled into the nook of a chaise lounge, Tristan swaddled in her arms, both of them asleep.

Out rushed the air in Grant’s lungs. Roses and babies. A glimmer of understanding entered his brain. He watched the man gather his bearings and dig deep for courage. Or maybe manufacture the next lie to fall from his lips.

The man’s jugular vein pulsed.

Grant’s mouth watered. His teeth ached. The whine in his chest beat hard for release. No. He had to rein in control over the wolf in him. It had taken so long to merge he’d grown to doubt the old woman’s claim.

Jerking his hand away, Grant stepped back.

“
What’s your name?”

The man frowned, rubbing his throat, eyes darting at the street. Not a soul who passed looked their way. Nor would they. Grant could feel it. He dropped his chin down a notch and regarded the man, revealing his every deadly intention in one stare, or so he intended.

“
Jean-Paul,” the man stammered.

Grant cocked his head. “You have one minute, Jean-Paul, to tell me why you were following me. Why you glow.” He clenched his teeth. “Why you smell like a mother’s love, in full, exquisite detail before I tear your throat open and leave you to choke on your own blood.”

His heart slammed with rage.

He couldn’t form words for what he knew to be true, for what he waited for Jean-Paul to admit and no matter how hard his human half tried, he wouldn’t allow himself an ounce of pity.

“
I do not follow. You followed me.”

Liar
.

“
Try again.”

Jean-Paul’s eyelids fluttered. “How do I say? It is not me.”

“
Who?”

“
Inside. It tells me to.”

Grant’s scowl deepened. He considered simply ending the man’s life then and there. Rational thought held him back.

“
The cancer,” Jean-Paul said. “I had but weeks, they said. Every doctor said it. I stopped seeing doctors. I swear to you, I sought to ease the pain. No more. Opium. But the man there, he knew. He saw it somehow.”

Yes. The truth. He could feel it. The words calmed Grant’s rage. “Finish.”

Jean-Paul licked his lips, leaving the faintest golden shimmer behind. Another tear streamed down the hollow cheek. “I swear to you, it is not the horror you think.” His accent thickened with his words. “He asked me how much I wished to live.” His head fell back against the brick wall. “I did not comprehend. How I know this? How could I know what he would give me? I still cannot say. I can say it is small and it is not mine, but put a name to it, I cannot.”

“
How?” Grant’s voice broke. The images in his heart of stolen youth hung close. Had his wolf slipped back into dormancy, perhaps he’d be able to dismiss the notions, blame his own vivid wrongs, and blame his guilt.

This man had been given a soul. A soul not his own.

Jean-Paul dropped his head to his palms. “A liquid. I drank it from a teacup.” Something in his voice lightened, the glow shimmered. “Not the witchcraft ceremony you think of in your head. No more than a here you are for a large price—life. A second chance. Not forever, mind you. They were very specific on this. Not forever. But a bit longer. And only if my own body accepted the… how you say...elixir.”

The wolf in him paced, agitated, reminding Grant that he lived and breathed thanks to another’s soul. The kindness of a stranger whose soul was wise and pure. The soul she gave him to save his life, and one day, intended to save Tristan.

Grant’s eyes returned again and again to the man’s jugular vein. The wolf remained resolute on what it wanted of him. Grant held back. How could he take this man’s life when his own existed thanks to another?

“
I slept for many days. I thought I bought a lie. Fooled. I lay staring at the ceiling, and instantly, this sensation comes. Like water. Up, up, up. And then,
shpppt
!” He folded his arms, shaking his head. “Alive. Me. New.”

Thief.

The word stopped him short, making him realize he’d been pacing as well. Jean-Paul stood limp and defeated against the wall, not a hint of the urge to flee about him. The man hardly regarded Grant, lost in thought.

Did he think he was safe? Or had his confession defeated him?

“
Thief,” Grant said.

Jean-Paul’s gaze snapped up. He regarded Grant a moment, emotion passing over the yellow-edged orbs. “No. I swear on all that is dear to me. No.”

Grant stalked closer. Jean-Paul pressed his hands to the wall, rising onto his tiptoes. That inner instinct still held Grant. “There is no thing that is dear to you, thief.”

A whimper escaped Jean-Paul, yet he slowly nodded.
“Oui.”

The stubble on Jean-Paul’s throat scraped Grant’s palm as each finger circled the man’s neck. Disgust—and something uncomfortably akin to pity—echoed through Grant. This poor, vile man had lived no life. He’d clung to an empty shell. The glow seemed to vibrate in readiness.

The wolf in him merged again, sending a strange tingle through Grant’s hand. His mind bucked at the coming violence until the wolf hushed the racing thoughts. No violence.

One simple slice at the man’s throat would suffice.

Grant’s right index finger hissed with pain. The claw protruded enough to expose a sharp tip. Understanding came over him. The bitter taste at the back of his tongue eased away. A calm came over him. He spoke a chant. Words he didn’t know the meaning of.

Tears streamed down Jean-Paul’s cheeks. He did not beg.
“Oui,”
he whispered, tilting his head to one side. He closed his eyes.

Grant watched with detached fascination as the skin depressed then, with a pop, succumbed to his claw’s sharp point. A tiny line of blood trickled down, then a deep golden glow rose out of the puncture in a thick wisp.

Jean-Paul shuddered.