A Touch of Crimson

But he hadn’t turned away for a moment. He’d turned away from her forever. His voice in her dreams had been devoid of the aching tenderness she had become accustomed to feeling in it.

A half-crazed, half-sobbing laugh escaped her.

Pushing to her feet, Lindsay straightened and knew she had to get her head on straight. She had to return to Raleigh, and she expected to stay there for a while. She needed to get her bearings, figure out where she was going from here. She needed to regroup, then plan for how to hunt down Vash. The desire for vengeance was so pervasive she could barely think beyond it. That was a blessing in a way. Revenge gave her something to focus on beside her debilitating grief.

She showered and dressed. When she made the bed, she found her shredded panties. Whether she’d ripped them off herself in the throes of her erotic dream or Adrian had actually been with her and done it, the end result was the same—it was over between them.

“Be careful what you wish for,” she muttered, wondering why she didn’t just learn to stop wishing for things at all.

She stepped out onto the wraparound deck, noting from the position of the sun in the sky that it was late morning. There were no angels flying; no clouds, either. It was a beautiful day, the kind Southern Californians enjoyed most of the year.

Lost in her misery, Lindsay took a set of stairs leading down the side of the hill to a smaller deck a few hundred yards below. From there, the city view was lost, leaving one with the impression that they were alone in the far reaches of the native SoCal landscape.

She set her elbows on the railing and began searching the contacts list on her cell phone. There were so many calls and arrangements to make. She made herself go through the motions, despite feeling so hollow and cold inside. Dead.

A massive winged shadow swept over her.

An angel’s shadow, followed by the rustling of feathers as the Sentinel landed behind her. Feeling a desperate, futile hope that it might be Adrian and not wanting to let go of it, she hesitated a second before turning to face her companion.

A hand touched her shoulder.

“Good morn—” she began.

She fell into unconsciousness before she finished the greeting.

Adrian rolled into Raceport on a Harley he’d purchased just an hour before. It was early afternoon. Most of the minions were ensconced in the darkness somewhere, sleeping. Unfortunately, Raceport had one of the highest concentrations of Fallen in the country. After all this time, they still hovered around Syre like moths to a flame, even though they’d all already been burned and disfigured.

If he had a contingent of Sentinels with him or a pack of lycans, he’d be in a much better position. But even with the need for success being paramount, Adrian refused to involve anyone in his personal vendetta. This was his battle. The consequences for what he was about to do would fall on his shoulders alone.

He backed his bike into a spot directly in front of the general store. Syre’s office was above it, as Adrian knew from vigilant and constant surveillance of the area—just as Angels’ Point was watched. It was all part of the careful dance between them, the need to maintain a balance even as everything shifted and moved around them.

Dismounting, he withdrew a shotgun from its holster on the bike. He wore a pistol and a dagger strapped to each thigh, and his spine tingled with the need to employ his most powerful weapons. The rage of angels pumped hot and hard through his veins.

Before he reached the bottom step of the exterior staircase leading up to the Fallen leader’s office, Adrian knew something was off. Raceport was crowded as always, due to its reputation for being a mecca for motorcycle enthusiasts from all over the country, but very few people glanced twice at him. Even when a group of chaps-wearing women across the street catcalled and whistled to him, it didn’t divert much attention his way. If Syre had been nearby, security would be as tight as what Adrian employed at Angels’ Point.

Grim faced and determined, he climbed the stairs without incident and stepped into the hallway at the top.

Two shadowy figures rushed toward him. He took them down with bullets, unable to utilize his wings in such a small space. Two more came up behind him just before he reached Syre’s office. He threw open the door and darted in, hearing a scream from one of his pursuers as sunlight flooded the hallway behind him.

Kicking the door shut, Adrian shoved a chair beneath the knob, all without taking his eyes or his pistol barrel off the vampress seated at Syre’s desk.

“Hello, Adrian,” she muttered, her lips curved in a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Sunlight fell over her pale bare arms and chocolate-colored hair. Her amber eyes glittered like tiger’s-eye, but he remembered when they’d been blue like his own.

