Chapter 1
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I’ve re-read the same page in my book countless times, but my mind refuses to grasp the words.
It’s that damn music again—shattering the tenuous peace of my self-inflicted solitude, destroying the fragile pretense that I’m calm, in control.
He’s out there, on the other side of my property line, where my barrier-wards keep out all but the few humans I’ve allowed onto my ranch. And he’s been out there, every night for the last four weeks, playing the tune I taught him almost three hundred years ago.
The song is both a warrior’s call-to-arms and a lament for all who’ve been lost, and its haunting melody carries easily to me, stirring my blood even as it shreds my heart. That is the power of Fae music, especially for those who’ve fought in our people’s unending wars.
He draws the song to a close and, pausing for a quick breath, his pipe begins sweetly again, calling to me across dark fields, lilting through the woods surrounding my haven. My wards might keep Nick out, but they can do nothing about his music.
I know why he is there, why he is torturing me like this. He’s convinced he’s in love with me and he’s been trying to convince me of this, too, for at least half of the last century. I wish like hell I knew how I feel about him. It’d be great if being immortal comes with some special kind of insight into emotions. But no. If anything, we’re just as screwed up as humans. Maybe even more since we have eternity to make a real hash of things.
Nick’s song continues to call to me, the Fae music twining through my thoughts and plucking fitfully at the few memories I retain—terrifying, bloody pictures that make me think my patchy amnesia is a blessing.
The pipe’s notes insinuate themselves deeper still, unleashing an onslaught of violent, pain-filled images and a soundtrack straight from hell. Pressing my fists hard against my temples, I squeeze my eyes shut, but the fragmented memories come anyway—battlefields strewn with mangled corpses, the stench of blood and death filling the air, the pleading voices and agonized moans of those beyond help, and always the anticipatory calls of the carrion birds, the hideous buzzing of flies.
The fitful flashes of memory strobe relentlessly through my head in no discernible order and with nothing concrete for me to grasp, no way for me to make sense of the horror. Rage and anguish explode through my being, wringing the air from my lungs and loosening my tenuous self-control. The ground vibrates and a lamp crashes to the floor, but it’s the panicked whinnies of the horses that snap me out of it.
I call “it” my Locked Door. Human psychologists call it Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Whatever the name, I have to acknowledge that I’ve got some supernatural version of the condition.
I just don’t know what the hell to do about it.
Gasping for breath, struggling to calm my thoughts, I shove the nightmare glimpses of my past behind the Door. A few moments pass and the night is quiet again. My little slip shook Nick, too. Maybe he realizes he’s pushed too much, pushed too fast. Maybe he…
The song begins again, this time a little closer. He’s daring bodily harm if he comes too near to my wards. Nothing permanent, of course, since he’s vampire. But he’d be at least inconvenienced if his clothes explode into flames.
The pipe’s lilting notes call relentlessly.
My knuckles dig into my temples as the ghastly images return. The ground trembles again and, again, I regain control. Without humor, I laugh and imagine the Fundy newspaper’s banner headlines tomorrow: 8.7 Earthquake Hits Texas, Seismologists Stumped.
I let my hands drop and walk to the big bay window that takes up a portion of my kitchen. I can’t see him through the thick trees, but know exactly where Nick is standing, and I stare through the screening trunks on a straight line.
Resolutely, I turn and go to the back door. It seems the only way to get him to shut up is to walk out there and talk to him.
After I crush his damned pipe.
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* * * *
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Approaching the fence line, I feel his awareness of me—the strength of his intellect and his will are palpable, and not at all unpleasant. More like a gentle caress from a lover’s hand.
I shy away from such thoughts. I’m supposed to be mad as hell. I need to be mad as hell.
He continues to play, damn him. Out of sheer cussedness, I leave the wards in place and stop next to the fence that marks the edge of my ranch. Nick lets the last note fade into the night. I eye the silver instrument with intense hatred and hold a hand out, demanding he turn it over. But he just smiles and shakes his head, putting the pipe in an inside jacket pocket.
His gaze never leaves mine and I think of what he sees when he looks at me—long, white-blonde hair and pale skin; almond-shaped, tri-colored eyes; pointy ears. I’m aware that humans find us beautiful, but I take no pleasure from it.
If all Fae are beautiful, then none of us are.
Nick, however, is a sight to behold. Not just because of his square jawline, expressive eyebrows, sparkling blue eyes, and lips that my gaze is indecently drawn to. And not just because his slim, athletic build and broad shoulders look awesome in the faded jeans, black sweater, and leather jacket he’s wearing.
It’s because he’s uniquely himself.
