Wilder (9 page)

Chapter 14

C
harisma woke slowly to the sound of rushing water and the twittering of birds.

But this time she didn’t automatically think she was back in her room in Irving’s mansion. Nor did she assume she was in the Guardian’s cave. Her dreams were vivid, even more than the real world, and she didn’t know what to believe.

Cautiously, she groped her face.

Yes, she wore a blindfold, and that was the reason she couldn’t see.

She sat up slowly, leaned forward, and rubbed her feet. They were sore, as if she’d wandered far underground.

She didn’t want to remember answering the call of the earth.

Even worse would be if she discovered that she’d hallucinated the whole episode. That would definitely head her right toward the loony bin. But also . . . she liked Guardian. He had faced death to rescue her. Plus he had a sense of humor. And a guy who looked the way Guardian looked . . . well, he could either laugh, or he could rampage around like Frankenstein’s monster and kill a bunch of people.

Then she’d have to take him out.

She didn’t want to do that.

He wasn’t that bad-looking, really. It was all a matter of perspective.

Should she take off the blindfold?

Yes, with Guardian she had seen the cave. But afterward her head had hurt and her eyes had throbbed, and she knew she had done too much.

Charisma flexed her shoulders. She felt pretty good now, with a lot of stiff muscles, but . . . she took a long breath, trying to gauge the change in the air.

Someone was watching her. She called, “Hello?”

Footsteps approached.

“Be calm. You’re safe.” The voice was male, deep, warm, reassuring, with a tinge of a Western accent.

Something was off about the footsteps, about his voice, and about him, but she couldn’t figure out what. First she had to ask, “Where am I?”

“Can you guess?”

“Yes. I’m in the cave.” She felt relief, as if the weight of the earth’s call was not so burdensome, and a warmth enveloped her. “But I don’t know you.”

“I’m Dr. King.”

Again she got that sense of wrongness. His voice was at the wrong height. “Guardian speaks well of you.”

“I have my moments.” Dr. King’s voice was self-deprecating, amused. “I’m here to help you.”

“Nice, but . . .” But if Isabelle were here, she wouldn’t need a doctor. Why wasn’t Isabelle here? “Listen. I have a vague memory . . . didn’t I ask for my friend?”

“Yes! Good recall.” Dr. King sounded pleased. “But your friend Isabelle is out of the country with the rest of your friends.”

Charisma groaned. “That’s timing. Are they okay?”

“I believe Mr. Irving Shea reported they were on a mission.”

“Do you know where?”

“Switzerland.”

“Good.” That meant they were making another run at opening the safety-deposit box, and Charisma knew as well as any of them how important that could prove in their battle against evil. “Just hearing that makes me feel better.”

“Excellent.” Dr. King’s voice shifted away. “Meet Amber.”

The faintest rustle of material brought Charisma’s head around to the side. A whiff of patchouli teased her nose.

“Amber is one of Guardian’s people . . . you’ll feel comfortable with her.”

What did that mean? Did he realize she wasn’t comfortable with him? “Nothing against Amber, but where’s Taurean?” Charisma had liked Taurean. The older woman was tall and peculiar, and gloriously free with her delusions.

“Taurean is not always available when we need her,” Dr. King said.

“I suppose not.” But how disappointing.

Dr. King continued. “Amber will guide you through your ablutions and get you something to eat—”

At the mention of food, Charisma’s stomach growled.

“—and then, if you don’t mind, I’d like to examine your eyes for distance and acuity.”

Should she tell him she’d already had the blindfold off? That she’d seen Guardian and viewed the cave?

Naw. Doctors got weird about their patients testing their limits before they were told they could.

So Charisma allowed Amber to lead her from the bed to the bathroom to the table, where the smell of something more than chicken broth made Charisma’s stomach growl.

She really did feel better.

She ate a bowl of beef pho.

She ate pesto pasta salad.

She ate Popeye’s chicken and biscuits.

By the time she pushed back from the table, she was smug, full, and happy—and curious. “Where is Guardian?” she asked.

“He had demons to chase,” Dr. King said.

“Good man.” Although she wished Guardian were here right now.

She heard the sound of a chair being pushed close, then the tap of shoes on wood.

Suddenly Dr. King spoke close to her face. “It’s twilight in the world above.”

She had slept the clock around . . . again? That demon poison had seriously whacked her.

“Let’s take off that blindfold. I don’t think there’ll be any shock to your eyes, but please keep them closed until I tell you and then open them slowly. If you’re in pain or if you see fireworks, close them. You’re the one who knows best what you can bear.”

The blindfold fell away.

Charisma opened her eyes slowly.

