Diana's Hound: Bloodhounds, Book 4 (2 page)

Nothing else would help but time. “Can you keep Satira from fretting herself sick?”

“I’ll do my best.” He shrugged. “She’s not quite as worried these days, anyway. You haven’t been alone so much.”

No, he hadn’t. Along with his weakened powers came a greater ability to tolerate the sunlight, and venturing upstairs enabled him to take part in day-to-day life again. But somehow he didn’t think that was what Wilder meant. “There’s nothing going on.”

Wilder shook his head. “I didn’t ask. I know better.”

Nate frowned, perversely irritated that he wasn’t being taken to task for the hours he spent alone with Diana. “You damn well should ask. Protecting her is your responsibility.”

“Of course it is. And if I thought her in danger of being hurt, trust me, I’d be asking. Possibly with my fists.”

He’d walked into the trap like a fool, but he supposed traps were Wilder’s specialty. “Diana is a kind young woman who’s trying to help me. I wouldn’t take advantage of that, no matter what notion Satira’s got in her head.”

Wilder avoided his gaze. “If advantage were to be taken, I’m not sure I’d assume it had to be by you.”

Well, that was a blow to the ego, not to mention an entirely unacceptable path for his thoughts to take. Bad enough that he noticed the sweetness of her smile or the lean muscle under her sleek curves. Worse to consider that she might welcome the attention.

How awkward it was to have stumbled into
this
trap, especially when he’d have to face her soon enough with all his masks in place. “I forget sometimes that you’re cleverer than you look.”

“Hmm, I guess I’ll have to take that as a compliment.” Wilder cocked his head as the basement door opened and someone stepped lightly onto the top stair. “And now I have to go.”

“Thank you for the coffee.” Nate managed to smile. “I won’t keep her too long this morning.”

“I wish you would.” Diana appeared at the bottom of the stairs, one hand on the wall separating the staircase from the rest of the room. “Otherwise, Hunter will be throwing me around the training yard some more.”

Now was as good a time as any to address that bit of idiocy. “Hunter’s a solid wall, Wilder. I’m not saying you need to go easy on her because she’s a woman—” though the Lord knew he’d
like
to say as much, even if it earned Diana’s ire, “—but not all hounds have the same strengths. Why not train her more with the advanced weapons instead?”

“What?” Diana’s brows drew together in a confused frown that quickly gave way to a stricken look. “I was joking, that’s all. I don’t need special treatment.”

Nate looked to Wilder for help, but the man raised both hands and backed away. “I’m running late. Diana, have a lovely morning. Nate…” He trailed off, shook his head and hurried up the stairs.

Traitor. Nate turned and fumbled for words to repair the damage he’d done. “I wasn’t suggesting special treatment, and I didn’t mean to offend. It just seems logical to train you with the weapons.”

“I have been training with them,” she said stiffly, surveying the table.

“The more complicated weapons,” he corrected. “It’s a compliment. Not all hounds can manage them. You have to be quick in combat to have any hope of deploying them as a defense.”

She levered herself up onto Wilder’s abandoned stool, bracing her hands on the wood between her thighs. “So it has nothing to do, really, with the fact that Hunter is—what was it? A wall?”

“Do I like watching him hit you? No.” Pouring his coffee from the flask Wilder had delivered into a mug gave him something to do, something to look at besides the way her pants fit her in all the right places, reminding him how young and virile his body was now. “I was arming bloodhounds before you were born, my girl, and not all of them are the size of Hunter. Different men have different skills.”

“I see. And what happens when I lose my very complicated gun and don’t know how to throw—or take—a punch?”

He flinched. “I concede the point.”

Diana lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “I need to learn better fighting techniques. It’s a practical fact, not Wilder’s opinion.” The corner of her mouth curved up in a smile. “But I appreciate your concern.”

