Hunter Kiss: A Companion Novella (8 page)

"Texas isn't all that far," I tell him, trying to sound winsome pleasant. He gives me another piercing look and asks for Grant'; identification. Turns and strolls back to his vehicle. I hear the stati( of a radio as he opens his door. He sits inside, one leg hanging out Works on finding out if we are criminals. Which I am. Not that have ever been caught.

Of course, there is always a first time for everything.

"Maxine," Grant says, under his breath. "This is not going t( turn into an episode of COPS, is it?"

"I prefer
Prison Break,
personally."

"Maxine."

"You're an excellent liar," I tell him. "Did you learn that in pries

school?"

"Try kindergarten," he mutters, and then, softer, "He's coming

back."

I steady myself, Dek and Mal shifting beneath my hair. I see a

flicker of movement beneath the Mustang; the tip of a claw, wagging

at me. I look away and force myself to greet the police officer with a

questioning smile. Dumb, sweet, and hopelessly innocent.

No effect. His expression is impossibly grim. He hands back our

driver's licenses and gives the cane a fleeting glance before meeting

Grant's eyes. "Sorry. You can go now."

Grant and I look at each other. The officer shifts his feet, a dis
tinctly uncomfortable expression passing over his face. "Gilda says hello."

"Gilda." Grant blinks. "Ah. I remember her. Is she ... doing well?"

"She's good in dispatch. Got a mouth on her, though."

"Feisty. But very ... pious."

The cop grunts. "She, uh, recognized your name when I called it in. Gave me an earful." He backs away, giving me one last distrust
ful look before tipping his chin at Grant. "Have a good evening, Fa
ther Cooperon. Ma'am."

"Um," Grant says, but thankfully, lets it go. And just like that, we are free. Hallelujah, Amen. The cop gets into his car. I reach for my keys and pretend not to watch him as he drives away. My heart feels like it is going to explode from my chest. This is not the closest I have come to the law since my mother died-but once was more than enough.

"Gilda?" I ask mildly.

"Long story." Grant tilts his head up to the drizzling sky and closes his eyes. "I helped her once."

"Apparently so."

He smiles, but not for long. Just keeps watching the road where that police car disappeared. Shakes himself and takes a deep breath. "Let's go home, Maxine."

He says it so naturally, like I belong with him. Like I have a home. With him. Makes me breathless, though I do not say a word. Just unlock the doors and climb in. The boys melt into the backseat, quiet, and we give them the drinks and food.

The demon, the little zombie maker, is gone. Grant starts to ask, but I shake my head. Better for him not to know. Zee and the boys have sharp teeth. Not even little demon wisps can escape their bites. And, it is enough that there be will be one less possession to cure af
ter tonight. No matter what Grant can do-or how he feels-in the end, that is all that is important.

He gives me directions. I put the car in gear and drive to the sounds of tearing paper, wet slurps. No music, no talk. I remember my mother and I-another night like this-driving and eating through a strange city, surrounded by that odd settled hush that comes from comfortable silence, an easy way. It has been a long time since I felt that kind of contentment. A very long time.

I look at Grant, the clean lines and shadows of his face. I think of his story, his ability to twist darkness into good. I think of what the demon said.

"Piper," I murmur, and Grant looks at me. "Piper. That's what the demon called you."

The skin around his eyes crinkles. "Piper of the Damned?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of the original Pied Piper.

Except with demons instead of rats. Or children." "Alas, alas, for Hamelin," he says.

We drive. The drizzle turns into a hard rain. Lightning flashes outside the car, a sudden burst of brilliance so close and bright that everyone, even the boys, flinch. Thunder breaks the world, a crack and rumble that rattles the car. I feel it in my chest. Unease crawls up my spine, Zee responding with a low hiss. Nothing happens, though. Nothing springs from the shadows into the road; no strange car follows us. I am on edge, that is all. It has been a bad night.

Grant lives in the warehouse district just outside of Chinatown.