The first thing she saw was a bald, African-American dwarf dressed in a suit and tie, standing on the chair in front of her. “Dr. King?” she asked.

“That’s right.”

Now she understood why she had thought there was something off-kilter about him. He was not at all what she expected. “I thought you’d . . . have a full head of hair.”

He grinned and relaxed. “I’m gay, too.”

“Of course you are. But I can’t
see
that.”

“What
can
you see?”

Slowly she turned her head. “Amber is very pretty.” She sounded surprised, she realized. She was surprised; she had been expecting a small, cheerful Buddhist statue of a woman. But Amber was petite and curvaceous, with curly blond hair that hung in wisps around her Marilyn Monroe face.

Amber placed her palms together and bowed.

Charisma bowed back.

They smiled in perfect accord.

“Shall we replace the blindfold?” Dr. King asked. “Or, if you like, you can simply close your eyes and Amber will guide you to the shower.”

“That’s right.” Charisma clasped her hands in delight. “Guardian promised me a shower.”

“In the stream.”

She shut her eyes and stood. “Lead me to it.”

Chapter 15

A
s Guardian approached the cave and removed his fighting gear, he remembered the last thing Charisma had said to him.

When you come back, you’ll find me exactly where you want me.

He wanted so badly for it to be true. If she was still here . . .

She wouldn’t leave without saying good-bye, though. He was pretty confident of that. For all that she was a smart-ass, she was polite and—he hated to make her sound mundane—she was nice.

When you come back, you’ll find me exactly where you want me.

He entered the cave with his hopes high.

As it was every night, the cave was dark enough to allow for sleep, yet the glow from the stones acted like a night-light. On the other side of the folding screen, he could hear splashing in the stream, and he caught the scent of soap, and Amber, and Charisma.

His heart lifted. He came around the corner toward the bathing pool—and there Charisma stood, in the waterfall, her eyes closed, head back, back arched, arms outstretched, wearing nothing but a smile.

His mind went blank. He froze. For a really long time, he stared, numb, mesmerized, stammering in his mind. He stared so hard and so long without blinking that his eyeballs ached.

Other parts ached, too.

Silly. This was silly. He was being ridiculous. During Charisma’s illness, he’d cared for her, sponged her down when she was burning with fever, dealt with every body function. He had seen her naked and at her worst. Of course he had. And this was exactly like that.

Except it wasn’t.

She was glorious. Breasts and hips thrust forward. Water foaming around her calves. Still too thin, but taut with muscle.

The woman he’d cared for had been on the verge of death.

This woman was embracing her return to life.

Could she return him to a real life, too?

Turning, she groped for the soap on the stone shelf.

Her buttocks. Her spine. Magnificent.

She created a lather. She washed her face, her neck. Turning again, she washed her arms, her breasts, her belly.

She had been dirty. She was washing. Nothing extraordinary about that.

But he couldn’t tear his gaze away from her hands as she . . . caressed herself. She traced the shape of her body, the length of her thighs, exploring the changes that had occurred. She turned and, in profile, put her foot on a rock and bent to wash first one foot, then the other. Her fingers, her palms never stopped moving. The white lather slid across her soft skin, over old scars and new, taking with it the sweat and anguish of her recovery and leaving her, if the expression on her face was anything to go by, delighted.

And a delighted Charisma was like a child, uninhibited and joyful. She splashed. She sang and danced. She laughed aloud for no reason.

At last she put the soap back, picked up the shampoo, and washed her hair. Then once again she leaned back into the waterfall, arched her back, and opened herself to the experience.

He had never seen anything so beautiful.

He thought he was going to expire from lust.

He should go away. Leave her to her privacy.

He should.

But it was too late.

She was climbing out, moving slowly, eyes closed and hands outstretched. She found the towel folded neatly on a rock. She dried her hair, her face, her body. . . .

Her voice made him jump. “Have you seen enough, Guardian?”

She hadn’t looked. He had not once seen the flash of her eyes.

Yet she stood smiling, eyes closed, head cocked, waiting for his reply.

How had she known?

He cleared his throat. “You’re happy.”

“I feel better. Lots better. Dr. King had me take off the blindfold. He thinks my vision will continue to improve. And I just got to take the best shower I’ve ever had in my whole life, because I’ve never been that dirty before in my whole life. Of course I’m happy. Aren’t you?”

Happy
was not exactly the word for what he felt. “I’m happy for you.” He cleared his throat. “How did you know I was watching?”

“I sensed someone watching me. I sensed you. And I’ve learned to listen to my instincts. They’ve kept me alive.” She waved a hand back at the waterfall. “This reminds me of a place in Tahiti. My mother decided we should move there, and I spent a glorious year swimming, fishing, running naked.”

