Bitten by Ecstasy: 2 (Dark Judgment) (8 page)

All from the smooth backs of her pretty knees and the barely discernible thrust of her ass under a mannish shirt.
Shit
.
He curled his fingers into his palms, didn’t flinch at the pinch of talons into flesh. What would happen if he actually viewed—
touched—
the slender body of deceptive fragility and honed steel? What if he dipped his hand between those pretty thighs and cupped her? Like in his dream, would she be drenched and tighter than Scrooge’s penny-pinching fist?

“Put. Clothes. On,” she ordered, the mixture of primness and outrage doing nothing to douse the throbbing in his dick. Because even under her indignation, he caught the delicate scent of her arousal. The aroma was slightly thicker than her natural Irish morning dew, as if the essence of her was more concentrated, richer…

His chin snapped back as if clipped by an unseen fist. Even his beast quieted, momentarily bewildered by this new sensory revelation. The previous evening in the kitchen, he’d thought he’d sensed the faintest trace of desire. But he’d relegated it to a mistake. Both man and hippogryph, so wounded and embittered, had doubted a female could want them, want the disfigured
thing
they’d become. Especially not this woman who had so coldly rejected the man’s touch and the hippogryph’s affection after the attack. Sinéad had rebuffed him, even abandoned him in disgust after he’d been foolish enough to reach out for her with his ravaged body and scarred face. As painful as Alesia’s cowardice had been in the face of her father’s demand to marry another man—
a noble man
—Sinéad’s rejection had been worse. At the time, he’d been weak, hurting, insecure.

And they’d replayed the scene when he’d touched her arm the previous evening. She’d struggled against his hold, finally demanding he let her go. He didn’t need cue cards to get the message. Sinéad didn’t want his touch…didn’t want him. Yet her scent…

Confused, Bastien summoned his magic. It danced over his skin like a playful tune, covering him in jeans and a t-shirt. He’d been tempted to leave his chest bare, just to spy her reaction, but at the last instant he’d remembered the roadwork of ridges and folds puckering his skin. Sinéad’s gaze had been glued to his package and had apparently missed his torso. He crossed his arms as if the barrier provided additional coverage against her stare. Everything in him roared an objection at the possibility of losing the faint perfume of her arousal to the acrid stench of disgust or, worse, pity if she was exposed to the mangled grid map that had once been his chest.

“I’m dressed,” he said and, as she pivoted with the caution of a lion tamer eyeing one of the big cats, he snorted. “I’d just like to point out you were the one who busted in on me.”

Her quick inspection took him in, glancing from his head to his bare toes. Apparently satisfied he hadn’t left any important areas uncovered, she scowled up at him. “How was I supposed to know you were naked?”

He lifted a shoulder in a careless half-shrug. “I went out after you went up to bed.” A persistent restlessness had drawn him out into the night, to the sky. “I’m not used to worrying about someone else’s sensibilities when I return.”

A shadow whispered in her eyes. The flicker was there and gone, blinked away fast, but he recognized it.
Yearning—
when he mentioned going out, deep yearning had been in those quicksilver depths.

“Be that as it may, could you please recall you are in my house? And I would prefer you keep your…” she wriggled a couple of fingers in the direction of his cock, her brow furrowed, “male bits covered.”

In spite of the turmoil of confusion and arousal tumbling through him head-over-ass, amusement spurted inside his chest. Warm. Surprising. “Yes, ma’am,” he said with an incline of his head. “Me and my,” he lowered an arm and mimicked her gesture in front of his zipper, “male bits will stay under wraps.” Her frown deepened and her lips parted, but before she could deliver a scathing retort, he held up a hand, palm out. “So what was so important it brought you down here like the hounds of hell were after you?”

In the next instant, the displeasure cleared from her features, leaving an excitement that lit her eyes with an incandescent glow.

“I figured it out. I know how to change you back.”

Shock careened through him, leaving him numb. It didn’t last long. Hope—insidious, cruel hope—sidled in, melting the deep freeze her announcement had cast over his brain. A part of him tried to battle the anticipation and excitement back, eject it from his pounding heart. But the effort proved useless—it always did.

