Deliver Me from Darkness: A Novel of the Paladin Warriors (8 page)

“Oh my God.” Talk about outnumbered. There were hundreds, no thousands, of vampires in New York City alone. She’d played by Papa’s rules. Never going out at night, always staying in the crowd, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t sensed their presence hanging in the shadows on rainy days, or stalking the subway’s underground network. She couldn’t even begin to guess how many other creatures walked the streets in search of human souls. Those that could come out during the day were harder to pick out, their ability to glamour only broken if she made contact and had her inner shields open. Something she didn’t dare do for fear of showing her hand.

“How do you survive?”

He took her hand, his eyes dark as wet slate as he held her gaze. “Our survival hangs very much in the balance right now. But perhaps you can help change that.”

His thumb rubbed over the back of her hand. She didn’t like the intimacy of the contact and pulled her hand free, folding both back in her lap.

“I don’t know how I could—”

“No. I suppose you don’t.” He straightened abruptly. “And that isn’t the main concern right now either.”

“What is the main concern?”

“Keeping you safe.”

Now
that
was something she could get behind.

***

Roland inched down the hall on silent feet. The near constant murmur of voices had drawn him out of a sleep that had been far from the usual sleep of the dead. Truth was he never slept well. Too many memories. Too many regrets. Not to mention he’d been doomed to a day of tossing and turning with
her
so near. He might have been able to resist the pull of her presence, but her voice, feminine and sweet, mixing in with the rougher baritone of his best friend had been nothing but another nightmare upon the many others that haunted him.

Coming to a halt at the end of the hall, he leaned an arm against the end cabinet and waited for his presence to be noted. As much as he wanted to rush in and break up the happy little scene around his kitchen island, he didn’t want to scare her again.

It didn’t take more than a couple seconds. Calhoun straightened from where he’d been leaning across the island, spun on his stool, and gave Roland a nod of greeting.
Her
gaze followed. After a quick intake of breath that had her spine going as rigid as rebar, she settled her elbows back on the counter, picking at her half-eaten sandwich in what he considered a sad attempt at apathy. Did she really think she could convince him that some wilted lettuce was more interesting than an apartment with a Paladin and a vampire in it? Especially given her earlier reaction.

“Calhoun.” Roland folded his arms. Better that than lunging at Calhoun and tossing him across the room into the—upended?—end table. He took in the chaos that had once been his living room. Seems she’d been redecorating while he’d tangled with old nightmares. A few mangled pillows didn’t concern him though. Calhoun had been
touching
her. And it didn’t sit well with Roland at all. “Thought you weren’t coming back until this evening.”

“Thought you slept all day,” she snapped at him, her eyes narrowed. Ah, she wasn’t unaware of him. And wasn’t it good to know she hadn’t lost all her spunk. Just for Logan. With him she appeared to be all chummy. And didn’t that just rub raw.

He shrugged. “Normally I do. But what with all the racket out here…”

Her cheeks reddened, even her freckles. Funny, he never realized freckles could do that.

“Roland, you’ve met Karissa Donovan,” Calhoun said.

Her name coming off another man’s lips scraped like coarse salt over his new wounds. He’d thought nothing could ever make him willing to do harm to his best friend and brother of his heart, but it seemed there was one thing. And her name was Karissa.

Should
be
me
introducing
her
by
name
.

“Well, since you two seem to have hit it off so splendidly, I have to get back,” Calhoun said after another minute of silence. Even managed not to sound too sarcastic. “I figured Karissa might appreciate some real food since all you have is coffee, scotch, and a bag of stale Doritos.”

More silence. She sure seemed to find that lettuce interesting.

Calhoun tapped the counter, drawing Karissa’s attention. “You have my card. Call me if you need anything,” he jerked his head toward Roland, “or if this one gives you any trouble.”

She stiffened, her head swiveling toward Roland as her face paled.

Shit. Was Calhoun trying to sabotage his chances of getting along with her? Did he actually want her to be terrified of him?
Possibly
.

“I thought you said I’d be safe.” Her tone said that she didn’t believe it.

Calhoun casually swiped up his crumbs and tossed his wadded up paper towel into the garbage. “He growls, but rarely does he bite.”

“Logan,” she squeaked.

At the same time Roland let loose a string of swear words, ending with, “You’re an idiot, Calhoun.”

Calhoun looked back at her, finally noticing he’d been scaring the shit out of her, and swore. He rounded the island, bending down so he was level with her. “I wouldn’t leave you here if I didn’t think you’d be perfectly safe. Trust me, Karissa.”

Roland watched, fists clenched, as her brown eyes settled on Calhoun’s slate ones, as if drawing strength from the steady gaze.

Should
be
me
she
looks
at
like
that.

After a last, uncertain glance at Roland, she looked back to Calhoun and nodded in acceptance.

Should
be
me
she
gives
her
trust
to.

Calhoun straightened, tucked a loose curl behind her ear, then cupped her delicate chin.

Yup, a dead man.

“I’ll be back in a few hours,” Calhoun said.

Her lips parted, a furrow in her brow, then another jerky nod. “Okay.”

With a reassuring smile and a tip of his head, Calhoun left the apartment.

Roland waited until Calhoun’s presence had not only left the inner door of his windowless prison, but had traveled through the outer barriers and into the elevator to travel down to the lobby forty-eight stories below. Then, and only then, did he step farther into the kitchen and, with measured control, open the cabinet over the refrigerator—the one cabinet door not ajar, completely missing, or hanging by a sole hinge—to dig out the much needed scotch.

