Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

" S hit." Ruth eased her to the ground. " Help ," she shouted, waving her arms to draw Medusa's attention.

As the woman swiftly turned the windsurfer toward the shore, Ruth knelt over Clara. Her body was doing a jittering dance like an epileptic. Ruth stripped off her belt to put between her teeth, but before she could do it, Clara went harrowingly still, eyes fixed vacantly on the sky. Her hands flopped to her sides, but they weren't relaxed. She was a soldier at attention, her body plank straight. The tightness to her mouth, her pale, tense face, said wherever she was, she didn't want to be there.

A spurt of relief replaced terror as Ruth put her hand on the girl's throat and felt the blood pulsing strongly.

Marcellus dropped out of the sky, landing on the other side of Clara's inert body. The ground vibrated from his impact, his arrival so swift the air disturbance from his wings blew against Ruth's hair and clothing.

"It just happened," Ruth told him. "Is this usually how it works?"

He nodded, kneeling beside his fortune teller. He brushed his fingertips over Clara's brow, lingered there. "When the veins start throbbing with the headache, it means the vision is almost at an end. It is the usual process."

Not one he liked, from the set of his jaw.

"So we just wait it out?"

"Yes. It's best not to move her when it's happening, because movement increases her agitation. It can be done, however, if she's in danger." His lips pressed together. "She was supposed to advise you of the risk of this, so you would be prepared."

"I expect she wanted to get to know me first. People dealing with something like this don't like to be defined by it." No matter how much it did. "Can I put my coat over her? She looks cold."

Marcellus's gaze slid to her, held a beat, then went back to Clara. "Yes. That would be kind."

Ruth laid the camel-colored fleece duster over the girl. "Does she give you any information during it?"

"Rarely. She remembers afterward, and gives us what the vision provides then. Despite the headache, she must do that immediately, or she can lose important details."

From his tense expression, Ruth suspected he had to watch her offer that information while she fought the pain. "Headache" was probably an understatement. What had Clara said? Like my head is going to explode.

Medusa had approached, but at a gesture from Marcellus, she retreated with a respectful bow. Ruth logged the information. Thanks to that tattoo or whatever other link they had, if Marcellus was on site, he could be at Clara's side within seconds of her distress. If he was elsewhere, that was when Ruth would call for reinforcements.

When a new employee was hired for the preserve, he or she had to work through a learning curve. It was the same for her responsibilities here, no matter how unusual.

"What can I do for her while she's like this?" She kept her voice low. She didn't know if it was necessary, but she didn't want to cause any distractions from what Clara was seeing or hearing, such that she had to stay in this state one second longer than necessary.

"Watch over her until it's done." He adjusted the coat to lift the hem of Clara's shirt and reveal a sheath hooked at her waistband. Marcellus tapped on the contents, a sleek black cylinder made of hard rubber. "This is to put between her teeth, if needed. Most times, though, she goes right into the vision state. The seizure symptoms disappear swiftly."

"It was like that this time."

After readjusting the shirt and coat, he put a hand on his bent knee, since he knelt on the other. The dark green wings spread out to either side of him, the feathers vibrating with the tension she saw in his curled fingers. Evidence of how much effort it took him not to touch Clara right now.

"So you can't go ahead and put your hands on her head to help reduce the impact of the headache on the front end? She said your touch makes it a lot better."

His mouth softened. "Unfortunately, no. We have tried it before. Touching her too early made the visions…worse."

She changed the subject. "How often does this happen?"

"Too much, of late. We do not yet have enough pieces on the current subject of her visions, not enough to put together a picture and address it. Their frequency will increase until we do."

The veins in Clara's temples were starting to noticeably pulse, and she shifted, a moan escaping her rigid lips. Her eyes remained vacant, far away, but the veins and moan were apparently the cues which allowed Marcellus to lay a hand on her forehead. As he did, Ruth saw those symbols and praises to the Goddess reappear over the curve of his biceps, a metallic gleam against tanned skin.

