Dark Heart of the Sun (Dark Destinies Book 1) (8 page)

Chapter 8

Being Human

Cassidy was desperate. The night couldn’t get here soon enough. Yet the heat and light of a sweltering summer day lingered far into evening. The drawn drapes and the fan spinning at maximum above her prone form didn’t even make a dent in the agony. An invisible ax lay buried in her forehead.

It was without a doubt the worst migraine of her life.

Little wonder it should hit her now, the way the last week had gone and with this one shaping up to be more of the same. Nothing changed for her at the
Gazette
except the increasing amount of helpless frustration she swallowed with no one to let off steam to. She had even tried to talk to Jackson whose regular calls puzzled her as much as they reassured her. At least someone thought about her enough to check in, even if it turned out he had no idea about how she really felt or why. His glib solution to her problems—drop everything and let him take care of her—set her teeth on edge.

More sympathetic was Samantha, Jackson’s half-sister, who was proud not to be born a Striker. She made no secret of her contempt for the family’s privileged existence and expressed great pleasure at Cassidy’s willingness to confront the Striker patriarchs—which, she confessed, was more than she could say about baby brother.

“Follow your heart, sweetie,” was Samantha the yoga instructor’s sage advice. “You’ll find the life you’re meant to have even if you can’t see it yet.”

Cassidy would have to take her word on that since these days she saw nothing beyond her precarious employment situation and a roommate who tormented her at will. Even though their paths only crossed after Dominic woke and before he left the house, those brief encounters were fraught with tension. It didn’t matter what she did to try and keep the peace, he went out of his way to irritate and criticize her, always with a side of haughty French attitude. Any night now he would tell her how to breathe. No wait. He had already done that when they first met.

“Air conditioning, you bastard.” Cassidy groaned and gasped at the pain radiating through her skull. “How can you live in the tropics and not have air conditioning?” Unbelievable that this was still an issue. He continued to brush off her complaints with an offhand remark about looking into it sometime soon. Enough was enough. As he requested, she had told the agency that the AC functioned after all once she figured out the controls. Tomorrow she would call back, report it broken for good and demand immediate repair. To hell with his privacy issues.

On the upside, she only had to deal with him about an hour a day, if that. Otherwise she had the place to herself. Plus, with that chip on his shoulder, there was no risk she might start to ‘like’ him, God forbid. One flippant comment, one arrogant glance, one whiff of cigarette smoke—
especially
the damn cigarette smoke—and that was the end of any accidental daydreams those striking good looks might have inspired. Civil conversation was beyond the Frenchman, and Cassidy had almost reached the point of ignoring all the sniping—with one exception. She’d left a copy of the paper containing her Valieri case write-up lying around. He read it and found it lacking. The argument that she only did her job as told didn’t impress him.

“Congratulations,” he said with a careless shrug. “You are living up to their low expectations of you.”

The words rankled every time she recalled them, which was often. He knew nothing about her situation, the challenges and biases she faced, and yet, a small voice in the back of her mind dared to wonder if there was a grain of truth there. Jackson expected her to accept his unexpected proposal, and so she had. When he all but showed her the door to leave, she bolted through it without argument. And her job? Writing obits, answering phones, and making coffee was as exciting as anyone felt she ought to get. And so it was.

“No, it’s not,” she croaked. All she needed was half a chance, and she would surprise them all. She had to wait for it—like for everything else—and she would be ready.
And I don’t care what you think about it. You’re a total stranger and a colossal pain in the ass.

A total stranger who even now crawled out of his bed. She heard him down the hall, unlocking the door, a soft sound that slashed through her brain. She regretted not having gone up to her room. It had been so hot up there, impossible conditions in her fragile state. So she collapsed in the living room, the coolest, darkest spot in the house. By now she was certain she wanted to die. The headache had hold of her entire body, turning her limbs to rubber and churning her guts.

“What is the matter with you?”

