The Valkyrie's Guardian (21 page)

Cassie cocked her head, feeling powerful to have gotten such a reaction from him. “Then you had better watch out yourself. I do as I please.”

“Do ye?”

“Always.”

He reached over, and with his eerie lightning-fast reflexes, he squeezed the sides of her knee with his thumb and forefinger. It stunned the nerves there and made her jump. Most undignified, when she was trying to be aloof.

“And so do I, lass. Beware yourself.”

There was no call for her outrage, but she had never been treated in such a manner. She clambered to her feet and charged him. He caught her and wrestled her into a ball of flailing limbs. She struggled, he let her loose, and their first wrestling match turned into a game at some point. With Jack busy guarding the pipes in his lap, Cassie had the advantage. She'd never been played with, never been challenged or taken to task like that.

He held her pinned on the rug, three of her limbs trussed in one bear paw of a hand while her loose arm darted jabs at him —

“What is going on?”
The bass voice deep like an echo but smooth like a bell made Cassie and Jack freeze. “MacGunn, what is this?”

“Uh, just keeping the little brat under control. No kidding Kyros, she's a hellcat. Good luck with that, mate.”

Jack released her, and Cassie rolled to her knees, staring at the newcomer whose frame filled the doorway. He was dark and handsome, well-built but not nearly as big as Jack and far more elegant. Like the illustrations of Camelot's knights in her storybooks. The same warrior mien as Jack, with old eyes — ancient eyes that frightened her at first. The man went down on one knee, staring at her with an unguarded, stricken expression.

He breathed an oath in a language she didn't understand. Slowly his hand rested on the side of her face, and his eyes searched hers for a long moment. “There is a God,” he whispered. “You look so much like
her
, I can hardly believe it.”

“Who do I look like?”

The man blinked once, twice at the sound of her voice. “A very dear, brave woman I once knew.” He glanced sideways at Jack, who nodded and sat back. She finally noticed that Kyros spoke to her in French, whereas the man with the Scottish accent made her speak English.

My name is Kyros. You have already met Jack.

She sucked in a breath, stunned that yet another was like her, could speak without words.

Can you hear me?

Yes.

Very good. Are you injured? Were you hurt at all?
She shook her head no, and he closed his eyes briefly, a gesture of relief.
What is your name, chére?

Cassiopeia Andromeda Noyon, monsieur,
she answered with the deference she'd been trained to use with her elders. She didn't know how to behave toward this man yet, but he radiated power and wisdom, which to her six-year-old self was intimidating.

You have no idea how pleased I am to meet you, Cassiopeia.
He patted the ground for her to sit.
You've had quite a fright this evening haven't you? I am sorry for that. We weren't expecting so much trouble tonight, but it's lucky I brought Jack along, isn't it?

Oh, yes,
she agreed, wide-eyed.

I should take a look at Jack now, he's always getting himself beat up. Why don't you relax and I'll tell you a long story. It has your family in it. Your ninth-great-grandmother.

Kyros knelt nearby, and as if on cue, Jack tugged his shirt off and tucked his arms behind his head as he lay back on the floor. She held her breath, watching a bright red spot soak through the bandage high on his right shoulder. Cassie had forgotten he'd been shot, since he hadn't given any indication of being in pain. He'd wrestled her on the rug, after all.

Kyros peeled back the bandage, Jack grunted, and Cassie gasped when she saw the wound. It scared her, despite all else she'd taken in stride. Her bottom lip trembled and she started to cry, she couldn't help it. Blood oozed from the circular wound, black and wet in the dim light. In a panic she shoved her hand over the hole, unable to bear the evidence of vulnerability in her hero.

She bent her head over him and concentrated, praying she could manage the healing. She'd only mended cuts and burns on people before, and a stomach ulcer, but that was for a dog, and it hadn't survived her efforts. Jack was bleeding, he was badly hurt, and she knew what happened to people who got hurt: they died.