Ruth had thought it would be difficult to tell what he was thinking, with his eyes wholly dark. But the lines around his eyes and mouth spoke eloquently as his large hand rested on her pale brow, fingers framing her delicate temple and cheek. "I will return her to our quarters. Come there in a half hour. Clara will want to see you."

"All right. Take the coat with you to keep her comfortable. I'll get it then." Ruth had more questions, but she held them as Marcellus lifted Clara into his arms. He cradled her as if nothing in the universe could ever be as precious to him.

"Ruth?"

"Yes, my lord?"

"You are handling yourself well. But there is one very important rule you need to never break."

His dark gaze came to her and locked. That, and the tone of his voice, the flicker in his eyes, held her very, very still.

"If you wish to kiss her in the manner you did, you require permission. My permission. Do you understand?"

"I do. Sir. My lord." She cleared her throat. "My apologies."

"No apologies are needed. But if you do it again, far greater amends will be demanded." Without waiting for a response, the angel rose into the air, a gentle take-off that didn't jostle Clara.

Ruth watched the wings, the flex of Marcellus's shoulders, and drew in an unsteady breath as he disappeared over the hill. That quake in her lower belly was one of her favorite feelings, even if she had to hide it when it was caused by someone, instead of being manufactured by her own fantasies.

Concealing the reaction when she hadn't been expecting to be hit with such a powerful dose of it was difficult, but any evidence of it would pass under the not-untruthful guise of respect for a being powerful enough to obliterate all memory of her existence. And no one else was around to notice anyway.

Or so she thought.

"You respond to him."

Lack of situational awareness was an automatic fail for Bodyguard 101. She needed to do better.

Her irritation over that, her concern for Clara, and those worrisome lingering tingles, didn't put her in the best state. But she wasn't backing down from a challenge.

She turned to face Merc.

He leaned against one of the trees on the border of the forest. It was a deceptively casual pose, one wing folded forward, feathers brushing the shoulder and upper arm it was draped over. The other was tucked behind him to clear the tree trunk. He had his arms crossed over his chest, and had changed into a T-shirt. Same sinfully well-fitted jeans.

This shirt had artwork, a demon perched on a church. Intense dark eyes, forked tongue, horns, and a barbed tail wrapped around the steeple. A stone angel, sculpted on the roof edge, stared up at him in frozen horror. Had he bought it to annoy Marcellus?

"You didn't deny it," he said.

She forced herself to remain indifferent as he moved toward her. A lazy predator, ready to engage a burst of speed and take down his kill. She raised a brow.

"You didn't ask a question. But any female would respond to him. It's the tattoos," she offered blandly.

Ink appeared along Merc's arms, intricate art that picked up the theme of the shirt, showing a wrestling match between angels and demons. Then it was gone, his skin unmarked again. A deft piece of magic.

"No," he said. "It wasn't a physical trait that made you go still, made your knees weaken, ready to drop you to the ground if he bade you do so."

Several more steps. He didn't choose a straight line, instead moving to the right to gaze at the lake, where Medusa was again practicing with the mermaids.

"Mermaids and sirens are often confused as being the same, because they look the same," he noted. "The way most vampires are assumed to be the same, because they look and act the same. You try to act the same, but you fail at it."

"I'm done sparring for the day," she said. "I'm going to check on Clara."

"He said a half hour."

"I was being polite. My mistake. I don't want to be around you."

She pivoted and stopped as he landed in front of her, still in bare feet. "Do you ever wear shoes?"

"Yes. I didn't say you could go."

"I don't recall needing your permission."

"But you need his?"

"He's an angel, and projects that in a way hard to ignore." Her eyes narrowed. "The women here avoid being alone with you. Why is that, Merc? Would you hurt them?"

"Yes. Quite possibly." He blinked at her, like a hawk being asked if it would raid a bird nest and eat the fledglings.

