Eternal Rider

Page 7

And he could make sure that the initial tales of his reign of terror came from a firsthand account.
Help me.
The voice came to Cara as she floated in a dark, cold room, her body a misty shadow. Below her, a dog howled from inside a cage, its glimmering red eyes watching her every move. She moved closer, unsure how, since she was hanging in the air, but in any case, she was suddenly eye to eye with the canine.
Find me.
She started. The voice had come from the dog. Not an actual voice, but more of a thought inside her head.
“Who are you?”
I am yours. You are mine.
Mine? Yours? This was so weird. She put her face right up to the cage, oddly unafraid of the creature inside. It was clearly a puppy, but something about it radiated lethal power and danger. Its fur was so black it seemed to absorb what little light entered the room from behind closed shutters on a single, tiny window, and its teeth looked as if they should be inside the mouth of a shark rather than that of a dog.
She searched for a lock… heck, a door on the cage… but found nothing except odd symbols etched into the bars. The entire cage sat inside a painted circle on the cement floor. “How do I release you?”
You must find me.
So… this dream dog-thing was a little dimwitted. “I’ve found you.”
In the other world.
He was definitely not right in the head. Says the person talking to the dog.
“Who put you here?”
Sestiel.
Who was Sestiel? She floated up and looked around what appeared to be a basement. The walls had been built with layers of stone, suggesting older construction. She drifted to a set of dusty shelves, which held only a few label-less cans, a broken pencil, and a glass flask half-full of clear liquid. Oddly, the flask wasn’t dusty. She reached for it, only to have her hand pass through the bottle and the shelves.
Maybe this wasn’t a dream. Maybe she was a ghost. But how had she died? Her memory was a black hole.
A distant pounding startled her, and she spun around to the dog. “What was that?”
What was what?
The pounding came again, a dull knock, growing louder, and she felt herself being pulled toward the sound, her body stretching like taffy. Something soft cradled her body, and light flooded her eyes. She blinked, her surroundings coming into sharp focus, and she sat up.
Her living room. She was in her living room, on her couch. The weird dream faded, replaced by real-life confusion. She’d obviously fallen asleep on her couch, but… why was there a glass and an empty bottle of vodka on her coffee table? She didn’t drink, not a drop since the break-in two years ago. She’d learned that life was fragile, full of surprises, and she didn’t want any of her senses—or reflexes—dulled by anything, including medications or alcohol.
Unease rolled down her spine as she ran her hands over her face. Her skin felt tender, and as she dragged her fingers down to her mouth, the unease doubled. Her lips were swollen, inflamed.
As if she’d been kissed.
A sudden image of an impossibly huge man holding her against him popped into her head, and whoa, that had to have been part of a dream, because no one was that big. Or handsome. A vision unfolded in her mind of him lowering his perfectly shaped mouth to hers. She could practically feel his warm tongue stroking her lips, and it was so real that her body flamed hot.
A pleasant flush spread over her skin, but when the hairs on the back of her neck prickled, she suddenly went from oddly aroused to feeling as though someone was watching her. Forgetting her swollen lips and the dream man, she whipped her head around, but there was no one there. Damn, she was sick of this paranoia, but that didn’t stop her from scanning every corner twice.
Satisfied that there was no one in the room, she ignored the lingering sensation that eyes were on her to focus on the TV, which was blaring some breaking news about a deadly malaria outbreak in Siberia. Since Siberia wasn’t exactly a malaria hotspot, the disease was a big deal, made bigger by the fact that experts had never encountered this particular strain.
“The Siberian outbreak is only one of dozens of odd occurrences of highly lethal plagues striking populations all over the globe,” the anchor was saying. “Religious leaders everywhere are citing end-of-the-world prophecies, and scientists are advising people to use common sense. As one researcher at the World Health Organization puts it, ‘People screeched about Armageddon during the last swine flu outbreak. And before that, it was the bird flu. What we’re seeing is nature rebelling against insect control chemicals and antibiotics.’ ” The journalist’s expression was grim as he looked into the camera. “And now we go to the Balkan peninsula, where rising tensions—”
Cara turned off the TV. It seemed like lately the news was all bad, full of disease, war, and growing panic.
