Ever Night (2 page)

“That's right. As I was
saying,
darling”—a growl now—“you're of no use to me.”

Which meant . . . what? Nothing good, that was for sure.
Get yourself under control before you push him too far!
“I just remembered! I know someone who, uh, disappears. Like you said.”

His own smile was slow and wicked, the best of a charmer and the worst of a bastard. “Now you're lying, and I believe I warned you of the dangers of that. I murdered the last Walker who did.”

The rest of her anger drained, and more intense tremors rocked her. He'd committed murder—
do not think about that; don't you dare think about that
—and once again she tried to pop to her feet and run. Still her body refused to obey. “I . . . You . . .
Please.
Let me go. I'm not a walker or whatever you think I am. I'm just a girl.”

“Ah, there's my little mouse. I missed her.”

This time his mockery failed to chase away a single thread of terror.

“I wonder . . . Do you have
any
fighting instinct?” Before she could form a reply, his fist whipped out.

She didn't have time to flinch. Could only squeeze her eyelids closed . . . waiting . . . dreading . . . but impact never came, and her lashes cracked open.

He had stopped just before contact. Now he sighed and lowered his arm. “None, then. Too bad.” He unfolded from the chair, his form as dark as the sky outside and as menacing as a blade. “That would have made our next dealing more entertaining.”

Oh, God.
“What are you going to do during our next dealing?”

One step, two, he strode away from her. At the table, he poured crimson wine into a waiting glass. Rather than drink it, he stood there for a moment, his back to her, fingers drumming against the surface. Thinking of the best way to dispose of her?

There was no better time to run. But yet again her brain issued the command, and yet again her muscles ignored it. Truly, what held her down? She wasn't bound.
That you can see
 . . . She shuddered. If he really was responsible, that would mean he was powerful in a way she couldn't comprehend. And maybe . . . maybe he had been telling the truth.

Finally, he nodded, as if he'd just reached a decision, and returned to her, arm outstretched, eyes glittering. “Drink this.”

Hell, no!
If he thought to poison her . . . “I'm not twenty-one.” The only excuse her frantic brain could come up with.

“Well, I won't tell if you won't.”

“No, I—”

“Drink.”

Another steely command. With trembling fingers, she claimed the glass. She drained the contents before she could talk herself into defying him. And possibly getting herself killed “slowly and painfully.” The thick liquid burned her mouth, leaving a metallic taste, then scalded her throat before cooling in her stomach.

After taking the cup from her and tossing it aside, he knelt in front of her, clasped her wrist—his skin, so warm, so calloused—and lifted. She was ashamed of herself for not trying to pull away. But how could she? Where he touched, the ache inside her finally subsided, offering her the slightest glimmer of relief.

Gaze intense, he stared down at her open palm. And there in the center, her skin split. He hadn't moved, hadn't even raked a nail over her, yet blood welled. Her jaw dropped in shock. She'd felt no pain, then or now.

Oh, yes. Powerful in a way she couldn't comprehend. “What—”

Without a word, he raised the wound to his mouth and licked.

Her stomach quivered and she told herself it was in disgust. “That's gross.”
Oops.
She'd sounded breathless rather than creeped out. “Why did you do that?” Still embarrassingly breathless.

Another sweep of his tongue, and the skin wove back together. Rather than answer, he said, “Wherever I walk, so, too, shall you. Now you,” he prompted. He maintained a firm grip on her.

“What?”

“Say those words. Only I want you to say them for yourself, not me.”

Her brow furrowed in confusion. “‘Wherever you walk, so, too, shall I'? Like that?” What did that mean?

“Yes. Now, this next part might hurt a bit. Say my name.”

“Vasili.” A wave of heat suddenly slammed through her, burning her up, blistering her inside and out, and flaming her to ash. But before she could scream, cry, beg for mercy, those ashes began to rebuild, locking together, re-forming her into a new person. A person who hungered for the man in front of her. Desperately. The ache he'd assuaged? Once again caught fire and spread, leaving no part of her untouched. It was harsher now. Harder. More commanding and utterly consuming.

What. The. Hell?
She tried to jerk free, but he held firm. “What did you do to me, you—”

“Hush. Vasili's talking. I've decided I can use you after all. Tomorrow, you'll wake up at home. I suggest you do whatever it takes to find out if there are others like you. Find out who they are and when they travel here.”

“And if I don't?” Breathless again, damn it. All that ferocity could be hers—all she had to do was lean into him. . . .

“Then you'll be of no use to me when you return, just as I first assumed, and I'll have to kill you.”

This threat lacked heat and conviction, something the others had had in spades. She trembled.
Don't lean. Don't you dare lean.
Wait. When she returned, he'd said.

“How am I supposed to find them?” she squeaked out. She'd address his concern first, then hers.

“I'm sure you'll find a way. Also, you should know that you can return here anytime you'd like now. The gate will always be open for you, but you should also know that I will—”

No, no, no.
“I don't ever want to return.” She shook her head to emphasize her refusal.

