Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

Wheeler stepped fully into the hall of the interior building, the smell of fresh paint lingering in the air. Along one edge of the hallway, he noticed the smallest amount of white dust between the wall and the carpet tiles. He knew without being told that was drywall dust.

As something of a handyman, he'd seen the aftermath of a remodel and knew he was looking at an area that had been redone in the not-too-distant past. As he noticed the bullet holes dotting the walls in a random spray pattern, he knew the area would need another overhaul.

The bad guys had shit aim and he was thankful for as much.

Taking another deep breath, Wheeler followed the scent of the woman he was holding, going to where she'd last been. That ended up being a large office off to the right side of the hall.

There were numerous bullet holes through the office wall as well from the fight that had occurred in the warehouse portion of the building. How the entire place wasn't being swarmed by the human police was a mystery to him. The gunfire had to have been heard by others.

There were bullet holes in the desk chair that was on its side on the floor.

Had the woman been in it, she'd be dead now.

The thought was sobering as he stared around what he was fast beginning to think was her office. Where she had seemed to have a certain spunk about her, the office lacked any real evidence of as much.

It was too sterile. Too modern for what her personality seemed to be—not that he'd gotten a huge dose of what she was really like or anything. It was more of a gut feeling than anything else.

The office held about as much warmth as a doctor's waiting room. Though the office was styled better.

Part of how Wheeler passed time was by redoing old things and breathing new life into them. His carpentry skills were on point and he fancied himself something of a decorator, though he'd never advertise as much to his friends.

A black sofa that was nothing more than a hard-looking rectangle with metal legs sat against the far wall of the office. It didn't look comfortable, but it would do for now as a place to set the woman. It was a better option than the floor.

He needed to assess her injuries.

He laid her out on the sofa and bumped the metal end table off to the side as he stood tall. With one hand, he reached out fast and caught the lamp, which he suspected was supposed to appear edgy and like a piece of artwork. It looked hideous to him.

A cardboard box sat on the floor to the other side of the table. It was open but not fully unpacked, as if the owner of the office was only just moving in.

As he righted the lamp, he couldn't help but notice a framed picture of the woman he was holding. Her hair was much shorter in the picture than now, done in a pixie cut that showed off her expressive eyes. She was side by side with another woman, this one with very dark, long hair. They were smiling and it was easy to see they were close.

He was half tempted to steal the photo to have something to remember her by at a later date. He didn't. But he wanted to.

Instead, he focused on the woman, bending and smelling for the source of the blood. His supernatural side would sniff it out quickly. Strangely, he found no signs of fresh blood, yet he knew she'd been bleeding freely only moments before.

His gaze went to his forearm. It was coated in her blood, where her head had been.

Worry lanced through him as, with the utmost care, he turned her slightly to get a look at the back of her head. It was then he saw the blood matting her hair. For a second he thought he might actually be sick as he imagined what horrors might lie under her thick hair. He inspected her scalp, only to find there was no sign an injury had ever occurred.

None whatsoever.

Baffled, he continued looking, thinking that he must have missed something. There was simply too much blood not to have.

Still, there was nothing.

"Not your cupcake, butt-munch," she mumbled.

Wheeler eased her onto her back. "Miss?"

She didn't respond.

"Buffy," he whispered softly, knowing it wasn't her name, but it was fitting, seeing as how she was tiny and had in fact staked a vampire.

Him.

She opened one eye and gave him a look that suggested she was torn between answering him and screaming.

He couldn't blame her.

He winked, hoping to ease her fears. "Can you tell me where it hurts, Buffy?"

She tipped her head slightly, opening both eyes. "That's not my name."

"I know," he returned. "It was between that and cupcake. Heard you're not a fan of that one though."

The tiniest of snorts came from her as merriment crinkled the edges of her eyes. "No. Not a fan."

"Can you tell me where you're hurt?" he asked once more. "There is a lot of blood here, but I can't find where it's coming from."

She blinked several times, and then lifted a hand, poking him with her index finger in his forehead. "You're not stone anymore?"

The way she said it made it sound as if she'd had to much to drink. He knew better. He'd been right. She'd injured her head and was disoriented.

"No. I'm not," he replied softly. "Can you tell me where it hurts?"