He stumbled back several steps until his spine hit the cold, damp window. He fumbled behind him, his fingers scrabbling against the window seat and frame. His knees weakened as he lowered to the edge. Chilled condensation seeped through his t-shirt, wetting his skin. He relegated the slight discomfort to the back of his mind, every cell in him centered on her words.
I know how to change you back.

The two months immediately following Evander’s attack, Bastien had worked to find a cure, to relieve himself of the terrible, gnawing hunger that dogged his every waking breath. He’d drawn his own blood, studied it, compared it to other samples. When the scientific research failed, he’d searched down leads, tracking down any whispers or tales no matter how farfetched. The despair, the hopelessness had finally driven him to Nicolai, to the comfort of the familiar. Yet the cravings didn’t abate. And the monstrous reality of what he’d become—the soul-stripping shame of what he’d become—had prevented him from confiding in his best friend.

So he’d left his sanctuary, taking along his addiction to the cruxim blood that saved and doomed him.

Now here he sat, so close to the cure he’d been desperately hunting and afraid to reach out for it. Another disappointment…
shit
. He didn’t know if he could bear another disappointment.

“Tell me,” he said, the order hoarse and, to his ears, frightened.

“The Blood Cross.”

Bastien stared at her. Snorted. Fucking hope. Got him every time.

“The Blood Cross,” he repeated, disbelief heavy in each syllable.

Her brow crinkled as if she was perplexed why he wasn’t turning cartwheels in the living room. “You know of the Cross?”

“Yes,” he answered, still mentally kicking his ass for daring to believe again. Most immortal races had their own mythology or religion. The cruxim worshipped Nef, a pagan goddess of light, wisdom and armor. Often depicted as a regal, winged female adorned in an ornate circlet, gleaming cuirass and sandals carrying a curved sword, Nef was the cruxim’s patron goddess. She had also been attributed with forging the Blood Cross, a relic of supposedly immense power.

It was a myth, a lore not unlike other ancient legends. He’d heard of the Cross, but had chalked the thing up there with the Holy Grail, Thor’s Hammer and fat-free potato chips. Stories, traditions, but not fact. And definitely not the solution to his problem.

“I have to admit I expected you to be more enthusiastic than this.” She held her hands out, palms up. The gesture clearly stated,
what the fuck
?

“Be more enthusiastic about what? A mythical artifact with legendary powers?”

“It’s not mythical. The Cross is real,” she insisted, her fists balling next to her thighs. He cocked an eyebrow. She snarled and would have undoubtedly flashed a pointed canine at him if she’d still had fangs. “Why do I bother,” she muttered then pinned him with a hot glare. “Listen, hippogryph, it exists and if you stand one chance at going back to what and who you were the Cross is your only option.”

She turned, stalked to the couch and plopped down on the cushion. Bastien wasn’t sure, but he could’ve sworn he heard
dunderhead
before she turned a baleful stare on him.

“Eons ago there was a great war among the gods. Several holy relics were forged. Dar created the Righteous Bow—its arrow never fails to hit a target. Dehb fashioned the Shofar of Standard. One blast from her trumpet and mountains fall, oceans swell, lands split and are demolished. Other objects were created—the Chariot of Fire, the Dagus Sword. These sacred weapons wielded in the hands of the gods could cause catastrophes, destroy the earth and the heavens above. So the immortal races chose sides. The
sidhe
supported Dar, the shadowhunters sided with Greer and the Dagus Sword.” Her voice took on the lyrical tone of a storyteller, her husky brogue adding music to the epic tale. He’d heard the legend before but never in her lovely voice. “The world hovered on the brink of disaster. Seeing the existence of god, immortal and man nearing annihilation, Nef created a relic of her own. She forged an urn and collected blood from every race—some willing donors, some unwilling—and contained it in a vessel she fashioned in the form of a cross. The Blood Cross.”

If they had been watching a film, the screen would have been packed with clashing, golden figures and creatures of all dimensions and origins. Fire, wind and water would have been erupting and exploding in a spectacular display of destruction. Roars and battle yells would have filled the room along with the screams of the dying. It would have been one helluva blockbuster.