“Scotch and Doritos?” she asked, surprising him. He’d expected her to run the moment his back was turned.

He shrugged, setting the scotch and the crystal glass on the island to pour out a measured two fingers. “If you’re going to eat or drink, might as well make it worth it.”

“But Doritos?”

Maybe he was wrong. That was definitely not fear. Her nose was wrinkled up in disgust, the sprinkle of freckles making the expression positively effing adorable. He wanted to kiss the wrinkle away. Instead he smiled, hoping it would further break the ice. Who knew? Maybe they could even make it up to cordial animosity by the time Logan returned. “Everyone’s entitled to their vices.”

The wrinkles straightened, her posture turning stiff. “I thought yours was blood.”

Hell, who was he kidding? As much as he might have wanted otherwise, there would be no reciprocation of feelings on her part.

“Touché.” He tossed back the scotch, poured two more fingers, and swallowed them too.

“And you’re an alcoholic as well,” she snorted in disgust.

He wished. If he were, then maybe he could toss the scotch down fast enough to drown the voice that was still screaming
mine
in his head.

He gave her a feral smile, making sure to expose his canines. She practically jumped off the stool, her hands clutching the rounded seat as if she were ready to grab it up, smash it, and use the wooden legs as a shield of stakes if he dared so much as to breathe. He took a step back, giving her room as he leaned against the counter by the sink.

“You seem to know much about vampires, I would think you’d know that we can’t become drunks.”

“You don’t have to be drunk all the time to be an alcoholic. It’s a matter of addiction,” she said, eying him warily.

“And you are a woman of technicalities.” And in her limited view he could never be anything more than a monster. He was inclined to agree, but he was also a stubborn bastard. He wouldn’t let himself be a monster, nor would he allow himself to be pegged so neatly into that hole.

He rolled the mostly empty glass in his hand, the dollop of liquid sliding up then down the side of the cut crystal. “Let’s go with this theory of yours, shall we?”

“What theory?”

“Why do people become alcoholics?”

She didn’t look inclined to answer, and made herself busy by scooping up her half-eaten sandwich and bringing it to the trash.

“Escapism, yes? They like how the drink makes them feel. They like that it can make them forget. They have forgotten what life is like without it. A vampire, as you may, or may not, know processes the alcohol almost immediately. Ergo we can’t suffer from the same chemical dependency that an unturned human would. Ergo no addiction.” He looked at her curiously. She hadn’t fled after depositing her trash and now leaned against the island less than a yard away. Brave…and foolish, given her obvious distrust of him; a simple reach and snatch and she could be in his arms. And then…then…his gaze dipped to her mouth.

“So, you drink it for the taste.”

“Of course.” He straightened, heroically keeping his one hand in his pocket and the other wrapped around the glass. “Why else?”

She stepped forward, her brown eyes locking on his as she stared him down. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe you drink because at one point in time you were human. Maybe you still remember the sweet sting of the alcohol hitting the back of your mouth, the spreading warmth as it burned in your belly, and the lazy waves of indifference that rolled in with it, demolishing all cares or worries. Maybe you were an alcoholic, or had the propensity to be one at least, and now, being what you are, and not being able to escape from it, you are instinctively succumbing to the addiction. In short, you are weak.”

“Weak.” The vile word rolled like a jagged stone in his mouth.

“That’s right.” Her mouth curled up in a saccharine smile, small white teeth flashing as she leaned closer into his personal space. “Weak.”

Weak indeed. If he had been a weak man, then every time he went on the hunt he’d let instincts overtake him and succumb to the call of blood pumping through the veins of his prey. Just like a weak man, when faced with a friend’s request to harbor a young innocent that would tempt every aspect of his being, both vampire and Paladin, would have turned his back. If he were weak, he would have continued to deny what he already knew in his heart, in the hollow place that once held his soul: She was his mate. And if he were weak, he would have used that as an excuse to take what he wanted from her, to claim something he had no right to claim.

He was not weak. At least, not completely. Though there were times when he faltered. Like now, looking down into those beautiful brown eyes that were trying to bore a hole in his head. Melted chocolate. He wanted to drink them in, the same as he wanted to taste the full strawberry pink lips that were currently pursed in smug challenge.

She probably didn’t even realize she had thrown down the gauntlet, probably thought she was being defiant, showing her strength by daring to get so close. Stupid woman. Hadn’t anyone ever told her not to play with fire? If her brown eyes were an addiction he could drown in and her lips an edible fruit, then her smooth skin was the fuel of his desire, her crisp floral scent the accelerant. An inch closer and they were both going to go up in flames.

One kiss. One taste. One moment.

He shouldn’t. She was too pure for him. She deserved more than a mate who could only offer her pain. More than a monster who would crave her blood as much as her companionship. He should turn his back on her now and get the hell away from here before he did something they’d both regret.

He shifted into her space.

Her head tipped back, hair slipping down her back, exposing her long neck and the pulse that flitted there. A hand came up as if to ward him off, but she stopped partway, hovering as if with indecision. He watched self-preservation war with something else…something that caused her lips to slacken into an openmouthed “oh” and the hand wavering between them to fall lightly upon his chest, curling into the soft material of his shirt.

A pulse of red fire licked at the soft whites, pinks, purples, and yellows of her essence. Roland’s nostrils flared, scenting the concurrent change in her body chemistry: crisp lavender spiked with spicy musk.