An area of old brick, wide panes of glass, the docks and dirty ocean on the other side of I-5. And in the center, a gritty oasis-an upbeat stone building surrounded by old-fashioned pewter lanterns that line a landscaped walkway, which crisscrosses a larger piece of grassy property bordering a gritty burnout of chain link, cracked ce
ment, and broken glass.

Following Grant's instructions, I slow down in front of the main structure, which is cleaner than its neighbors, and rambles into sev
eral smaller facilities, one of which looks suspiciously like a church.

I park in the small lot. "What is this place?"

Grant shrugs. "Depends on who you talk to, though it's mainly a homeless shelter. A place for people to get back on their feet."

"And you live here?"

"I own the place." Grant smiles and climbs out of the car, lean
ing heavily on his cane. I take a moment, staring at his back, and shake my head.

I do not bother grabbing my suitcase from the trunk. I turn up my collar, duck my face against the cold rain, and run after him, jog
ging down a narrow sidewalk to a plain metal door set within an al
cove just off the core building. The boys melt from the shadows beside us, eyes glowing, claws clicking. Keys jingle in Grant's hand.

"I have a private entrance," he says, and then we are inside a dry dark space where the only way forward is up a steep flight of stairs, lit by a dim light somewhere far above us. Grant moves slowly, his cane thunking loudly on each step.

"Were you injured in the hit-and-run you mentioned?" My voice is loud in the hush of the darkness surrounding us. I feel the boys brush past my leg, and I watch the outlines of their sharp spines as they dart ahead to scout and explore.

Grant glances back at me. His eyes are hooded, shrouded in shadow. "All I received from that incident were some scrapes and bruises. The leg happened five years ago. I got on the wrong end of a tire iron."

I suck in my breath. "What happened?"

Grant pauses on the stairs, and I join him, close but not touching. Rainwater drips from the tips of his hair, the air is cold-but his body radiates a heat I feel down to my bones. We stare at each other, soaking in silence.

"There are risks to helping people," he finally says, softly, with an edge of pain. "It's safer to walk away. Turn a blind eye. You know that better than anyone."

"I do." I hesitate, then reach up and touch his wet cheek. Grant closes his eyes. His skin feels bristly, hot. So good. "People are never who they seem. Not even to themselves."

He captures my hand and presses my palm to his lips. "But you accept the risks. No choice, no alternative."

"Commitment. Dedication." I edge close, swallowing hard.

"Saving lives," Grant whispers, lowering his head. Our lips touch. Fire spreads down my throat into my breasts, my stomach. His strong arm curls around my waist, hugging me close. I cling to him. I let myself hold and be held, and though I am risking my life, my heart, I do not care. For the first time in my life, I do not give a damn. I want this. I want
him.
I lean in harder, tighter, and Grant makes a sound; low, guttural. He breaks off the kiss. We are both breathing heavy.

"Upstairs," he rasps, and we stumble up together, hands clasped tight. Grant slides his palm against the wall, and lights come on. The brightness hurts my eyes at first, but I can see well enough to take in the pleasantly large room at the top of the stairs. I see large windows of clouded glass, deep couches, and long massive bookshelves; a grand piano, several guitars, and a very large Triumph motorcycle polished to a loving red sheen. No doubt Grant's pride and joy, once upon a time-though I cannot imagine how anyone could have hauled it up those stairs we just climbed.

The room is nice, warm and cozy. It feels like a home, though a bit more luxurious than anything I imagine a former priest being

able to afford. The austere life, no more. Grant gave up more than the collar when he left the Church.

I walk to the piano. I have not been near one since I left home, and an ache soars through my throat with the memory of my mother giving me lessons; dark hair tumbling loose over her face, her long neck, brushing it out of her eyes, away from her red mouth. Day
time, her arms bare, skin covered in tattoos that I would trace and trace with my fingers; naming them, crooning lullabies.

I like to think I resemble her. I like to imagine I am as strong.

The boys are prowling. Grant moves close, and his fingers trail a path up my ribs, making me shiver. "Do you play, Maxine?"