“Blood binds us. No matter the race, blood ties us together. It’s the source of life and death. The goddess Nef understood this. And this relic, saturated with the life force of all the immortals, became the most powerful and most invincible of them all. At any given time, she could control and command one immortal race, no matter who they’d sworn their allegiance to. With the Blood Cross, the goddess won the great war and restored order to the heavens and earth. Realizing the destruction the Cross could cause if it fell into the wrong hands, she entrusted her creation’s keeping into the care of the Black Angels who worshipped her. We became known as the cruxim, the Guardians of the Cross.”

He hadn’t been aware of that part of the legend—how their goddess had christened them
cruxim
. Fascinating, but the obscure knowledge still didn’t clear up how this bedtime story was supposed to heal him.

“Have you ever seen the Blood Cross?” he asked, fingertips drumming against the window ledge.

She tossed him another look rife with questions regarding his intelligence. “Of course,” she snapped. Paused. On the tail end of a heavy sigh, she shoved to her feet and paced around the sofa. Her palms rubbed her t-shirt-covered thighs and Bastien tracked her movements, wondering at her agitation. As she neared him on her second circuit, her head whipped in his direction and she stabbed him with her iridescent gaze. “The knowledge I’m about to tell you will self-destruct ten seconds after you receive it.”

“Oh hell,” he muttered, rolling his eyes at the
Mission Impossible
reference. “You really have to cut back on the late-night television.”

She halted in front of him, her slim legs spread wide, arms crossed under her breasts, a petite, lovely Napoleon demanding his agreement.

“Fine,” Bastien conceded with a soft bark of incredulous laughter. He lifted an arm and held a palm facing outward. “I promise not to repeat anything you tell me.” He gave her a solemn nod. “Scout’s honor.”

Sinéad studied his face for a long moment then nodded. “At the conclusion of every cruxim’s training we are assigned a territory. We pledge our fealty to the Lady Nef and our sisters in a ceremony.” Twin lines briefly bracketed her lush mouth as if her lips wanted to prohibit the guarded information she prepared to spill. “During the ritual, we bind our vow with blood—blood sacrificed and captured in the Blood Cross.”

“Holy shit.” He straightened, slowly rising to his feet. Every ounce of blood in his body seemed to pool in his size fourteens, rooting him to the floor.

She nodded. “It’s to our advantage to encourage the myth of the Cross’ existence. If more immortals actually believed a holy relic of immense power was real, they would never stop hunting it down, determined to obtain it for their personal gain and power. And in the wrong hands…”

Yes, he got it. In the possession of someone with no conscience and dreams of grandeur, the relic would be an unparalleled weapon.

“How have the cruxim managed to keep it hidden this long?”

A beat of silence passed and her wrinkled brow and firmed lips reflected an internal struggle. “Every fifty years the Cross rotates to another territory, guarded by another cruxim. That way it can never be pinpointed by an enemy searching for it because it doesn’t stay in one place for long.”

“Brilliant.” His mind still raced with Sinéad’s revelations. The least of them being an artifact on the mythical level of King Arthur’s Excalibur existed and had the ability to end the nightmare he’d been living for months. No more relentless hunger. No more self-imposed exile. Damn. Could he—his heart stuttered—could he have his life back?

Wait a second… What about
her
? What about
her
life? He stepped toward Sinéad, a suspicion whispering to him. “If this is true, why haven’t you used the Blood Cross’ power to restore your immortality?”

“The cruxim are the Blood Cross’ guardians—we receive strength and protection in return. But we cannot use it for personal gain. Since my blood is contained in the cross, it would recognize my touch and forbid me use of its power. Sort of a checks and balances.” A small, humorless smile twisted her lips. “Keeps us honest. Besides, accessing the Cross’ power is like a coupon—only one per customer and good for one transaction.”

Bastien snorted. “That fucking sucks if you ask me. You offer your life in service but when the shit hits the fan you can’t count on it for help?” He stared at her, his gaze touching on the sleek dark hair, the t-shirt swallowing her petite frame and the toned, slender legs that tapered down to narrow feet and unpainted toes. Regret and anger simmered in his chest, clutched his throat. “Yeah, it fucking sucks,” he repeated, voice gruff.