“Raven.”

“He’s not here.”

“I can see that.”

“He’s not even in Virginia.”

He moved to the closet door, opened it, and shot a cursory glance inside.

“It’s just you and me,” she assured. “And I have orders not to kill you.”

“Ah. So we’re playing by the same rules.”

She stood in a singularly graceful movement, revealing an ultrashort denim skirt that she wouldn’t be able to bend over in without exposing herself. Her top was gingham and tied in a knot between her full breasts, giving her a country-girl appearance he was sure went over well with the men visiting the area.

Rounding the desk, she trailed the fingertips of her right hand down her left arm and looked up at him beneath long, thick lashes. “You look good, Adrian. Real good. Having sex suits you.”

He smiled, used to this game. The Fallen liked to taunt Sentinels with their sexuality. It was as if they wanted to flaunt the reason for their fall, as well as goad beings known for their abstinence. “Where is he?”

“What’s the rush?” She sidled closer, licking her lower lip.

He whipped out his wing, forcing her to spin away to avoid getting sliced. She ended up sprawled facedown atop the desk. He had her hands pinned behind her back before she could retaliate.

Bending over her, he hissed in her ear, “Where is he?”

“You don’t have to manhandle me,” she shot back, struggling. “He wants me to tell you.”

Adrian knew why. His stomach knotted. “He’s on his way to California.”

“Actually,” she purred malevolently, grinning, “he’s already there.”

Syre turned away from the bed upon which his daughter slept and exited out into the living room of the two-room hotel suite he’d reserved in Irvine. Torque sat on the couch with his elbows on his knees and his fingers steepled together beneath his chin. Vash paced restlessly.

“She’s brainwashed,” she hissed. “I don’t know how long Adrian has had her, but he’s trained her well. She tried to kill me!”

Torque met his gaze and shrugged. “I didn’t see her in action, but I patched up Vash’s wounds. Shadoe did a number on her.”

Vash’s long hair swayed around her hips with her agitated movements. “I don’t think you have time to talk it out with her. It’ll take years to deprogram her, and the lycan who was with her is the one who snatched Nikki.”

Torque growled.

Syre ran a hand through his hair. His phone had beeped with a text message an hour before, telling him Adrian had made an appearance in Raceport. By now the Sentinel leader knew Lindsay Gibson was out of his safekeeping and a search would have been mounted. They didn’t have long before it would be impossible to leave the state without Adrian knowing about it. If Syre hadn’t Changed Shadoe by then, nothing would save them.

“You might have to turn her first,” Torque said, “then explain later. Once she’s back to being Shadoe, she won’t have reason to hate us anymore. She’ll remember what we are to her.”

Syre moved to the adjoining door and waved them out. “Go. Both of you. Leave me alone with her.”

“That’s not wise,” Vash said. “She might try to kill you.”

“Without the lycan here to tell her what I am, how will she know?”

“You’re assuming she can’t tell. But I saw her run—watched her leap over a damn eight-foot-high wall. She’s not entirely mortal, whatever the hell she smells like.”

She smelled like Adrian, which turned Syre’s stomach. He was ready for her to know why she’d suffered all these years. He was ready for her to remember just how much Adrian’s desire had cost her.

“Then Shadoe is close to the surface in Lindsay Gibson,” he said. “And I’m safer than you give her credit for. Now go. Help Torque track the lycan. Let’s try to tie up all the loose ends we can while we’re here.”

They shuffled out the door into the connecting room, with Vash sending him a scowl over her shoulder. He turned the lock behind them, smiling. Vash hated to be bested in anything. That she’d been bested by a student of hers was chafing her mightily. If Lindsay Gibson hadn’t been the vessel carrying his daughter, she’d be dead now.

He heard the soft creak of the mattress in the bedroom and turned to face the door leading into it, his heart thudding violently in his chest. He’d never been this close to having her back. Adrian had always kept her close, waiting for Syre to break down and come for her. The Sentinel had no idea how many attempts Syre had made over the years. Adrian was too precise, too methodical—a machine. It was next to impossible to break his code. But something was different this time. Something had prompted him to act rashly, to allow her out into the open, to leave her alone . . . It had to be Lindsay Gibson herself and how close Shadoe was to the surface in her. Maybe that’s what Adrian had been waiting for all this time.

