Knight of Wands (Knights of the Tarot Book 1) (19 page)

“Something’s happened to me.”

He flew to her side, sat beside her, and enfolded her hand in his own. “How do you feel?”

She licked her dry lips. “Like I’ve risen from the dead.”

He gave her a tepid smile and squeezed her hand. “That sounds about right.”

Squinting at him, she asked, “What happened?”

“Aye, well.” He looked sheepish. “You fell from the tower…and would have died had I not, well,
intervened
.”

She blinked at him in confusion for a moment before understanding dawned. “You turned me?”

“I had no choice,” he insisted, flustered. “It was either turn you or let you die, which I just couldn’t do. What happened was my fault.”

“How do you figure that?”

“If I hadn’t brought you here, you couldn’t have fallen off the tower, eh?”

He had a point, not that she blamed him. Had she been in his shoes, she would have done the same. Still, it changed things. Not between them necessarily, but everything else. Her job, her diet, her life expectancy, her sex drive. It was all too much to think about. Overwhelmed, she shut her eyes and turned away.

He squeezed her hand. “Please don’t be cross with me. I did what I felt I must. What I believed was for the best.”

A hash of feelings sizzled inside her, but blame wasn’t in the mix. Confusion, disorientation, fear, and angst, yes; but not the need to point the finger of blame at anyone. She needed to sort through it all, let her new reality sink in, and get her mind around how to cope. At the moment, however, her brain steadfastly refused to cooperate. Try as she might, she could not retrieve the memory of falling. “How did it happen? Did I slip somehow?”

He stroked her hair. “I believe Sorcha pushed you—for my sake.”

Vanessa bit her lower lip. Callum didn’t know about her last encounter with Sorcha’s specter. She’d meant to tell him, but the right moment never presented itself. It would seem the moment had come. “I didn’t tell you, but I had another encounter with her a couple of days ago.”

His eyes flashed just before narrowing with suspicion. “Oh?—and what did she have to say?”

“She wanted me to stay with you, to free her to cross over,” Vanessa attempted to explain. “I told her all the reasons I couldn’t do that, including the fact that you were immortal and I wasn’t.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me this?”

“I meant to tell you tomorrow,” she told him truthfully. “On the way to the airport.”

He’d offered to drive her and, as far as she knew, he still planned to erase her memories of him.

“What happens now?”

“Obviously, you’ll have to stay with me a bit longer,” he said, not looking happy about it. “You’ll need someone to look after you while you adjust to the changes in your body. Your thirst for blood and all the rest.”

Every cell revolted against the idea of drinking blood. “Can’t I just eat regular food?”

“Nay, lass. Once your fangs come in, you’ll need blood to survive.”

He looked overwrought. She wanted to say something to make him easier, but was too busy cataloging the lifestyle changes to expect. She wasn’t crazy about the blood-drinking part, but the eternal youth and beauty part was a definite plus. So was a libido to match his, as long as he was around. But he wouldn’t be, would he? Not if she went back to New Orleans without him. Speaking of which…she needed to think how this might impact her new job. Would the change help or hinder her role as a paranormal investigator?

Obviously, she’d have to conceal the truth from Mr. Armstrong, at least until she could trust him with her secret, but that shouldn’t be too difficult. Callum passed for a human, after all, except when he assumed another form. Speaking of which…

“Will I be able to shape-shift?”

“Aye,” he replied, still looking downcast. “After I teach you how.”

Apprehension gave way to anticipation. Being a faery could be rather amazing, actually. In fact, except for the gross blood-drinking part, she couldn’t see a downside. She’d be able to turn into an animal, have heightened senses and super-human powers, would never get sick, would have the power to heal, and would be almost impossible to kill.

“How much blood will I need to sustain myself?”

“A few pints a week,” he said. “But you’ll also need regular sex in your diet in order to thrive and blend in human society.”

Concern pulled her brows together. “How much sex are we talking here?”

“Like animals, we’re driven by the mating instinct. If we don’t copulate often enough, the feral side of our nature starts to take us over.”

“Are you telling me that, if I don’t shag all the time, I’ll turn into some kind of sex-crazed she-devil?”

“Aye. Basically.”

She worried her bottom lip. Who would she have sex with in New Orleans? Male prostitutes? Strangers she picked up in bars? Images from
Looking for Mr. Goodbar
flashed through her mind. Good God. She did not want to end up like Diane Keaton’s character at the end of the film.

An affair with someone like Callum was one thing. Cruising bars for strangers to fuck and feed upon was something else entirely. The thought revolted her, as a matter of fact. She’d become a slave to her appetites, a blood and sex junkie always looking for her next score. What kind of freedom was that?

The alternative was staring her in the face. Quite literally. Stay with Callum in Scotland. Forget her training, forget her job, and forget their differences. Unfortunately, there were a few holes in that plan. For one, Callum hadn’t asked her to be his
immortal beloved
; he’d only offered to let her stay until she adjusted to her new existence. Not that she was ready to commit to a relationship with a man she’d only known a week—especially when the vow wouldn’t just be “till death do we part,” it would be an unfathomable
ad infinitum
.

She bit her lip as her heart sank into the pit of her stomach. Holy shit. What was she going to do?

Callum was still beside her, still looking down at her with guilt glimmering in his beautiful eyes. She wanted to say something, to ask how they might go forward together, but she couldn’t find the courage. At least, being like him now, she was no longer a threat.

“Are you still going to erase my memory?”

“Now that you’re like me, I couldn’t even if I wanted to.”

That was good. She might not be ready to marry him, but she definitely wanted to remember him.