Something was off about it. She wasn't buying the simple acceptance of his monster side, though she had no reason to doubt it. Nothing but her gut. Which could be her sexual response to him, fucking with her head.

Knowing she was playing with fire, she nevertheless took one measured step toward him. She noted the flaring of his nostrils, the kindling of his gaze. "How can you hurt them?"

"You are not afraid of me," he observed, instead of answering. "I want you to be."

"You're shit out of luck there. I refuse to fear anything. You're not answering the question."

"I don't answer to you. Would you like to fly?"

"You already took me off my feet at the preserve. You do it again, I'll stab you wherever I can reach. Won't really care about where. Only that it will hurt a lot."

"We were fighting then. Taking you in the air was an advantage. Would you like to fly? For fun?"

The word sounded odd on his lips. Like he wasn't entirely sure what it meant, but he would give it a go, see what it was like if she was game to try.

She'd wanted to know more about him. Was this his attempt to try to do the same with her? Nothing about him was aboveboard. Any assumptions would be a mistake.

"Which of the cats got you?" she nodded to his shoulder.

"The lion that was with you. He stalked me when I was…distracted by our encounter. I caused him no harm."

"I know. Why haven't they healed?" Everything she'd done to him at the fight already had.

"I wanted to keep them longer. A reminder."

He closed that last step. Her body tightened up at his proximity, all that maleness, his scent, his power, the threat of him. He put his mouth to the round part of her shoulder, the same place the scratches were on his. When his fangs scraped her skin, a passing tease, it made her shiver.

"Turn around, put your arms behind you and grip my belt with both hands. Never fear, little vampire. I'll have you back in time to meet with Marcellus. Wouldn't want you to be in trouble with him. You'd enjoy that too much."

The acid edge warned her, but if she showed fear or avoidance of him, it would only cause her more trouble with him down the road. Best to get this over with up front.

That was what she was telling herself.

"Shove the ‘little vampire' shit up your condescending ass." Turning, she reached back, fingers finding his belt and the waistband of the jeans under his untucked shirt. She pushed behind them to grip, her knuckles against the bare, firm skin inside his hip bones. The man didn't wear underwear. At least not right now. Her thumbs brushed the buckle and tooth. "Don't mess with me on that. Promise me you'll get me on the ground in time to meet with Marcellus."

"I don't make promises to anyone."

"It does break the card-carrying dickhead code, doesn't it?"

A chuckle, that mean note to it, and one arm slid around her waist, the other over her chest, just above her breasts. His hand gripped her opposite shoulder.

She sensed him looking down at her, seeing the way her body fit against his, how her arms being behind her arched her back and pressed the tops of her breasts more firmly against his forearm. He moved the hand on her shoulder to her throat, curving his fingers around it. Her pulse hammered against his palm as her breath slowed, shortened. Stopped.

He was squeezing, yes, but that wasn't the only reason she reacted that way. She held still, holding everything in, though it was all there, crowding against the gate, so damn eager to come forward, to offer, to give. To serve.

To be with a male who deserved her submission.

He hadn't come close to proving he had those qualifications, but fuck, he knew all the buttons to push. But so did every vampire male she'd ever encountered. Though they didn't know she was a submissive, vampire dominance games weren't limited to human servants. Their whole world was built on a power hierarchy.

"Are we doing this or not?" She was behind that black diamond wall, the question fired at him in a flat tone. He might be able to detect her arousal, but he didn't command her responses.

"Say please."

His lips were near her ear, and her eyes half closed when he spoke. He slid his thumb along her carotid, his breath a touch of heat on her cheek. "Ask me to take you flying. I would hear you ask me for something."

She'd had a tart response for the ‘say please,' but there was a note to the rest that pulled from a deeper level. His grip on her throat loosened, fingertips exploring the sensitive skin along her jaw. She moistened her lips. She almost dipped her head toward his touch, asking for more. She didn't do that, but allowed herself to indulge the other desire. To obey his demand to hear her ask.