She appeared in the doorway, her gaze as sharp as a hawk’s. A predator’s gaze. The gaze of a huntress. It lit on him first, then swept around the relatively small space. “What are you?”

“How precise do you want me to be?”

He saw the shadow of confusion sweep across her features. She looked nothing like him, nothing like her mother or brother, whose Asian heritage was evident in their skin tone and sloe eyes. But something in her recognized him, and that perplexed her.

“Very,” she said.

“I’m Syre. A vampire”—his mouth curved gently, with genuine affection—“and your father.”

Lindsay stared at the seriously hot man standing a few feet away from her . . .

. . . and broke into crazed laughter that bubbled up from the stew of emotions inside her. She laughed until tears came to her eyes and coursed down her cheeks. She laughed until her chest was racked with harsh, hiccoughing sobs.

Syre, who actually managed to look alarmed, took a tentative step toward her. She lifted up her hand to hold him off.

He stopped. The leader of the vampires, who’d somehow kidnapped her from Angels’ Point, stopped at her uplifted hand.

He deferred to her. And she knew him.

It was a quiet surety inside her. She knew the fallen angel who stood across the room from her, looking far too young to be her father. He was gorgeous. Tall and elegant, like a Sentinel, but much darker. Definitely dangerous. Not just in his looks, although those were dark and dangerous, too. His black hair and caramel-hued skin were paired with eyes the color of toffee, making him stunning in a wholly exotic way.

God, the thought of him squaring off against Adrian was insane to her. They were too evenly matched.

“Where are we?” she asked, recognizing the brand of the hotel by its signature layout but unsure of where the property was located.

“Irvine.”

“Why?”

He gestured for her to have a seat. As she did with Adrian, she felt an inexplicable pull to the suave vampire leader. She didn’t trust it—didn’t trust him. Vampires lured victims with seduction and a lulling sense of false security.

Lindsay moved to the wet bar instead and pulled the corkscrew out of the drawer. As far as weapons went, it was laughable. But beggars couldn’t be choosy.

“There’s no need to defend yourself against me, tzel,” he murmured, taking a seat at the small dining table as if he had no concerns in the world.

“Don’t call me that,” she snapped, hating to hear Adrian’s term of endearment for her on another man’s lips.

“Why not? It’s your name.”

Swallowing hard, she fought another wave of dizziness and intense déjà vu, so familiar now after the last few weeks but no less disconcerting. “My name is Lindsay Gibson. My father’s name is—was—Eddie Gibson.”

“Those things are true . . . in regard to your mortal body.” His amber eyes watched her with undeniable intensity. “But you carry the soul of my daughter Shadoe inside you.”

Lindsay felt the blood drain from her face.

“Did you think it was just a pet name Adrian had for you?” Syre’s slightly raspy voice was mesmerizing. “An endearment perhaps?”

His direct hit struck her hard.

“Ah, I see that you did.” His smile was smugly knowing. “I bet he took one look at you and there was no getting away from him. He focused on you with an all-consuming intensity, didn’t he? He pursued you swiftly and with a determination you couldn’t deny. He treated you like the most precious thing in the world. And when a seraph like Adrian puts his mind to something, he never fails.”

Leaning heavily into the countertop, she set one hand over her roiling stomach and tried to regulate her breathing.

“You’re a beautiful woman, Lindsay. I’m sure he was sincerely attracted to the packaging. But the woman he covets is inside you—my daughter—and he’s been keeping us apart since the dawn of time.”

“That’s not possible,” she whispered through dry lips. “I’m not possessed by someone else’s spirit.”

His chin lifted. “So how do you explain your speed? How do you explain the first question you asked when you walked into this room—‘What are you?’ not ‘Who are you.’ You felt the power in me with senses beyond the few afforded to your mortal body.”