Mercy Burns (35 page)

“You have precisely twenty minutes,” I said, knowing even as I said it that he could have the rest of my
life if only he said the right words. “I have guests waiting upstairs.”

I opened the door then grabbed the loose edges of my jacket and wrapped them around me—more to keep from reaching for him than any real need to keep out the cold.

But I couldn’t help drawing in the scent of him, letting the richness of it flow through my lungs, filling and warming me.

“This way,” he said, raising his hand to guide me, then dropping it before he actually touched my back.

We walked down the street like two strangers, and yet every time he moved, every time he breathed, I was aware of it.

He opened the restaurant door and ushered me through, once again careful not to touch me, then guided me over to a table in the corner. The place was small, homey, and packed. Our table was the only empty one.

A waiter came up immediately, depositing two coffees and a large serving of chocolate cake before removing the “reserved” sign and walking away.

I wrapped my fingers around the cup and drew it close, but I didn’t dare pick it up. My hands were still shaking too much.

“So,” I said finally, meeting his dark gaze. “What do you want to talk about?”

“How about my stupidity?”

“A good place to start,” I acknowledged, desperately battling the urge to smile. He didn’t deserve that yet. After a month of heartache, he owed me the full explanation. And perhaps a bit of groveling. “What particular area of your stupidity do you wish to discuss?”

“The part where I said muertes can’t get involved.”

I picked up the fork and cut into the cake. I had to do something, anything, to stop myself from giving in to the growing desire to reach across the table and silence him with a kiss. The part of me that had hoped for so long suddenly didn’t care about explanations; it just wanted him. But the stubborn part still wanted to hear the words; still wanted to hear him say them before I truly believed. “And why would you want to discuss that? You were very emphatic about it.”

“It was a lie when I said it, and it’s a lie now.”

He caught my hand, gently pulling the fork from it and enclosing it in his warm, firm grip. My breath caught and my heart began pounding so hard I swear it was trying to jump out of my chest. I was suddenly glad he didn’t seem to expect me to say anything, because right then I was totally incapable of speech.

“I tried to forget you,” he continued softly. “I tried to get on with my life and my job, but you’ve invaded every part of me—even my dreams—and there
is
no me without you. I love you, Mercy.”

I closed my eyes for a moment and savored the words, letting them wash away the loneliness and the fear of the past month. Letting them warm my soul and heal my heart.

Even so, it couldn’t end there. There was one more question I needed to ask.

“What about that whole speech you gave about the power of the muerte being the fact that he has no family—and no loved ones—to fear for? Are you saying that was a lie, too?”

“No. It’s as true then as it is now. But this last month has given me a taste of what it would be like to live the
rest of my life without you. And I’d rather live with the fear of losing you than live without you entirely.”

“Are you sure, Damon? Because
I’d
rather live alone than live the rest of my life with the fear that you’ll walk away again.”

“I’m more sure of that than anything else in my life. Please, say you’ll forgive me. Say you’ll take the risk and become a part of my life.”

I studied him for a moment, aching to say yes but all too aware of the shadow that still stood between us—a shadow he hadn’t yet mentioned.

“You say you love me, that you can’t live without me,” I said slowly, “but I’m draman and that will never change. Where will your allegiance lie if the council issues an order that all draman are to have their powers ripped from them?”

“I doubt the council will order something like that.”

“But if it did?” I persisted.

“I would not let that happen to you,” he said softly, but with such determination it warmed the chill of uncertainty from my bones.

“And the other draman? Do you really think they deserve to lose their powers simply because the full-bloods are so insecure about our position in their lives?”

“I can’t promise that the council won’t vote to cull draman powers, but I can tell you that they’ve set up a scientific study of the coastal cliques in the hope of discovering just what is going on. They’ve also agreed, in principle, to a summit meeting between representatives of the draman and the cliques.”

It wasn’t acceptance, but it was certainly a whole lot more than I’d ever thought I’d see in my lifetime. “You did this?”