"I'd like to fly. Will you take me?"

He moved his hand back to her shoulder. "I will."

He took off, stealing her breath at how fast they ascended. She felt no strain from holding on. The strength of his arms carried her, and once he was high enough, he rolled back at an angle where she reclined against him, staring at the sky and the horizon.

His wings were strong and sure, his chest muscles flexing in small movements beneath her, the adjustments he was making to hold them there. His feathers fluttered against her forearms. She wanted to let go of his belt, reach out and stroke them, turn around and face him. Wrap her legs around his body. See how he would respond to her disobedience. She wanted to fight, needed to fight him.

But she was flying. She'd always wanted to fly. On the island, she ran up trees, leaped over things. But that was different. She envied the birds their wings, the freedom it gave them to just fly away.

She shared that with him.

"It's a lie. There's always someone fast enough to catch up."

His tone was curiously flat. He turned them and dove. She sucked in a breath as he swept down toward the trees. He banked so close above the canopies, the leaves brushed her knees. When he shot back up, she laughed in delight. Her mind cut loose, soaring like her body.

It reminded her of a story her mother had told her, when Mal had taught Elisa how to ride a bicycle. Elisa's eyes had sparkled as she put her arms out to her sides. "It was like I was flying."

The freedom. The weightlessness. A different way of traveling through the world. A different sensation, especially when provided by a male who'd captured her interest.

Merc rotated them back to that diagonal angle where she rested against his body, then stroked her throat, making her lift her chin. She propped her head on his shoulder. His hand slid down her stomach, deft fingers unhooking her belt then slipping the button of her jeans before they moved beneath.

Arousal surged, combining with the exhilaration of flight.

He explored the folds of her swelling sex, light strokes over her clit, firmer circles on the labia, finding the moisture between them and spreading it over her tissues, making her slicker.

She felt that sexual miasma he could use, a weapon with an irresistible promise.

"Don't," she whispered. "Don't use it. Let me feel it the way you want me to feel it."

He stilled, so abruptly they lost altitude. When his muscles and wings flexed, bringing them back up, she knew she'd stepped over a dangerous line with him, though she didn't know what had caused it. He ignored her request, that energy winding itself around her, tightening. She bucked, moaned as he stroked her with such devastating gentleness, even as the arousal yanked her in the direction he demanded she go.

Violence was more terrifying when it was iced with gentleness.

Her loose hair mixed with his feathers, black on black, with glimpses of the lightning bolt white. She clutched his belt, so aware of the heated muscle of his abdomen against her knuckles, but the rest of her was limp under his incubus compulsion. Her head was too heavy to lift. All of her wanted to just give herself over to him. Let the power of the desire he was drawing from her take over.

"Submit to me," he said. "Let me have you."

No. Not like this. But she couldn't get the rest of her to comply.

"You responded to the Master in Marcellus," he rumbled in her ear. "You are a submission slut. You don't care who the Master is. Just that he is willing to hold your leash."

Nothing like a male acting like a bastard to shock her will with a Taser.

She fought to the top of that tidal wave of pure lust and rode it, rotating her hips against him. "Sounds like that pisses you off," she rasped through taut lips. "Why would you care? I'm just a meal. Sex demon."

His hand closed on her throat again, and she shifted with him. It covered her movement, her hand leaving his belt to reach the knife holstered at her hip, hooked to the loosened waistband of her jeans. Before his grip started to constrict, she'd drawn the blade and brought it down, stabbing him in the thigh.

He ripped the knife from her grasp and tossed it away. Damn it, she loved that knife. But she had bigger problems. Merc let her go, shoving her out into the open air.

Fucking hell. This time, they were much higher off the ground. As her body hurtled downward, she knew this was going to hurt like hell. She only had a few seconds to orient herself in the way that would break the least bones. They'd heal up, but it would take time, and she sure as hell wouldn't be in any shape to meet Marcellus when he'd told her to.