She cringed, her skull creaking with his harsh words. “Shhh. Migraine.” She felt rather than saw him stand over her. The fan whirred, bathing her in a muggy breeze and sounding a bit like a wobbly jet engine to her ears. “I can’t deal with you tonight,” she whispered. “Go away and let me die in peace.”

But he didn’t go away. “Do you have medicine?”

“Shhhhh. Yes, I do. But it’s not working this time.” Not one iota. She wanted to sob with helpless fury. No doctor had yet been able to tell her with certainty what caused these headaches, though extremes in temperature and humidity where prominent suspects. Surprise, surprise.

The act of speaking heaved her stomach. “Oh, God.” She moaned, curled over the side of the sofa, and let it happen. The late lunch reappeared. She shivered, cold suddenly, heard her own pitiful retching, felt tears wet on her face. An arm wrapped around her shoulder and a gentle hand held back her hair. She opened her eyes. Was that a bucket? Where had that come from? She heaved again.

She became aware of Dominic’s solid body next to her, his hands on her, supporting. She dropped her head against his thigh and was vaguely thankful that her cheek met material and not bare skin. “Just kill me now.”

“Not tonight,
chérie
,” he whispered and pressed his palm against her clammy forehead. His touch felt deliciously cool. She must be running a fever, too. The mother of all headaches.

“Feels nice.”

“I know.”

Of course.
If it wouldn’t hurt so much, she might have rolled her eyes.

“Are you done?”

Cassidy queried her stomach, then hazarded a small nod.

He pushed her back into the sofa cushions as though she were a rag doll being placed in a drawer. “Stay still.”

She listened to him carry away the bucket and flush the contents down the toilet. Then the fridge opened. Plastic rustled and glass bottles clinked. He opened one and poured. Then he crouched by her side, pressing a cold glass into her hand. “Drink.”

The command tone left much to be desired as bedside manners went, but she was too weary to argue. The cold water sparkled across her tongue, taking the sour taste of vomit with it. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“Being sick.”

He said nothing, and she was sure that come morning she would be mortified. But right now, here in the dark with her head threatening to split open like an over-ripe melon, it didn’t matter.

Something cold and squishy settled on her forehead. “What’s that?”

“A bag of frozen peas. I wrapped it in a towel for you.”

“Nice.” She sighed. “Thank you.”

“Does this happen much?” She could barely make out the words, his voice was so soft.

“Never this bad. I think it’s the heat. And humidity.” The silence stretched. “Too bad we don’t have air.”

“Too bad you eat shit, too.”

Her indignation rose through the haze of pain. “I had salad for lunch.”

“And something deep fried.”

Just remembering made her feel green, even more so when she realized how he knew this. “Yeah, that’s it. Blame the victim. I’ll keep a bucket nearby next time. You won’t have to put yourself out on my account again. I promise.”

He sighed and she felt his breath brush against her cheek. Damn, he was close. And she was too sick to care. A peculiar clean scent wafted over her. Pure somehow, like snow.

“I have a sister who suffers like this,” he said after a while. “I used to watch over her. Before.”

Sorrow skirted the edges of his indifference and she held her breath, waiting. In the stifling quiet, she felt weightless, adrift in empty space. With him.

“What happened?”

The silence folded around them like a blanket. Only the fan whirled. “She married and moved away.”

“You don’t sound happy about that.”

“On the contrary. I am very happy for Genevie.”

“But not for yourself.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Written all over your face. When I can see your face. When you’re not skulking around in the shadows.” She adjusted the makeshift ice pack on her temple. The cold numbed the pain, but only temporarily. It would be a long night.

“Then we have that in common as well,
chère.
”

Her sluggish brain turned this over. “Is it that obvious?”

“
Oui.
” The word caressed her ear. “I have to go. Will you be all right?”

Her body was a quagmire of sensations—pain and relief, fire and ice, longing and dread. No, she was nowhere near all right. But she waved him away with a limp hand. “I guess I’ll live.”

“You will,” he confirmed, flippant, and she relaxed. The cockiness she could deal with. But whatever had just passed between them . . . that she couldn’t even comprehend in her present state.