“I recommended it. Julio and several other kings backed me.” He shrugged, like it was nothing. Except it was everything, because I had no doubt he’d done it for me, to prove just how much he
did
care. He reached out and brushed my cheek lightly. “I’ve answered your questions. How about answering mine?”

Love and fear were in his voice, in his expression, and I couldn’t help the urge to tease him. “I can’t say yes. You haven’t promised me a regular supply of chocolate cake.”

A smile twitched his lips. “Oh, I think I can arrange that easily enough.”

“What about children? I want lots of them. Boys
and
girls—and no favoring the boys, thank you very much.”

“I promise.” He drew me across the table, his breath washing heat across my lips. “Anything else?”

“Yes,” I murmured, my lips brushing his and my gaze on his, losing myself in those dark depths and the love so evident there. “Promise me we’ll fly every single day.”

“Forever and ever,” he murmured, his lips so close I could taste his words.

“Then you’d better come back to my apartment and meet my brother. He needs to approve.”

“He’ll approve. I’m a very lovable sort of fellow when I want to be.”

I laughed at that, and he grinned. Then the amusement twinkling in his bright eyes faded. “Do you promise to be mine, Mercy?”

“Forever and ever,” I murmured, then took his lips with mine and sealed our deal with a kiss.

Be sure not to miss
Darkness Unbound
,
the first book of Keri Arthur’s thrilling new
Dark Angels series!
Read on for a special preview.…

I
’ve always seen the reapers.

Even as a toddler—with little understanding of spirits, death, or the horrors that lie in the shadows—I’d been aware of them. As I’d gotten older and my knowledge of the mystical had strengthened, I’d begun to call them Death, because the people I’d seen them following had always died within a day or so.

In my teenage years, I learned who and what they really were. They called themselves reapers, and they were collectors of souls. They took the essence—the spirit—of the dying and escorted them to the next part of their journey, be that heaven or hell.

The reapers weren’t flesh-and-blood beings, although they could attain that form if they wished. They were creatures of light and shadows—and an
energy so fierce that their mere presence burned across my skin like flame.

Which is how I’d sensed the one now following me. He was keeping his distance, but the heat of him sang through the night, warming my skin and stirring the embers of fear. I swallowed heavily and tried to stay calm. After all, being the daughter of one of Melbourne’s most powerful psychics had its benefits—and one of those was a knowledge of my own death. It would come many years from now, in a stupid car accident.

Of course, it was totally possible that I’d gotten the timing of my death wrong. My visions weren’t always as accurate as my mother’s, so maybe the death I’d seen in my future was a whole lot closer than I’d presumed.

And it was also a fact that not all deaths actually happened when they were
supposed
to. That’s why there were ghosts—they were the souls uncollected by reapers, either because their deaths had come
before
their allotted time, or because they’d refused the reaper’s guidance. Either way, the end result was the same. The soul was left stranded between this world and the next.

I shoved my hands into the pockets of my leather jacket and walked a little faster. There was no outrunning the reapers—I knew that—but I still couldn’t help the instinctive urge to try.

Around me, the day was only just dawning. Lygon Street gleamed wetly after the night’s rain, and the air was fresh and smelled ever so faintly of spring. The heavy bass beat coming from the nearby wolf clubs overran what little traffic noise there was, and laughter
rode the breeze—a happy sound that did little to chase the chill from my flesh.

It wasn’t a chill caused by an icy morning, but rather the ever-growing tide of fear.

Why was the reaper following
me
?

As I crossed over to Pelham Street, my gaze flicked to the nearby shop windows, searching again for the shadow of death.

Reapers came in all shapes and sizes, often taking the form most likely to be accepted by those they’d come to collect. I’m not sure what it said about me that
my
reaper was shirtless, tattooed, and appeared to be wearing some sort of sword strapped across his back.