Her hands shook, so she closed her eyes, trying to calm herself enough to help Jack. She connected with his mind without realizing it was only possible because he allowed it. She inserted herself inside his senses and was struck by the overwhelming vitality screaming through his veins, hammering in colossal waves of energy, pumping from the noisiest heart she'd ever heard. Most people's bodies thrummed in pleasant waves like those that lapped on the beach. Jack's life force dwarfed hers. She paused, daunted as she would be by the sight of a tidal wave towering overhead.

The sharp throbbing of his pain gave her resolve. She felt it sympathetically, burning with raw-nerved fire. She followed his blood, careful to soothe the nerves she brushed along the way. This man who experienced life on such a larger scale also had a magnified sense of pain. What seemed like dull throbbing to her was a jagged searing that radiated from the wound and rode his nerves. From his thoughts she understood he'd disguised it from her before because he didn't want to scare her.

Cassie didn't know she'd pushed too hard until he shifted beneath her, making her hands slide in the blood. She sent him a silent apology and concentrated on the damaged tissue. First she halted the blood flow and mended his veins, an exhausting feat against the force of his pulse. After that he was easier to heal than Aunt Isabelle or anyone else, because he was like her, and his body responded when she stimulated the regeneration process in his tissues. She whimpered, working through the wound that went clear through his shoulder. The skin on his back was mangled, much worse than the precise hole near his collarbone.

She fought a long battle, stemming back the blood flow while repairing the tissue, and finally she knew it would work. She had saved him — Jack wouldn't die. Already the edges of the wound held together, and the repaired sections of blood vessel withstood the pressure of his pulse. She wished she could take away the pain, but she didn't know how. She could only be gentle with the nerve endings she touched, careful not to make it worse.

Her eyelids felt heavy. The deafening
drum-drum
of his heart, so loud in her mind steadily drained her energy. She still hadn't worked through all the layers of his skin. She wiped away the last of the blood and felt the bumpy texture of a scar. She was still trying to smooth it even as a wave of exhaustion overcame her and she dropped her head onto Jack's chest. His thundering pulse receded from her head, the noise just a physical sensation she felt through the skin of his chest on her cheek. She could do no more — she'd lost the connection.

“Well, now,” she heard Kyros say to Jack. “That was interesting.”

“The lass is definitely yours, Kyros,” said the sand-rubbed velvet voice she'd already come to love. “Time will tell what sort of trouble
that
brings.”

“This is the key to my Porsche, this one is to my penthouse.

And here is the key to my heart.”

—Jack MacGunn, King of the Bad Pick-Up Line

Cassie woke in the middle of Jack's king-size bed to the sound of shouting.

“Theft! The act of stealing. The wrongful taking and carrying away of the personal property of another.
Larceny!
”

“Hey Cheese, take it easy. You still have thirty-seven left. That's fifty-four percent. And you have another batch in the oven. Of course, I will have to take that into account.”

Cassie wandered into the kitchen, covering a yawn. Jack chewed and shrugged, lounging on a bar stool. His hair was wet from showering, and a thin white T-shirt stretched over his chest like a second skin, damp and transparent in the most interesting places. His woodsy clean scent mingled with a delectable smell that filled the condo, something creamy and smoky baking. The kitchen was an unholy mess of dishes, wrappers, and spills.

The boy they'd rescued glared menacingly at Jack, but his eyes sparkled with underlying amusement. He waved his hands covered with oven mitts and wore Jack's apron which sported the lettering:
Kiss the Cook … if you want dinner. Remove the apron if you want dessert.
Probably a gift from an ex-girlfriend, even more bizarre to see a little kid wearing it.

“Personal service corporations are subject to a flat tax of thirty-five percent regardless of their income,” he replied indignantly, and Cassie wondered what the boy meant to do, wielding oven mitts against Jack.

“Eh, but you're not a corporation, are you Cheese?” Jack popped another of whatever it was in his mouth and spoke around it, “What you have is a sole proprietorship, little guy. Self-employment tax for you. And consider this — ” He ate another while the boy scoffed in outrage, “Advance payment on your fourth quarter taxes. These are really good, Cheese. You've got serious talent.”