"Doesn't," she responded in a whisper. "But why is there two of you?"

"Darlin', there is just one of me," he returned, holding up a finger. "How many fingers do I have up?"

"Two, erm, four. No. Wait. I know the answer," she said, her lids fluttering shut a moment. "No one told me there would be a test. I'd have studied."

"Miss?" he asked. The urge to shake her slightly to see if she was okay was great. He resisted, afraid he'd cause her more harm.

He stood quickly and spotted a phone on the desk. Rushing to it, he intended to phone for help, consequences and all. He didn't care if he involved humans in the matter. He wouldn't let her be hurt.

His gaze slid over a set of business cards that were in a small holder near the phone.

The first thing he noticed was the address. It was an art gallery he went by often in downtown Savannah. He'd never been in it before though, which was why he'd not realized where he was to start with. The next thing he noticed was the name on the cards.

Samantha Ledford.

He lifted the receiver, his intent to dial 9-1-1, but he froze when he felt static energy building in the air around him. It was a feeling he was familiar with. A by-product of Fae magik.

His gaze snapped to the open door and he expected to find another enemy combatant there. But there was no one.

The feeling of power increased.

Wheeler dropped the phone receiver and rushed back to the woman's side. He was about to put his body over hers to protect her from the rush of power when he realized she was the source of it.

It slammed into him, feeling much like he'd been standing in the ocean and taken a wave head on. It left as fast as it started.

He sensed something else—she was no longer injured.

When she opened her eyes once more, there didn't seem to be the same level of confusion there. Along with fear.

She sat up fast and slid to the end of the sofa before grabbing a lamp from the side table. She clutched it to her chest. That, combined with the way she was sitting, left her short red dress riding higher up her legs.

Suddenly, it felt as if Wheeler hadn't had a drop to drink in decades.

Was that sand in his mouth?

What was wrong with him?

He'd seen a lot of women's thighs in his life. Honestly, too many to even be able to count. He was what some would label a cad, but never had the sight of thighs turned him inside out like this.

Everything about the small woman seemed to light something in him that he didn't trust. How long had he been without blood? Was that playing a role in his self-control issues?

Worse yet…

Had Mirza's magik done far more to him than he'd thought? Had it shattered his hard-fought-for control?

If so, that would mean he was anything but safe to be around.

"Don't come any closer," she warned, still holding the lamp for dear life. "Or I'll…why are you shirtless? Oh God, why are your pants undone?"

Wheeler followed her gaze, which was locked squarely on his barely covered groin. As he realized what she must be thinking happened while she was out cold, his eyes widened, and his hands shot up. "No! I didn't do that ! I wouldn't! They're like that because I sleep naked and when I ran down to help Clara, I was in the process of getting dressed. Then I got hit with magik and bam, I was stone."

She stared at him for what felt like an eternity before lowering the lamp slightly, her legs still up and showing more of her thighs. "Stone? The statue? Wait, you're the statue?"

"I was the statue," he corrected, his arms still in the air.

"You're Summerbee?" she asked, surprise in her voice.

"Yes. But how do you know that?"

"The men said your name. Did your mother not like you? That's a hell of a mouthful," she said, easing her grip on the lamp more.

The edges of his mouth drew upward. "It's my last name. My first name is Wheeler."

One eyebrow shot up as she grinned partially. "Not seeing an improvement there."

He laughed and glanced down slightly. "Can I button up now?"

Her gaze followed his. She bit at her lower lip and sighed. "If you must."

"Thanks," he said, wanting to laugh more, but he resisted. He tried to button his jeans, only to find the state she kept his dick in didn't make it easy to contain things in his lower region. He turned around, putting his back to her as he blatantly shoved his hand down his pants to adjust himself before zipping up. It took some doing but he managed to get a handle on everything before he turned back around to face her.

The smell of her arousal filled the office, and he groaned, already painfully hard as it was.

"You'd tell me if I was dreaming, right?" she asked. "I mean, a hot guy statue just shows up here in place of what I was expecting. Then bad dudes with guns invade, wanting the statue, which turns out to be a real man. Did I go crazy and miss the other stages?"