Yes, concern. He’d pretend that was his investment in her. Simple concern, and not a proprietary interest in a woman young enough to be his daughter. “I’m an old man, set in my ways,” he said gruffly, then softened the words with a smile. “As Satira has undoubtedly confirmed.”

Instead of answering, Diana grinned. “What are we working on today?”

She had a wicked smile. Not sweet, but downright suggestive. Nate cleared his throat and reached for the stack of translated journals. “I wanted to go back to the beginning, if you’re comfortable with that. To discuss what happened in the first days after you woke up.”

Her amused expression faded. “I’ll tell you what I can, but I feel compelled to warn you…it isn’t much. My memory of the first few weeks is almost nonexistent.”

“I understand. Literally, as it turns out.” He opened the first journal before meeting her eyes. “Even my memories of being rescued by Satira and Wilder are somewhat fractured. Such changes are always traumatic.”

“Yes.” She looked away. “I spent the first few days looking for my husband.”

The journals spoke little of the man, who had been dead by the time Ephraim found them. Nate lowered his voice. “If this is too painful—”

Diana continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “Harrison was a bull of a man, you know. Strong and obstinate. Doc told me he was dead, but I didn’t believe him. If anyone could have survived a bloodhound attack—
should
have, even—it was Harry. Not me.”

Undoubtedly that discrepancy had kindled the old doctor’s curiosity. “Ephraim once theorized that certain people have an affinity for the transformation. He never managed to prove it, nor could he isolate what made it take hold so strongly in some while others didn’t survive. But your experience is not without precedent.” Cold, scientific words, and shame burned in his gut at being cowardly enough to take refuge in them. “I’m sorry, Diana. It must have been terribly hard.”

No confirmation or denial, simply another shrug. “Harry would have wanted it to be me. He’d have given his life for mine—and perhaps he did. I don’t know. I never will.”

If Ephraim had known the truth, he hadn’t deemed it relevant. “May I ask you a few questions about your earliest experiences? I’d like to compare them to what I know of the typical bloodhound transformation.”

“All right.”

He swallowed and flipped open his own journal to the perfectly reasonable questions he’d scribbled down the night before. Each one had seemed pertinent then. Now, faced with an attractive woman and a guilty conscience, they mostly seemed…invasive.

Especially the first one. “Do you remember your initial experiences with the moons, full and new?”

“The new moon was first,” she murmured. “I spent it alone.”

A horrifying experience, one the Guild went to tremendous pains to avoid by employing experienced women whose entire purpose was to guide newly created bloodhounds through their first encounters with the three days of blind lust brought on by the new moon. “I’m sorry,” he said again, though the words were insufficient.

Diana rubbed her hands over her arms. “Don’t worry, it hasn’t happened since. What about you?”

He blinked. “Have I experienced a new moon, do you mean?”

“You’re half bloodhound, aren’t you?”

“In a manner of speaking.” Perhaps answering her questions would lessen his guilt over digging through the broken pieces of her past. Besides, it made for an excellent exercise in framing his own painful memories as a scientific curiosity. “As best I can tell, I lack some of the benefits and disadvantages common in both vampires and bloodhounds. At worst, the new moon causes me some mild irritation.”

“Irritation?” She repeated the word with a soft laugh. “It can’t be anything like it, then, because that’s surely not how I’d describe it. An empty ache, maybe. A hunger nothing will sate.”

Nothing coolly scientific about
those
words. Even strict discipline couldn’t keep him from imagining Diana, her dark eyes hot with lust, her brown hair wild about her shoulders as she rode him with an ardor that would take three days to burn itself out.

His cock strained against his trousers before he could fully banish the image. “No,” he bit out, fighting a rising blush. “I can’t say I’m familiar with the feeling.”
Liar.

“Then you’re lucky,” she whispered. “Next question?”

He couldn’t manage to tear his gaze from hers to check the journal, so he made one up. “I assume your increased healing abilities took hold at once. What about your other senses?”