Since Nick was once human, he bears the tiny imperfections that equate to real beauty. Like the way his sky-blue eyes crinkle up when he laughs and the dimples that make his grin so endearing. He is singularly Nick—not a slight variation on everybody else, like freaking Stepford Elves.
Of course, now that I appear to be the only Light Fae left in the mortal world, I guess I’m the very definition of unique. In the last fifty-something years, not a trace has been found of the other Warders.
“Hello, Amalie.” Nick’s voice is gentle. “You came.”
I want to be sarcastic. I want to be scathing. But it’s impossible to hurt him, so I merely nod.
“Thank you,” he says. “I know this is difficult. I’m sorry for that.”
I nod again, swallowing hard past the sudden lump in my throat.
His eyes darken with pain and he looks away. The full moon bathes the handsome planes of his face in a soft glow, lighting the chestnut strands of his thick, wavy hair. He will remain the same for eternity—beautiful and young. Only the style of his clothes ever changes.
His face in profile, Nick murmurs, “I stayed away as long as I could, but…” He takes a deep breath and looks at me, a soft smile lifting the corner of his lips. “I needed to see you again. To make sure you’re okay. And to see if…” His voice trails off and it’s my turn to look away. The hope and fear in his eyes shred my heart far more than any song ever could.
Forcing the words past the logjam in my throat, I whisper, “To see if I’ve remembered anything?”
He nods, his gaze intent.
Blinking away the threat of tears, I make my voice light in a pathetic attempt to ease the agony of this conversation. “Nothing useful.”
Shrugging as if it’s of no consequence, Nick changes the subject and his easygoing tone belies the shadows in his eyes. “Will you allow me in?”
I give him a small smile. “It’s only your manners that keep you out.”
He chuckles and my heart thaws a little at the sound. “I’ve seen your wards in action and have no desire to wind up in Oklahoma wearing nothing but ashes.”
He gets the laugh he’d intended and my heart thaws further.
Treacherous organ.
“Come on over then.” I hope to sound churlish but don’t manage it. Holding out my hand, I help him bridge the ward so I won’t have to rebuild it around him. Just as I remember, his hand is warm and strong in mine.
“Thank you.” He gracefully slips over the fence to stand beside me. Dipping his head, Nick brushes a kiss on my cheek and my eyes close of their own volition, my pulse skips, my breath catches.
Damn, damn, damn.
I force my eyes open. He’s studying me and his expression is kind.
Double-damn. His kindness has always undone me.
“You look wonderful,” he says, his gaze deepening.
I can’t think what to say, what to do, and cast around for a second before finally looking down at myself. The jeans and turtleneck sweater I’m wearing are standard for me in the fall. Only the color of the sweater changes from day to day until spring. I can’t remember when I ran a brush through my waist-length hair. This morning? Certainly, my appearance doesn’t warrant Nick’s expression. But the night is suddenly warmer, my cheeks feel flushed, and my pulse is skidding along at his admiration.
“Thanks, so do you,” I mumble, which is like saying an exquisite Michelangelo work of art is nice.
“Thank you.”
“So…” Trying to resist reaching up to touch the cheek that still tingles from his kiss, I search for something to say. “Are you hungry?”
Nick shifts his weight. “A bit.”
Of course. He’s been busy tormenting me for four weeks. Too busy to see to his own needs.
“There are plenty of deer in the woods. I’ll be at the house if you want to come up after.”
He shakes his head.
“What?” I ask.
“Your comfort with my hunting still mystifies me, after all this time.”
“I was a Warder, not a tree-hugger.” I shrug. “Besides, your needs are no different than any other predator’s.”
Nick smiles and his control slips enough that I can see how he’s hurting.
“Go,” I say. “Good hunting.”
And he’s gone.
Even as I retrace my steps back to the house, I feel his movement across the land and a part of me tracks his passage and the quick completion of his hunt. Nick is merciful and never allows the creatures who give him sustenance to suffer. Just now, his strike is so fast that the buck never even knows what happened, never sees the streak of denim and leather moving through the shadow of the overhanging trees.
I walk up the stone steps and across the broad front porch into my house, leaving the door open behind me. Prowling around the living room, I needlessly straighten the sparse decorations and put away the book Nick’s playing had kept me from reading.
For something to do, I light a fire in the huge fireplace that takes up most of one wall and prod the dry mesquite with a poker. The flames catch and the unique, sweet scent of the burning wood is pleasant. It’s autumn in Texas and the nights are cool, so having a fire won’t look odd to Nick. Won’t look like I’m anxious and jittery and struggling to find my equilibrium.
In all the time I’ve known Nick, I have yet to hear his footsteps. But I have my own ways of keeping track and so I sense him coming across my front drive, climbing the stairs, and walking up behind me.
And it feels like he’s coming home.
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