The boy beamed and recited in a blur, “This savory vegetarian hors d'oeuvre features herbed feta cheese that melts and mingles with whipped egg whites, which moistens the pastry made from whole-grain flour. Adding diced mushrooms and fresh oregano will give it that Mediterranean flair, a perfect pairing with the spinach meatballs featured in the last segment.”

Cassie forgot what she came to say and simply appreciated the moment. Jack had figured out how to communicate with the boy.
Cheese
— a horrid nickname she simply wouldn't allow — was incapable of voicing his thoughts in his own words. She could imagine a variety of psychological reasons for that. The kid expressed himself by repeating related information cataloged in his mind. Apparently he had a photographic memory.

He memorized a cooking show from T.V. then went into the kitchen and made the food. It seemed best to just let the little devil have at it, since it distracted him from trying to dismantle my subwoofer.

Cassie glanced around the living room attached to the dining area and kitchen. Either an earthquake had struck, or Jack babysitting had been a disaster.

You have no idea, Cass. Do you think we could put him in some sort of cage? Maybe on a leash or something, because I seriously don't think I can handle this.

Your kid will be worse.

I know. Shoot me now.

Your bachelor pad needs work anyway. Think I'll add a few doilies, okay?

She wandered closer to Jack and leaned against his chest. He rested his chin on her head and stuck his hands in the front pockets of her jeans. Cassie watched the boy, who paced anxiously in front of the oven while the timer counted down from twelve seconds. When it beeped, the boy jumped and cheered. She watched him arrange bite-sized quiche on a plate with a precision indicating OCD. He'd fit right in, since Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder was the least of the weirdness most extra-sentients struggled with.

The boy presented her a steaming mini-quiche on an oven mitt. The blended cheese smell hit her full force and she swallowed a wave of nausea.

Oh, sorry Cass. Already?

It's the goat cheese.
Her stomach lurched, and she swallowed to subdue the bitter tang in her throat. The boy's sweet brown eyes peered through his shaggy hair. He waited eagerly. She had no choice. She prayed she wouldn't retch on the kitchen floor and reached for the perfectly browned piece.

Jack saved her. He snatched it away, popped it up in the air and caught it with his upturned mouth. He chomped and pointed at the boy, “Hmm. And now you learned about Darwinism. Survival of the fittest.”

Cassie played along. She turned in his arms and swatted him on the shoulder. “Poorly done, Jack. Stealing food from a pregnant lady. You ought to be punished.”

The boy rattled off text from Darwin's
On the Origin of Species,
distracted from wanting Cassie to sample his masterpiece.

Right in front of the kid, Jack grabbed her backside and pulled her against him, locking them together from groin to shoulder. “Oh yeah, baby. Punish me.” He spanked her hard then rubbed his hand to cup her rear. “I'd like nothin' more, sugar.” He growled this in her ear then nipped her earlobe.

Cassie shoved against his chest. “Jack! Stop it.”
The kid is watching!

He gripped his arms tighter and puffed out his chest to fill her hands with his pecs.

If only they were alone … It felt like they'd flown past the next two stages in life, with a kid cutting in on their alone time before they'd even had a honeymoon.

What do ye say we distract the kid with something and you take me to the bedroom and teach me some manners?
His hands slid under the hem of her T-shirt and kneaded over her back. He purred in interest as he rubbed between her shoulder blades and found no bra straps.
'S math sin, a ghràidh. You're my kind of lass.

His husky tone rumbling low in her mind made her shiver. Her body was hard-wired to thrill at the sound. That's all it took, and already heat stirred low in her belly and throbbed everywhere else. His chest rose and fell against her hands, his pulse sped. She squeezed the blocks of muscle and felt his heart kick.

Abruptly Jack released her and swiveled off the barstool. “Hey, Cheese. Wanna take a look at a short-wave radio transmitter I have in the garage? It's busted and I wondered if you'd fix it for me?”

Her heart ached, watching him limp through the kitchen into the laundry room. The boy loped after Jack, chattering about frequency bands for global broadcasting all the way to the garage. She wandered back to the bedroom and dropped onto the bed. Black satin sheets rubbed her arms, Jack's scent filled her lungs, and she tried not to cry over his mangled leg. She didn't think she could have handled following him into the room, watching him limp all the way.