"I can see where it would seem that way," said Wheeler. "But no. You're not dreaming, and I don't think you're crazy. But let the record state it was damn crazy to run at me when I told you clearly to run the other way."

She looked puzzled a moment before she gasped. "You! You were in my head!"

He gave a slight nod.

She went back to clutching the lamp tightly. "What are you? Pretty clear you're not human."

"And you are?" he asked with bite to his voice.

He didn't mean to snap at her.

"I don't turn to stone," she said with an upturn of her chin. "And I can't read minds."

"But you are more than human, yes?" he asked, this time making sure to keep his voice even.

She gave a slight nod.

"What are you?" he asked, turning the table on her.

She was quiet for a second before shaking her head. "I don't know. I just know I'm different. Your turn. What are you ? A rock monster? Are those a thing? I saw one in a movie when I was little. I cried when it showed him later after the Nothing came and swept away his friends."

Wheeler wasn't sure what in the hell she was talking about. The next he knew, she was tearing up. "Are you okay?"

"No," she said with a small sob. "I'm thinking about how sad it was when his friends blew away. The NeverEnding Story was so sad in parts."

"Is it too late to change my vote on your mental state?" asked Wheeler.

She hugged the lamp to her. "Cut me some slack, Summerbee. I've had a rough night. First, I had to touch a clipboard after Combover Guy picked his teeth and touched it. Then I stepped on a nail and am probably delirious from tetanus. Then armed guys came in guns blazing. I hit my head on…ohmygod, I think I hit my head on your man parts! They were really hard!"

He couldn't help but blush. Never had he been embarrassed by having hard man parts. "Sorry. In my defense, they were as stoned as I was. They're still stiff."

The minute he said it, he wanted it back.

Her tears stopped and she burst into laughter before moving to her feet slowly, keeping her distance, but putting the lamp back on the table. She wiped under her eyes and then stared at her hands. "Eww, I'm covered in dried blood. Is it mine? Is it yours? Tell me it's not the bad guys'."

"Samantha," he said softly.

She stilled. "I go by Sammy and…h-how do you know my name? Are you reading my mind again?"

He motioned to her business cards. "I read them, not your mind. I'm not sure my vampire powers would work on you. You seem kind of strong-willed."

Her expression fell. "V-vampire?"

Wheeler flinched. He hadn't meant to break the news at all to her, let alone like that. "Technically."

She lifted her arms somewhat, focusing on all the dried blood. "I'm covered in what you eat. Holy crap, I'm marinating!"

Wheeler's inner alarms sounded and the predator side of him kicked into high gear as he sensed the same thing he had when he'd been locked in the darkness—another of his kind. It was close and getting ready to strike.

Strangely, it felt as though it were directly behind him, but as he turned partially, there was nothing but the wall there. Light shined through the bullet holes from the side of the wall that the warehouse was on. It wasn't strong…but it was enough for Wheeler to notice something was eclipsing the light in a section.

From the mass, it was something big.

A person.

Someone like him, and they intended to harm him.

No , he thought. Not me. Her!

Hissing, he put his arms out to his sides and let his nails lengthen. He prepared to charge through the wall if need be to keep the woman safe.

"What in the bat-tastic-creep-show?" she asked, and he twisted partially back to see the horror in her face.

It hit him then that he looked like the danger to her, not the thing on the other side of the thin wall. He opened his mouth to tell her as much but closed it as the air around him thickened once again, buzzing with static.

"Samantha, I won't hurt you. I'm not the threat. There is someone else on the—"

Blue electricity sparked from her at him.

One second Wheeler was upright and the next he was flat on his back, opening his eyes, wondering what had hit him. He was confident that it was a bus. That was the only explanation for how much it had leveled him.

With a groan, he rolled to his side.

Everything on him hurt.

Whatever she'd hit him with had been a doozy.

He turned his head just in time to see her rushing from the room—in the very direction the threat was in. Why in the bloody hell would the woman run that way?

"Sammy, no!" he shouted, or tried to. The words didn't quite come out as forcefully as he planned.

He also rocked in place and fell onto his side twice more before being able to actually push to his feet.

Son of a bitch, she had totally hit him with a bus. Plain and simple.

And now she was running headfirst at the bad guys.