“Sorry, darling, but you'll return on your next birthday whether you wish to do so or not.” His thumb traced the lines in her palm. “You'll return every birthday for the rest of your life. That's just how the bond to this world works.”

She had trouble focusing on his words. That touch . . . the intensified ache . . . She moaned.
More.
Discarding all common sense, she finally allowed herself to lean toward him.

“Another suggestion,” he whispered, stopping her. The space between their gazes crackled. “Use the next year to prepare. Learn how to fight, and fight dirty. With guns, blades, even your hands.” He placed a soft kiss on the hammering pulse in her wrist before at last releasing her and straightening. “Or don't. Survival will be up to you.”

One year later . . .

Exactly five minutes until midnight.

Perched at the edge of her bed, Rose stared at the clock sitting on her desk. Dread coursed through her, as did anticipation. And fury—so much fury.

Would she or wouldn't she?

Would
he
be there or not?

In the twelve months since meeting Vasili, she'd had time to build him up and tear him down. Romanticize and vilify him. She'd had time to accept what had happened and rationalize what couldn't possibly have happened.

After his parting words, she must have slipped into a deep sleep, because the next thing she'd known, she'd woken up in the hospital, groggy and incoherent, her parents frantic. She hadn't responded to their morning knock or subsequent shaking, so they'd called 911.

The doctors claimed she'd suffered from a drug overdose, though they hadn't been able to identify the drug. Clearly, Vasili had slipped something into the wine he'd forced her to drink.
Bastard.

Four minutes.

Something had happened to her that night. Something besides the drugging. In the weeks that followed, she'd tried to move on with her life. Tried to forget. Only, everything had changed. She'd been irritable, hungry, aching unbearably, unable to focus or sleep. Her parents had tried to talk to her, and at first, she resisted. But finally she'd broken down and hinted at what she'd seen. They told her she'd hallucinated. She insisted. They asked her if she was still using. She
really
insisted, giving them every single detail.

They had her committed.

Upon her release, she'd begun searching online for others like her, desperate to prove herself sane. What she found shocked her. There
were
others like her, and their experiences matched her own. Their description of the world—Nightmare, they called it—matched, too.

Sometimes people “stepped over” and never returned, she'd been told, and the other Dimension Walkers suspected the monsters had butchered them. Which was why they were looking for ways to sever the “birthday bond.” So far, no luck.

She'd spent so much time researching, she'd failed to enroll in college. She hadn't gotten an apartment with Claire, either. And Hoyt . . . The first time he'd kissed her upon her return, she'd begun to sicken. And the more his tongue had twined with hers, the sicker she'd felt—until she'd finally had to pull away altogether. Miraculously, she'd felt better an instant later.

Still. She'd assumed she had caught a virus. Until he tried to kiss her a few days later. That time, there'd been no warning. She'd jerked away, her body wanting no part of him, and vomited. A few days later,
she'd
tried to kiss
him,
hopeful, perhaps desperate to make things work. But once more, she'd vomited.

There'd been no fooling herself after that.

And there'd been no keeping him. He'd moved on, leaving her brokenhearted. For a few months, at least. Eventually, she'd gotten over him and tried to move on herself. That ache . . .

Then a new guy had finally caught her eye. Nick. Handsome, sweet, with blond hair and brown eyes—she now avoided guys with dark hair and light eyes because they made the ache so much worse—and, best of all, six foot one and a Dimension Walker.

Three minutes.

Everyone used fake names online, but after trading war stories with Nick, she'd given him her phone number. Their first date had been amazing. They'd understood each other, talked, laughed,
connected.
He'd walked her to her door, and she'd hugged him, once again hopeful for the future.

Until their second date. He'd walked her to her door, and that time, she'd tried to kiss him. Immediately, her stomach had threatened to rebel. She'd jerked away and barricaded herself inside. She'd avoided his calls ever since.

The only time she left the house anymore was to train. Guns, knives, hand-to-hand combat, just as Vasili had instructed. She would never be so helpless again.

Two minutes.

A cold sweat beaded over her skin. Each minute seemed to tick by faster than the last.

Would she even see Vasili this go-round? According to her sources, she would land in a different place every time she traveled.

One minute.

Rose stopped breathing, stood.
Steady.
She had a semiautomatic stashed in the waist of her pants, extra clips in her pockets, blades sheathed inside her boots, killer barrettes in her hair, and an innocent-looking pen strapped to her thigh. That pen was actually a syringe filled with enough sedative to knock out an elephant.

Kill as many of those monsters as you can,
so many Walkers advised. She couldn't, she wouldn't, unless they threatened her. Vasili, though . . . she owed him.

Twelve o'clock.

Would she—

In a single heartbeat, the world around her vanished, a new one taking its place. Indigo walls were replaced with the white fabric of a tent, and her bed and desk with furred rugs. This time, there wasn't a table. Not even a single chair. The books and tub were gone, too. There was only open space and that fur. And rather than a crackling fire, torches hung along the walls.