He would have liked to have been there.

“I used so much sunscreen. . . .”

Guardian believed that, because every inch of her was pale, covered with light freckles.

She said, “You’ve been demon hunting.”

That pulled him back from the brink of some awful revelation: a confession of desire, or maybe just a request to kiss every one of those freckles, followed by an unmanly whimper. “Yes.” He clipped the word.

“Then I imagine you’re ready for your shower. I’m out. So, your turn!” She stretched out a hand.

Amber arrived—where had she been hiding?—to take it and guide Charisma toward the cupboard and the clothes stacked there.

“Whether you like it or not, I’ve got to get dressed!” Charisma called.

He wanted to say no. Command her to remain naked. He wanted to look at her, to torment himself with what he could not have.

He looked down at himself.

He was filthy. Covered with blood. Hairy.

He was a monster.

A very tired monster. Getting down on all fours, he dashed into the bathing pool and allowed the cool water to wash away his desires, and bring some sense into the aching hollow left behind.

Chapter 16

G
uardian climbed out of the pool and shook like a dog. Straightening, he reached for the towel Amber had left for him—and met Charisma’s inquisitive gaze.

“Are you supposed to have your eyes open?” He was proud; he sounded so calm, so reasonable. Not at all disconcerted to be seen naked by the woman who made his libido—and other things—stir.

“Probably not,” she said, “but Dr. King said to close them if I saw fireworks. Not from seeing you. But at the back of my eyes. So far, no problems.”

“Good news.” Guardian maintained eye contact. Better than checking her out and . . . stirring.

Strange. It had been fine when he’d been peeking at her. But to know that she’d been watching him, seeing the whole him for the first time . . . he didn’t like that.

Truthfully, he would never want this woman to look at him. Not if she viewed him as an oddity. As a curiosity. Something inhuman, without rights, that belonged in a zoo.

She stood, hands on hips, blindfold tied around her neck, dressed in black pajama pants with vivid pink and green and yellow stripes, and a perfectly normal cap-sleeved, lime green T-shirt . . . except for the nipples that poked at the material, calling for his attention. Not that her nipples weren’t normal, but he wasn’t used to seeing them outlined so clearly when . . .

Focus on her eyes.

Focus. On. Her. Eyes.

“Except for the hair and the shape of your body, you’re very human,” she said. “Are you sure you’re not a werewolf?”

“I don’t change with the moon. I don’t change at all.” He gestured at himself, realized he’d just directed her gaze downward, and hastily wrapped the towel around his waist. “This is me, all the time.”

“So you don’t like looking like this?”

“Who would?”

“Did you think I would run away screaming?”

“No. You’re kind.”

Throwing back her head, she laughed—and she most certainly was laughing at him. “
Kind
is not usually the word applied to me, not even by my friends. No,
you’re
kind. You do the right thing. I’ve met enough men who were cowards, or cheats, or liars, to be able to look beyond your appearance.” She was still smiling, and smiling invitingly, when she said, “I find you attractive.”

His face grew hot. How could he flush underneath this growth of hair? “You’re grateful to me.”

“Most definitely. But you’re not the first person to save my life. My friends do it all the time, but I’ve never wanted to see any of
them
naked.”

“You . . . you . . .” She actually wanted to see him naked?

But why? Why would any woman want to see him naked?

Yet if Charisma said she wanted to see him, did he dare accuse her of vulgar curiosity? Or of mocking him? “You did see me naked, or at least stripped down to my fur.”

“I suppose you could get lasered.”

“What?”

“You know, go into the city, go to one of those laser hair-removal places, get the full treatment.” She was laughing again, teasing him.

But less than forty-eight hours ago he had tried to go into the city, as she so casually put it, and he had been forced to run for his life. The lights, the horrified voice saying,
Holy shit, what is that?
And that other voice, the one that spoke in his nightmares, saying,
Aim carefully. I want him alive!

If he ever was in doubt that he was a
thing
, a disgusting, mutilated creature of the night, those voices had thoroughly reminded him of the truth. He was a monster to be taunted and caged.

“Guardian?”

Charisma’s voice woke him from his bitter reflections.

She took a step toward him, extended her hand. “I wasn’t serious about the laser hair removal. I was trying to defuse the tension. If I offended you, I’m sorry. Really.”

“No. It’s fine.” Amber had left a clean black tunic for him with a wide embroidered band at the neck and long, full sleeves. He pulled it over his head—at least it covered up some of his fur—and came out to see Charisma observing him.

“That is so romantic,” she said. “You dress like a sheik.”

