The Secret Night. Rebecca York
screaming, he went after them one by one. He threw them to the ground, trampled over them with his boots, kicked them in the ribs and back and gut, and ground their faces into the dirt and gravel.
He could easily have killed them. He ached to squash the guy with the gas can. But he kept a tight leash on his anger and settled for scaring the piss out of the burn master, watching the dark stain that spread across the front of the guy’s jeans.
Ordinarily, Nick would have pursued the fleeing bikers and wiped the knowledge of the fight—and of the whereabouts of his home—out of their tiny minds. But he had more urgent business. For now, he was confident that they wouldn’t be back anytime soon. He could clean up the details later.
When he heard the roar of their motorcycles retreating down his road, he turned to the woman and hunkered down beside her.
She was small and delicate and very beautiful, with blue eyes and shoulder-length blond hair framing her face. Exactly as she’d been in his dreams, to the smallest detail.
Her gaze focused on him, still full of astonishment and confusion. “It was you,” she whispered. “In my dreams. But how…?”
It was his turn to stare in shock. How, indeed? How had they connected in such an intimate way without ever having met? He knew enough about his powers, and the potential he might someday reach if he worked at it, to know it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that he could bond mentally as he had with her—but not without his conscious decision to do so. And certainly not without knowing if she was even real.
But she was real. And she was here, on his doorstep, having arrived at the same time the Ten Oaks gang was in the act of torching his house.
Coincidence? He’d stopped believing in coincidence a long time ago.
Her pained grimace reminded him that, regardless of how she’d gotten here, she was wounded because she’d tried to prevent McCard and his buddies from carrying out their plan.
She glanced over his shoulder, in the direction the bikers had gone. “How did you do that? How could you be in five places at once?”
“Superhero powers,” he answered lightly, knowing she wouldn’t take him seriously.
She winced. “My side hurts.”
“I’m sorry.” He sent her thoughts to ease the pain, feeling her anxiety fade as he worked his magic on her.
Despite the circumstances, the feminine scent of her body drew him to her, as it had in the dreams. But now there was another powerful aroma about her, too—the coppery scent of her blood.
He wanted to taste it. Drink it. He felt the fang slits at the sides of his mouth begin to throb, and he clenched both his fists and his teeth to keep from doing something he would regret.
“Why did you come here?”
She looked up at him with glazed eyes, and he knew she was in shock. “I…”
Instead of finishing the sentence, she raised a hand and touched his bare chest. “The dream was nice, but…this is real,” she whispered, combing her fingers through the hair on his chest, her touch raising a shiver that raced across his skin.
The next instant, though, what he felt were raindrops. He’d completely forgotten about the oncoming storm.
“Come on. We have to get you inside,” he said, scooping her up effortlessly in his arms, being careful not to hurt her.
Closing her eyes, she nestled against his bare chest. “Nice,” she whispered again.
Ordering himself not to react to her touch or her scent, he hurried to the front porch, then stepped through the open door, kicking it closed behind him.
Her heartbeat seemed to shudder through his own body, and he felt his mind tuning itself to hers. He should put her down, break the contact, yank himself out from under her spell.
That thought confounded him. He was the one who wove spells, the one who bent mortals to his will.
Disconcerted and more than a little worried, Nick stood in the hallway, debating where to take her. The rooms upstairs were furnished like bedrooms because he had enjoyed collecting the antiques and using them to create what amounted to stage sets. But they were bound to be dusty. He kept the ground floor in better shape, since he sometimes met with clients here. But there were no bedrooms on this level of the house.
Still undecided, he carried her into the living room and laid her on the Victorian sofa, then perched on the edge of it, beside her. Her eyes were closed, but when he said, “We should get you to the hospital,” they flew open.
“No!” she insisted, panic coloring her tone.
“You’re hurt. You need medical attention.”
“If you take me to the hospital…he’ll find me! He already sent a man to my hotel.” She tried to drag in a deep breath, then winced at the pain.
“Just lie still,” he said.
“You have to listen to me,” she begged, clutching at his hand. “Please. I barely…got away.”
“From whom?”
“Damien Caldwell.”
“Bloody hell!” Nick shot off the sofa, heart pounding as he glared down at her. “Did he send you here?”
“Huh? No.” He could see her fighting to speak. “My sister is…one of his…zombies,” she managed.
A good way to put it, he thought.
“I went to the Refuge…to get Margaret away from him. Then I heard him…talking to…one of his men. He was…going to kill me.” Her face contorted, and she paused again before going on. “Margaret wouldn’t leave, and when I tried to get her into a boat…”
Her voice trailed off. Then her eyes fluttered closed, and she lay very still.
“What’s your name?” Nick demanded.
A long pause. Then, in a barely audible voice she replied, “Emma Birmingham.”
“This is a trick,” he said flatly. “Caldwell sent you to…to what? Seduce me into trusting you?”
Her eyes blinked open again, and she focused on him, her brow furrowed. “In the dreams, you were always nice…very nice….”
“Yeah, well, that was just a dream, wasn’t it?” he muttered, knowing it wasn’t true. Something had already happened between them. Something he didn’t understand.
But Caldwell might very well understand it. Nick felt a wave of cold wash through him as he stared down at the woman lying on his couch. He had known Caldwell was getting stronger. Had that demon projected a vision of Emma Birmingham into his mind? Had Caldwell gained so much power that he could do such a thing—and do it without even being in proximity to his victim?
Emma—if that really was her name—tried to push herself to a sitting position but failed. As she fell back against the sofa, her features twisted in pain. Still, she forced her gaze to focus on his, and he knew she was trying to project her sincerity.
“Caldwell didn’t send me,” she insisted. “You have to believe that.”
“Do I?” He knew his voice was cold and harsh, but his thoughts were in turmoil. He should take her straight to the emergency room—and make sure she wouldn’t remember where she’d gotten shot. He could take away her memory and her identification, so nobody would know who she was. But even as he considered that plan, he rejected it.
He couldn’t forget the dream. Suppose he was wrong about Caldwell’s orchestrating it? Suppose Emma had somehow reached out to him on her own? Or, even more likely, because she had been at Caldwell’s enclave and in need of help, and because he himself spent a good deal of time making plans to bring down his old enemy, they had simply found each other. Two people, both isolated, both focused on a common