He got to his feet, crossed to the window, and clasped his hands behind his back. “Are you still thinking of returning to the States?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Aye. You could stay in Scotland. We could hunt together and see to each other’s needs.”

Suspicion smoldered in her gut. “
Where
in Scotland?”

“I could put you up in a flat in John o’Groats or Wick. Maybe even Edinburgh, if you would prefer a bigger city.”

“And do what? Twiddle my thumbs between booty calls?”

He didn’t turn, damn him, or say anything. Her hands fisted as her blood pressure spiked, making her temples throb. She was not a sit-by-the-phone waiting kind of woman. She needed to be active, engaged, inspired. What he was suggesting would drive her crazy. What he was suggesting was so textbook Leo she wanted to throw something at him.

“I just thought we could maybe try and see what developed,” he said.

“And if nothing develops, you’ll still have everything and I’ll be left with nothing. No job, no money, no place to live, and no lover to satisfy my needs. I’d be a fool to enter into such a one-sided arrangement.”

“It wouldn’t be like that.”

“Says the guy who stands to gain everything and lose nothing.”

He threw a hostile backward glance in her direction. “Do you have a better suggestion?”

“I do, actually. Come to New Orleans for conjugal visits while we see what develops.”

“What am I supposed to do between visits?”

She knew what he meant and didn’t have an answer. She had vowed to herself long ago never to tolerate infidelity in a partner. At the same time, she didn’t want to cut her ties to Callum. Yes, he was an infuriating Leo, but he also had a lot of good qualities. Plus, she really liked him…and maybe even loved him.

“I don’t know.” Sighing deeply, she looked up at the ceiling. “I need more time to weigh the pros and cons.”

He stood at the window—not turning, not saying anything—for an infuriatingly long time. Then, he said, “Do think it over, but consider this when you do: if you decide to go back, we’ll have no choice but to sleep with other people.”

She spewed an exasperated sigh at his back. He was such a bloody Leo it wasn’t even funny. Yes, he’d done a good job of banking his fire over the past week, but she knew what Leos were like. If she gave an inch, he’d take a mile, take control of her life, tell her what to wear, how to fix her hair, what to read, what to think, what friends he approved of and which he didn’t. Just like Nick had tried to do.

Indignation set a hook in her gut. She would not, could not, be a
Stepford Wife
to anyone.

“Listen, Callum, I like you and all, but if you try to change me…or tell me what to do, I’ll, I’ll”—she hesitated, unsure what threat she was prepared to back up—”well, just don’t, all right? If it ever comes down to a choice between a man and my freedom, I’ll choose my freedom every time.”

She waited for him to say something, but he didn’t. He just stared out that fucking window like she wasn’t even in the room. His hands were clasped over his ass and he was motionless apart from his twitching fingers. Finally, just when she was tempted to throw something at him, he said, “Do you remember how I told you I once collected butterflies?”

“Yes.”

“Well, what I didn’t tell you is that one day, I had an epiphany and wept for all the butterflies I’d killed. They were so beautiful, so delicate, and so wondrous. By trying to hold onto them, I destroyed the very thing that made them so beautiful. Their spirit.” Turning to look at her over his shoulder, he added, “I would never ask you to choose between me and your freedom, nor try to change the things that make you beautiful and unique. And, quite frankly, it wounds me deeply to know you think I would.”

* * * *

Tears gathered in Vanessa’s eyes, tightening her throat. She liked what he’d said about butterflies. No other man, including her father, had seen the specialness of her spirit, let alone prized it. Maybe there was hope for them yet, but not if it meant staying in Scotland. However she sliced it, going home to New Orleans still seemed the best and only sensible option.

Yes, she would miss everything about her sexy Scottish lion. His kisses, his arms, his voice, his laugh, his adorable crooked smile, and his beautiful golden eyes. She would also miss their lovemaking, drifting off in his arms, and waking up beside him. Things were good with Callum—fantastic even—but she needed to be sure the magic would last before she could commit herself to
forever
.

A tear leaked from her eye. She sniffed it back, annoyed by her emotional weakness. She was not going to let her feelings get the best of her or to let them rule her life. Feelings were transitory and untrustworthy.

Her thoughts shifted to her parents. Her father had been an Aries, a ram ruled by Mars, while her mother was Cancer, a crab ruled by the Moon. Being a fire sign, like Callum, her father wanted an epic romance—
Romeo and Juliet
with a happy ending. Her mother, being emotion-driven water, wanted security and a comfortable home. Somewhere along the line, her mother withdrew and her father got tired of butting his horns against her shell.

Yes, Vanessa understood why her father went, but that didn’t make it any easier to be left behind like an unwanted bag of clothes. She’d much rather be alone than give someone the power to make her feel that way ever again.

Chapter 11

“Maybe it would be easier if you could hunt as something other than yourself,” Callum told Vanessa a couple of hours later as they crossed the castle’s back garden toward the forest.

“You mean shape-shift?”

“Aye.”

“Into what?”

He shrugged, his bare shoulders glistening in the midday sun. She walked a few paces behind him in blue jeans, topsiders, and the sweatshirt she’d purchased at a PETA fundraiser.

Callum wore something he called a “plaide”—a big tartan blanket, basically, he’d belted around his waist. It was all she could do not to laugh while observing the ritual of putting the damn thing on. First, he laid the whole length of fabric on the floor atop a belt. Next, on his knees while buck naked, he’d pleated the greater part of it by hand. Finally, he’d reclined on the pleated cloth and, using the belt, gathered the tartan around himself.

As she watched him now, striding along like some ancient Celtic warrior, mindful the goods were only a grab away, she truly understood the powerful sexual magnetism of a man in a kilt.