He stumbled into an explanation. “Pants don’t work for me. I don’t have a tail, thank God, but I have narrow wolf-hips, too. Dr. King lets us use his credit card, and Amber orders these djellabas for me online.”

“You may see me as tough and mean and completely unfeminine, but trust me on this: Looking like a sheik is romantic.” Her smile faded, and she looked wistful. “I’m a woman, and I know romantic when I see it.”

“I do not think of you as unfeminine.” He couldn’t believe she even suggested such a thing. “Quite the opposite.”

“I don’t think of you as a freak, either, but you don’t believe
me
.”

That’s different.
But he wasn’t dumb enough to say that. She’d tie him in knots trying to explain how it was different.

“I used to be a girly-girl. I wore tight skirts”—with her hand, she measured a hem halfway up her thighs—“tight sweaters, and this diamond-studded leather collar. I wore all this great makeup, really dramatic stuff. And my shoes. I had the best shoes.”

In his mind’s eye, he could clearly see her as she had been, wicked, smart, and sarcastic.

“Actually, I still have the shoes, but I can’t chase demons in four-inch heels.” She sighed deeply. “I miss those early days, when I was young and innocent and didn’t realize how bad it was going to get.”

He didn’t tell her how much worse it had become in the two weeks she’d been out of action. Although she looked as if she were just about to ask. . . . Hastily, he asked, “Why did your mother take you to Tahiti?”

“Oh.” Charisma’s shoe glow faded. “My mother.”

He had diverted her, but not happily.

She looked around, saw the motley assortment of chairs and stools Amber had grouped together around a glass-topped coffee table, and wandered over to sit down. Picking up a few of the magazines, she flipped through them and tossed them aside. “These are so old, you could set yourself up as a doctor’s office.”

He followed. And stood. And waited.

Charisma fidgeted, and finally said, “All right! If you’re going to interrogate me . . . my mother calls herself a free spirit.”

He folded his arms. “What does that mean?”

“It means her whims drive her. She does whatever she wants without regard to how it affects anyone else.”

“Specifically you?”

“Oh, yeah.” She stretched out her legs, propped her feet up on the table. “You’d think I’d be over that by now, wouldn’t you?”

“She’s your mother.” He wanted to sit in the chair next to her, to take her hand and pat it, and tell her everything would be all right.

“That’s the problem. I’m still attached to her. You know?”

But patting Charisma’s hand wasn’t all he wanted to do. He wanted to hold her, to kiss her lips, her neck, to lift her shirt and lower her pants. He wanted to do the friendly stuff, and the more-than-friendly stuff, and a whole lot of things he had no business imagining.

“When Mom was seventeen, she got married to a very nice man. A rancher. In Idaho.” Charisma tweaked the hem on her pajama pants. “She got bored. She ran away and joined a commune somewhere.”

He pulled up a stool, not too close, and straddled it. “Communes were still around?”

“Might have been a cult.” Charisma’s grimace grew more pronounced. “Mom was never very clear about what or where, and she can’t tell the same story the same way twice.”

In lieu of tasting Charisma’s nipples, he should express some comforting sentiment. So he said, “
You
certainly always tell the truth!”

Somehow, that didn’t come out as the compliment he had intended.

But Charisma didn’t seem offended. “Truthful to a fault, I’ve been told. Which possibly isn’t always the most diplomatic way to be. My friends usually forgive me. In time.” She looked wistful, as if she missed her friends. “Anyway, when I was an infant, my parents abandoned me in this commune, so Mom picked me up like a stray dog and brought me home to her husband. I thought he was my daddy until the day she decided she was bored—”

“Again?”

”Nothing held Mom’s attention for long. Anyway, she decided we should move on. I cried about leaving him. She told me he wasn’t my real daddy and she wasn’t my real mommy, but she’d saved me, so I had to go with her.”

“How old were you?”

“Six.”

“Six?” Guardian was appalled. “She blurted out that you were adopted when you were six?”

“With my mom, it was best to get used to the occasional surprise or two. But I admit, that was the first, and the most”—Charisma groped for the word—“shocking.”

“I can imagine.”

“Hey.” Charisma leaned forward and touched his hand. “No need to feel sorry for me. The fire that melts the candle also tempers the steel. I am tempered steel.”

“Yes. You really are.” He freely offered his admiration. “You’re the first person Dr. King and I know of who survived the demon venom. How are your eyes?”

Charisma looked startled. Lightly she touched her lids. “I guess they’re fine. I haven’t even thought about them.”

“Good. But a little while longer and we should cover them.”

“Yes, I suppose.” She untied her blindfold from around her neck and looked at it with disfavor.

“And you should rest.”

“Yes.”

“After you tell me the rest of the story about your mom.”