“As soon as I woke up.” She slid off the stool and wandered over to a shelf on the other side of the room. “Hearing, smell, sight. Even taste—you know, I was ravenous, ate all the time. I still do.”

It usually took weeks for the newly transformed hounds to come into the full power of their new strengths. “That must have been overwhelming.”

“It was months before I managed to get a handle on it.”

“Your increased strength as well?”

She seemed to be struggling for words. “Months before I felt human again.”

Not so different from Hunter, after all. Nate rose and circled the table to stand at her side. “Enough questions. You’ve indulged me far beyond any reasonable expectation.”

“So make it up to me.” She leaned one shoulder against the wall. “Show me something you designed. One of the weapons you think I should master.”

He studied her for a moment, trying to judge if she was sincere or simply humoring him. “Have you ever fired a crossbow?”

“No, but there’s a first time for everything.”

“Well, then.” He nodded toward the door that led to his private laboratory. “It’s an elegant weapon, and crossbow bolts can be customized with an impressive array of surprises. Fire, silver, acid…even sunlight, after a fashion.”

The smile she offered weakened his knees. “Enlighten me, Nathaniel Powell.”

For the first time he wondered if Wilder might be correct. Perhaps Diana was every bit the huntress Ephraim had named her. Perhaps
he
was the one in danger.

That was a thought to get his newly invigorated blood pumping through his old veins. He smiled, wide enough to show off his fangs. “It would be my pleasure.”

Chapter Two

She dreamed of teeth.

Diana woke flushed and aroused, certainly not the reaction she usually had to vivid images of sharp fangs scoring her skin. But never before in her dreams had the lazy graze of teeth been followed by a teasing tongue and the press of naked flesh.

She climbed from the bed on shaking legs and smoothed her nightgown. The light filtering through the drapes was scant, and Satira and Wilder would sleep for hours yet. A quick drink, and she could easily make it back to her room before anyone else arose.

But when she crept into the parlor, the soft sound of breathing alerted her to a presence. The scent and
energy
told her who it was. “Nate.”

“Diana.” He’d been sitting in the dark, but rose as she turned to face him. “Is everything all right?”

He was still dressed, after a fashion. At some point, he’d discarded his vest and tie, and Diana was left staring at the open vee of his rumpled shirt—and the dark hair that curled there. “What?”

“Are you all right?” he said again, bending a little to catch her gaze. “You’re not usually awake this late.”

“Dreams. Vivid ones.” No need to tell him what kind. Let him assume they were vicious nightmares, and she was desperate to escape them. “I thought a little whiskey might banish them for the night.”

“I no longer remember my dreams.” He set down his glass and reached for the bottle. “I’m not sure if I should be relieved, or worried about the possibility that I no longer dream at all.”

“You dream, even if you don’t remember.” She tilted her head and watched him splash a bit of the liquor into a glass. “Don’t you still feel it when you wake up, that little tickle in the back of your mind?”

“No.” He stared into the glass. “I don’t sleep as I once did, either. In that, I believe I’m more vampire than bloodhound.”

“If you don’t sleep, what do you do?”

Nate shook himself and held out the glass to her, his smile a tad too forced to be real. “Perhaps I die. They are the undead, are they not?”

The temptation was too great. Diana ignored the glass and pressed her palm to the bared skin over his heart. “You’re alive.”

He hissed and caught her wrist, his eyes dark and unreadable. “Are you so sure?”

She’d grown too accustomed to indulging her sexual freedom. Taking what she wanted was gratifying and harmless, especially when instinct told her a man’s desire matched her own.

But this wasn’t just a man, one she could easily either ignore or call on again if the mood struck. Nate was Wilder’s friend, Satira’s mentor, the manor’s resident inventor. He belonged here far more than she did, and if misunderstandings or thwarted expectations twisted things between them…

Better to apologize now. “I’m sorry. This is a liberty I shouldn’t be taking.” She tugged lightly against his grip.