A reaper with a weapon? Now
that
was something I’d never come across before. But maybe he knew I wasn’t about to go quietly.

I turned into Ormond Place and hurried toward the private parking lot my restaurant shared with several other nearby businesses. There was no sound of steps behind me, no scent of another, yet the reaper’s presence burned all around me—a heat I could feel on my skin and within my mind.

Sometimes being psychic like my mom
really
sucked.

I wrapped my fingers around my keys and hit the automatic opener. As the old metal gate began to grind and screech its way to one side, I couldn’t help looking over my shoulder.

My gaze met the reaper’s. His face was chiseled, almost classical in its beauty, and yet possessing a hard edge that spoke of a man who’d won more than his fair share of battles. His eyes were blue—one a blue as
vivid and as bright as a sapphire, the other almost a navy, and as dark and stormy as the sea.

Awareness flashed through those vivid, turbulent depths—an awareness that seemed to echo right through me. It was also an awareness that seemed to be accompanied, at least on his part, by surprise.

For several heartbeats neither of us moved, and then he simply disappeared. One second he was there, and the next he wasn’t.

I blinked, wondering if it were some sort of trick. Reapers, like the Aedh, could become energy and smoke at will, but—for me, at least—it usually took longer than the blink of an eye to achieve. Of course, I was only half Aedh, so maybe that was the problem.

The reaper didn’t reappear, and the heat of his presence no longer burned through the air or shivered through my mind. He’d gone. Which was totally out of character for a reaper, as far as I knew.

I mean, they were collectors of
souls
. It was their duty to hang about until said soul was collected. I’ve never known of one to up and disappear the moment he’d been spotted—although given the ability to actually spot them was a rare one, that probably wasn’t an everyday occurrence.

Mom, despite her amazing abilities—abilities that had been sharpened during her creation in a madman’s cloning lab—certainly couldn’t see them. But then, she couldn’t actually see
anything
. The sight she did have came via a psychic link she shared with a creature known as a Fravardin—a guardian spirit that had been gifted to her by a long dead clone brother.

She was also a full Helki werewolf, not a half-Aedh
like me. The Aedh were kin to the reapers, and it was their blood that gave me the ability to see the reapers.

But why did
this
reaper disappear like that? Had he realized he’d been following the wrong soul, or was something weirder going on?

Frowning, I walked across to my bike and climbed on. The leather seat wrapped around my butt like a glove and I couldn’t help smiling. The Ducati wasn’t new, but she was sharp and clean and comfortable to ride, and even though the hydrogen engine was getting a little old by today’s standards, she still put out a whole lot of power. Maybe not as much as the newer engines, but enough to give a mother gray hair. Or so
my
mom reckoned, anyway.

As the thought of her ran through my mind again, so did the sudden urge to call her. My frown deepening, I dug my phone out of my pocket and said, “Mom.”

The voice-recognition software clicked into action and the call went through almost instantly.

“Risa,” she said, her luminous blue eyes shining with warmth and amusement. “I was just thinking about you.”

“I figured as much. What’s up?”

She sighed, and I instantly knew what that meant. My stomach twisted and I closed my eyes, wishing away the words I knew were coming.

But it didn’t work. It never worked.

“I have another client who wants your help.” She said it softly, without inflection. She knew how much I hated hospitals.

“Mom—”

“It’s a little girl, Ris. Otherwise I wouldn’t ask you. Not so soon after the last time.”

I took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. The last time had been a teenager whose bones had pretty much been pulverized in a car accident. He’d been on life support for weeks, with no sign of brain activity, and the doctors had finally advised his parents to turn off the machine and let him pass over. Naturally enough, his parents had been reluctant, clinging to the belief that he was still there, that there was still hope.

Mom couldn’t tell them that. But I could.

Yet it had meant going into the hospital, immersing myself in the dying and the dead and the heat of the reapers. I hated it. It always seemed like I was losing a piece of myself.