“A kingdom for some air conditioning.”

It took her a full minute to realize she was alone in the dark.

Dominic leaned on the splintered porch rail
ing and waited for his world to stop tilting. She had taken him by surprise. Every other evening, she met him with either verbal assaults or cool indifference, but never like this, never vulnerable and weak. Her plight carried him back in time in a whirlwind of emotion he didn’t know how to contain. Human impulses led him to comfort her.

That and needing to save the rug that carried so many precious memories. How easily it all came back. How powerfully.

Genevie.

Dominic’s elder sister hated being ill with the migraine, and hated it even more when anyone saw her laid low by it. Anyone but him. Nursing her was a natural reflection of his love for her, and he had done it gladly until she married. Her husband was a good man, even if, in Dominic’s opinion, far from good enough for one of his sisters. The protective streak he felt for both of them ran deep. For Ana he had even killed . . .

He gasped as the memories swerved into far darker territory with horrific clarity. Shedding his clothes, he bolted for the beach and the ocean, letting the waves swallow him.

He hurried along the sandy bottom, battling the water’s warm drag on his limbs. His frustrations mounted. Without thought, he moved toward a skiff anchored on the shallow reef hugging the shore. The sole occupant, engrossed in meditative contemplation of the night sky and mirror-calm sea, startled when he flowed over the side like some mythical merman.

“What the fuck—”

A deep, inhuman growl rumbled in Dominic’s chest, and the long canines extended with sweet anticipation. The prey’s eyes widened to a comical size, the jaw going slack with disbelief. Fear exploded out of the human, making the air between them pungent and rousing the beast fully. The intended meal bolted from its seat and sailed over the bow. Dominic had him by the scruff before he hit the water.

“The sharks will have you soon enough,” he rasped, hauling back his catch. “I promise to be quick.”

“What do you want with me?” the man wailed, voice high with hysteria. “What the fuck are you?”

The beast replied by tearing into the throat. The poison in his bite surged into the human’s brain, raping the mind even as the blood and the life surged through the vampire, nourishing him.

His name was Matt, he was no derelict, and beyond smoking the occasional joint, he never broke the law. He had spent the afternoon fishing, seeking the meaning of life with a hero sandwich and a six-pack of beer, and decided that when the new job came through, he really would ask Christine to marry him. She was mellow like him and her warm smile always soothed him. And she put up with his fishing addiction. She understood him and accepted him. He was content just now, just before the weird, naked guy got into his boat—

Dominic slumped on the cooler, blood and seawater funneling down his chest, the beast quiet in his heart. He stared at the slash in the dead man’s throat, and stupidly thought of Christine and how she would never know how important she had been to Matt. Christine, the woman who accepted this man in spite of his need for solitary communion with his boat and fishing tackle.

Dominic chuckled and pushed the hair out of his eyes, ignoring the tears mixing with the saltwater on his face. Trivial human nonsense. What he wouldn’t give to have his life be so simple again.

He pulled up the anchor and started the engine, heading into deep water. After leaving the body to the sea, he went north, moving with the prevailing current. By dawn, the skiff would be miles away, its owner presumed lost to a rogue wave or clumsy accident.

Morbid curiosity drove Dominic to wonder if Matt had caught anything at all. In the ice chest, five silver bodies stared back at him with blank, glassy eyes. What a waste to let them rot in there, their small fish lives given in vain. Then an even stranger thought occurred to him. His forehead pinched into a frown. An insane thought.

Before he could consider the reasons too closely, he bundled the fish into a plastic bag and slipped over the edge and down to the sandy sea floor, leaving the skiff to motor on by itself. Bag in hand, he plodded back to shore, his mood growing buoyant. It was a ludicrous idea that was bound to complicate everything. Then why did it feel so right? Because it was another echo of his human past—warm, familiar, and utterly beyond his capacity to deny. So be it. If he was to lose his reason in her presence, it might as well be this.