She stood, feeling a little wobbly… and what the heck? Her pajamas were filthy, as if she’d rolled around in a barnyard. Two different colors of dirt smeared her pjs, and there were grass stains on her sleeves. And was that… blood… on her top?
Heart pounding wildly, she patted herself down, inspecting for injuries, but other than a kink in her neck she could probably blame on the lumpy couch, she felt fine.
If losing her mind could be considered fine.
The sound of a vehicle engine broke into the cacophony of her jumbled thoughts. Grateful for the distraction, she drew aside the front window’s heavy curtains. The mailman’s Jeep pulled away, which explained the pounding that had woken her up. She went to the door, relieved that all the locks were in place. But still, why was she filthy? Had she sleepwalked? And sleep-slammed a dozen shots of vodka?
Caffeine. She needed caffeine to figure this out. The spiderwebs in her brain seemed to be catching all her thoughts and tangling them up so they couldn’t form a coherent explanation for any of this.
She worked the locks, being careful to check the peephole before unhooking the chain, and then grabbed the box and rubber-banded mail the mailman had left. The letters turned out to be bills. Lots of them, and all of them with yellow or pink slips inside.
Well, electricity and running water were luxuries, weren’t they?
The box, containing her only indulgence—gourmet coffee—she left unopened. She’d have to send it back. Now that she’d been laid off from her part-time job at the library, she could no longer afford even that one small thing, not with bills piling up, no job prospects in the tiny town, and no buyer for the house in sight. Heck, she might have to give up even the generic grocery store grind.
Shuddering at the thought, she tossed the mail onto the little table next to the door, flipped the locks, and shuffled toward the kitchen, hoping the few scoops of coffee she had left could be stretched into a full pot. But as she turned the corner to the hallway, she came to an abrupt halt.
The door to her office was open.
She hadn’t been inside that room since she’d closed down her practice. Oh, God, what had she done in her sleep? A muted sense of anxiety shimmered through her as she crept down the hall to the open door.
She’d done a lot more than drink vodka and roll around in the dirt while sleepwalking.
Boxes of supplies lay scattered on the floor, their contents spilling out. A dark substance that looked suspiciously like dried blood was spattered on the walls and pooled on the tiles, and when she stepped fully inside the room, she got an eyeful of tumbled furniture and smashed cabinets.
What had happened in here, and whose blood was that?
And why, dear God why, did she feel like someone was watching her?
Spying could normally be considered a skill. Unless you were a supernatural being who could hang out in a khote. So yeah, Ares didn’t exactly feel like he was doing anything but being a Peeping Tom, as today’s population called it.
But he couldn’t exactly pop out of thin air and ask Cara what she’d dreamed about last night. Not when she’d just discovered the mess in her veterinary office. She might appear outwardly calm, but the color had drained from her face, and when she backed out of the room, she stumbled.
And Ares nearly stepped out of his khote to catch her.
Idiot. He watched her trudge down the hallway to the kitchen, where she made coffee, poured herself a bowl of generic bran flakes cereal, and ate with mechanical, precise motions. She had to have known that her pajamas were filthy with dirt and dried blood, but it didn’t faze her. Shock. Definitely.
The hardened, battle-edged commander side of him wanted to tell her to snap out of it. To grow a set and get over it, soldier. But another side of him wanted to… what? Comfort her? Fold her into his arms and whisper sweet, mushy things into her ear?
Fucking idiot. He brushed his finger over his throat, and his armor snapped into place. It had been foolish to come here without it.
Ares had been raised to be a warrior—and he’d been a damned good one, had learned the art of war from the human he’d believed to be his father, which honed the instinct he’d been born with, thanks to his demon mother and battle-angel father. But then, when the Seals were doled out according to “best—and worst—fit” for each sibling, he’d also been supplied with a massive dose of insta-expertise.
The desire to fight a good battle had always been there. No blaming that on the stupid prophecy.
Time to kick his own ass and do what needed to be done. The fate of all mankind rested on his shoulders, and if he traumatized one little human female to save the world, so be it.