"A long time ago." I capture one of his hands against my side and use the other to press down on a high C. The note drifts sweetly in the air. Grant reaches around my body. I go very still as he wraps his hand around my own. When I press down on another note, his hand is still there with me, resting large and heavy on top of my wrist.

"I'd play a duet with you," he whispers in my ear, "but I think that might be dangerous."

I cannot talk. All I can do is nudge his hip, and he sits down, slowly, on the piano bench. I join him, on his lap. Grant makes a sound, low in his throat, and I bite my bottom lip as I move very gently against him, savoring the hard sensation of his body against my own.

I touch the piano. I play a sonata. Grant reaches around me and lays his hands over my hands. I carry him across the music, his mouth touching my ear, my neck, trailing kisses across my skin. I miss a note, then two and three. Grant's hands slips over my skin to the keys, fingers slow and dancing, and for a moment we play to
gether, a duet, sweet and light, until the melody shifts, and I rest my palms on his strong wrists and let him be the one to carry me, rock
ing us both into music that is mournful and hot, hot like the hard cradle of his body.

Grant finishes the song and wraps his arms around me. I listen to his heartbeat, his slow breathing; more distant, the boys dragging and unzipping, rattling paper. His chest rumbles. "Are they going to burn this building down?"

"Not yet," I murmur, biting back a smile when he laughs, low. His fingers thread through my hair, holding me close, tight, my face pressed near the crook of his neck. His skin smells so good. I touch him with my lips. Grant's breath catches, and then his mouth slides next to mine, light and warm.

"Maxine," he whispers. "I want to take you to my bed." I close my eyes. Nod my head.

He cannot carry me-his leg is too weak to support that effort
but he clutches me so tight against his side he might as well be car
rying me, and we stagger into his bedroom, a clean place with only a bed and little else. The covers are rumpled, unmade, but I do not care. I fall onto the mattress, breathless.

Grant glances around, taking off his jacket. "Where are the boys?"

I look and do not see them. Probably close, though. I reach into my hair and pull out Dek and Mal. Their eyes are very solemn, and when I place them on the floor they slither from the room without hesitation. Grant closes the door. "They're not voyeurs, are they?"

"Not about this," I tell him, though in all honestly, I do not know for certain. I have become too used to not having any privacy in my life.

I swallow hard, watching him. Grant hesitates, then very deliber
ately walks to the bed and perches on the edge beside me. He twines his hand around my own.

"We don't have to do this," he says quietly. "Not tonight. Not ever, if you don't want."

"Change your mind?" I try to smile, to pretend, but Grant is not fooled. He kisses my palm and presses it to his chest. Holds it there, watching me with those dark wild eyes.

"I want you," he says, in a voice so low and rough it makes me shudder, makes Grant shudder, both of us shaking against each other like a hard hot wind is blowing through the room.

I almost tell him. I almost tell him what might happen if we do this, but I am afraid he will stop, and I do not want to. Before tonight I would never have thought I could change my mind, break the old promise to myself-not like this, so willingly-but being with this man has changed something inside me. I am no longer afraid. Nor am I resigned, though I would have every right to be. I tell myself I am simply being modern. One-night stand. A friendly roll in the sack. Nothing heavy, even if the consequences are.

But I want this to be my choice, not something the boys make me do. My choice, now. Not later. Grant, and not some other man.

I kiss him. I am awkward, an ugly duckling when it comes to lovemaking, and Grant is little better. All those smooth moves we had for each other fade away as we fumble at each other's clothes, rocking each other down on the bed as we give up trying to yank off shirts and jackets and jeans, settling instead for a tangle of limbs, cradling each other with hot deep kisses that burn so deep I can feel the slow rise of some cresting pleasure, an ache that makes me twist and writhe. Grant murmurs my name, running his fingers through my hair, while my hands trail down his chest to his belt, his button, his fly. I push my hand inside his jeans and swallow down his gasp with a kiss.