Goddamn asshole. Now he was a liar, too. Or maybe not. She wouldn't put it past him to deposit her broken and bloody body on Marcellus's doorstep, just to say he'd honored his promise.

The ground rushed up at her, and she tucked, hoping she could roll and remove some impact from her more vulnerable skull and spine.

Merc caught her inches from the ground, hard hands scooping her under the arms. Her body jerked, full body whiplash. When the weight hit her still sore shoulder, she couldn't bite back the cry of pain. She didn't care. That was just physical crap.

She squirmed, fought, tried to unhook herself from his hold. When he refused to let go, she swung herself out and tried to bring her legs over, planning a double-soled smash to his smug face. Or to crush his head between her knees. He shook her like a rag doll until she stopped trying to fight. Even after that, he held her long enough to prove she couldn't get loose without his say-so. Then he dropped her again.

This time she was only a couple feet off the ground. She whirled toward him, her second knife in hand. He knocked that away, too, and had her against him. Her top knot had come unpinned during their fight, so he seized a handful of her loosened hair. His expression was one of cold menace, the black blood eyes giving off heat like molten coal. The silver was in full-on heat lightning mode.

"Is that what pissed you off enough to be mean to me?" she spat, not caring to give him time to say anything. "Can't arouse a woman without using your magic? You're just a vibrator. You need to be plugged into your power to work."

Merc's lips curled away from his fangs. She knew— she knew —she was about to die. Clara had warned her to be cautious. So had Charlie.

She didn't care. He'd messed with her trust. She'd happily die rather than let someone think it was okay to treat her that way.

He held her gaze. Her eyes were watering, and she refused to blink. "You don't look down when I look at you," he said. "But you want to."

"I want to, yes. For the right Master. You aren't him. You aren't even close. You're not even trying to be."

He may have guessed it, but she'd just said aloud what she never had. But he didn't know that. She calmed the cold ball of apprehension. If he repeated it to anyone, it would be interpreted as an empty taunt. Not the actual truth. She had bigger problems. Like being dead, right here and now.

His mouth tightened, the fangs disappearing. So did he, taking flight so abruptly she stumbled backwards. Then she yelped and jumped back further. The knife he'd tossed out into the open air, way above the earth, landed before her, point embedded in the ground.

By the time she retrieved it and the other one he'd knocked away from her, he was hovering above her again. When she stared at him, a knife held at the ready in either fist, she felt it again. The strong desire to lower her gaze, be on her knees to him. The asshole.

It was the sex demon thing. Not the man behind it. Or was it? She might be being na?ve about his ability, but her gut told her the compulsion magic couldn't have this kind of hold on her. Nothing about him, or her reaction to him, made sense.

She knew how to handle that. She held her position and waited for his next move.

His expression shuttered and he gave her a short nod. Almost courteous, if she hadn't sensed the inferno of want and need raging between them. He left her company, winging away across the mellow sunlit sky.

After she watched him go, she realized she was where he'd first picked her up. Medusa was onshore again, standing by the windsurfer as if she'd pulled in to be available if Ruth needed backup. As Ruth lifted a hand in thanks, Medusa's expression adopted the bemusement of someone who wasn't sure what exactly they'd witnessed, but it wasn't what they'd expected.

Though Medusa acknowledged the wave and returned to the water, Ruth knew Yvette would be informed of the interaction. Normal sexual wranglings between staff probably weren't considered worthy of anything more than gossip, but Ruth was a new variable, and Merc was obviously kept under close watch.

Ruth cleaned the dirt off her knives and returned both to their hiding places. She refastened her jeans and belt, and straightened her clothes. Then she headed for the camp. Maybe by the time she reached it, her nerves would be calmer and her sweaty palms would be dry.

Getting Merc out of her head was going to be a lot harder. She needed more information.