He was about to let down the khote when Cara grabbed the phone, dialed, and said in a droning voice, “Larena, it’s Cara. I need to know what dreaming about a black dog means. It was howling, in a cage. And if the name Sestiel means anything to you, that would help, too. Thanks.”
Caged? That meant that Sestiel was in possession of the beast and not the other way around. Was he hoping to bond with it? Even though fallen angels belonged to a small handful of beings who could tame hellhounds, now that the beast was bonded to Cara, no one else could control it, tame it, or bond with it. Sestiel must not be aware that his hopes for a hellhound protector, at least from this specific hound, were dashed.
But Ares’s hopes were still alive. The hound could be the one he wanted, and Ares’s blood sang with anticipation that he might finally have his revenge. That Cara would become collateral damage didn’t matter, and Ares had a feeling that even when he took off the armor, the hatred for the beast would far outweigh any prick of conscience he’d have for the consequences to the human.
Cara hung up and ambled into the bedroom, clearly on autopilot. Curious, he followed, and when she began to strip, he decided that popping into the open now might not be a good idea.
He’d been raised during a time in which nudity wasn’t given a second thought, and he rarely batted an eyelash at an unclothed body. Sure, like any red-blooded male, in the heat of the moment he appreciated a na**d woman, but it took a hell of a lot more than simple nudity to stir his loins even a little bit.
And yet, as Cara peeled off her pajama top, he definitely found himself stirred.
As if she felt she was being watched, she angled away from him, but too late. Her high, full br**sts and dusky rose ni**les were already seared into his memory. And he had to admit that the view from behind was just as tantalizing.
Cara’s skin was pale, as though she didn’t spend much time outside, but aside from a few freckles, it was flawless, milky and smooth, and he had an intense urge to touch it, see if it was as supple and warm as it looked. Her toned muscles flexed with every movement—she was stronger than she looked, as his still-tender balls could attest.
Bending over, she shoved down her pajama bottoms and underwear, and Ares, who had always preferred battle over sex, who had grown bored of sex because it offered no challenges, nothing new… nearly swallowed his tongue. He was a breast man, but Cara had one fine ass.
And wasn’t ogling a woman who was still suffering from shock real f**king noble. Not that he’d ever claimed to be noble.
She padded to the bathroom, and again, as if she could sense his presence, she closed the door. And locked it.
Through the flimsy plywood, he heard the shower start, and though he could cast a Harrowgate to get into the bathroom, he had a better idea.
He summoned a gate to take him to his Greek stronghold, changed into khaki cargo pants and a white linen button-down that he left untucked. He wanted to appear casual and nonthreatening, and for half a second he even considered throwing on his leather flip-flops. No male looked like a badass in flip-flops.
But they also weren’t made for saddle stirrups, and he wanted to be prepared to ride, so in the end he shoved his feet into a pair of combat boots, grabbed a wad of American money, and called it good. He figured he had a few minutes to spare before Cara finished showering, so he checked his email, hoping for intel or gossip from his spies and underworld sources. Any information about Pestilence’s location, his activities, movements… anything… could be a major breaththrough.
“There’s a new meningitis outbreak in Uganda and a bubonic plague flare-up in the Philippines.”
Ares rubbed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger before shooting an annoyed glance at Reaver. The blond angel loved popping into rooms unannounced. He stood in the doorway to Ares’s office, his arms folded over his broad chest, his sapphire blue eyes glowing with intensity.
Ares scanned CNN’s website. “It hasn’t made the news yet.”
Reaver waggled his brows. “The DBS always scoops everyone else.”
Ares was tempted to argue that the underworld often had its finger on the pulse of bad news before Reaver’s so-called Divine Broadcasting System did, but it wasn’t worth his time. Angels didn’t like to admit that demons ever got one up on them. Then again, Reaver wasn’t your usual halo. The guy had spent some time as a fallen angel, and he’d worked at the demon hospital, Underworld General, for years before he’d earned his wings back. Because of that, he had a unique perspective on demons, and he even remained friendly with some of them.