But she'd landed in Vasili's tent. She knew it.

“Well, well, well. The mouse took my advice and armed herself like a lion. I'm impressed.”

Rose nearly swallowed her tongue as she spun. And there he was, golden lamplight caressing him. The dark prince of her nightmares. He hadn't changed. Same inky hair, though the strands were now wet and slicked back, and same feral eyes. Same imposing height and muscled width. Same haunting beauty.

Just as before, he clutched a glass of liquid amber and ice, sipping as he studied her. He wore a black shirt that hugged his massive biceps, and black pants that were ripped and stained with . . . blood?

“Forgive my appearance, darling.”
Oh, sweet heaven.
There was his seductive purr, all magic and moonlight, shivering over her. “I had to race to get here.”

Her gaze snapped up, and his lips lifted in a slow, sensual smile, revealing those perfect teeth. Her heart finally kicked back into motion, fluttering wildly against her ribs.
He's a self-professed murderer. Don't forget.

But, God, he's gorgeous.

Concentrate!

I'm trying, damn it.
But already the ache, that constant, cloying, demanding ache, had sprouted wings.

“What? Nothing to say? Well, no matter. I'm not done talking. Happy birthday, darling. You're a stunning nineteen. Almost a woman.”

The mocking tone hadn't changed, either.

“Did you do as I asked?” A casual question. “Did you search for others?”

“Yes. I did. And you were right. There really were others like me.”

He stiffened. “Their names. Tell me.” No longer casual, but almost . . . desperate.

“I didn't get them,” she lied. The only name she had was Nick's, and she wasn't sharing that.

The hand at Vasili's side fisted.

Attack him before he attacks you.
She merely shifted from one foot to the other, glaring over at him. Too well did she recall how he'd frozen her in place. And she
would
learn how he did that—and how to combat it. “Plan to kill me now?”

Disappointment and anger battled for supremacy on his face, but all he said was, “I'm feeling generous. I'll punish my bad, naughty girl for not doing as she was instructed rather than kill her. How's that?”

“How about you answer my questions, before
I
punish
you
.” He would find she wasn't as easy to intimidate this time. “What did you do to me last time I was here?” No one else had experienced anything like that stupid ache or comalike sleep. Not even a little.

“Better question. What kind of greeting is that? We've been parted for so long, yet chastisement and an inquisition are the best I get?” He tsked quietly. “Someone in this room needs to work on their manners, and I'll give you a hint. It's not me.”

“Oh, I'm sorry. Did I fail to make a proper introduction?” She closed some of the distance between them, that ever-present temper making her braver than was probably wise. She didn't stop until she could smell the peat smoke and the wildflowers that wafted from him. God, she'd missed that scent.

Missed? No, no, no. Wrong word. She'd
dreaded
that scent. Better. “Here, let me fix that,” she said. “Rose's knee, meet Vasili's ball—”

With a laugh, he stepped backward, out of reach. “None of that, now.”

God.
Even his laughter was perfect, taking his sexy voice and mixing it with velvet and melted chocolate. Her nipples pearled, the ache intensifying.
Concentrate.
“If we're done with introductions, then, why don't—”

“Vasili's turn,” he interjected, serious again. “Has anyone contacted you? Asked you to hurt me?”

“No.” Truth. No one had contacted her specifically. But a lot of Walkers wanted the creatures here destroyed. Some even bragged about the ones they had killed.

“That's good.”

“I answered you, so answer me. What the hell did you do to me?”

“I'm afraid I don't know what you mean. Explain.”

“Liar! You know!”
Steady.
Slowly she reached back and curled her fingers around the handle of her gun.
Good, that's good.
“You did something. I can't desire a man without—”

“Sickening. Yes. I know,” he said dryly. “But, darling. One thing you should know about me. I never lie. There's no need. Lying is for those who fear consequences. I do not. Now, then. What type of man—men?—did you desire, hmm? Whom do I have to kill? The boyfriend you mentioned last time?”

She didn't know Vasili well enough to know whether or not he was teasing about the men he needed to kill, or whether he could even travel to her world. “Answer me. Please, Vasili. What did you do?” Hopefully her pleading would keep him distracted while she did . . . this—metal whizzed through air as she aimed the barrel of the gun at his chest. She tried not to smile at her success. “Tell me or I'll shoot.”

He rolled his eyes. “Put the gun away before you hurt yourself.”

Not the reaction she'd expected. Why wasn't he scared? Did he think she lacked the guts to squeeze the trigger? Could he freeze her finger in place before she moved? Or would bullets not hurt him?

Her stomach twisted into hundreds of little knots. She hadn't considered that possibility before, but . . . Was he even human? Or was he more like those monsters than she'd realized?

“Rose. Gun. Now.” Gone was the charmer, and in his place was the commander. “Right now, there's only one thing you need to know about me. I will slaughter an army before heeding an enemy's demand. Put the gun down and ask nicely for the answers you want. That's the only way you'll get them.”

“So I'm the enemy?” Another distraction meant to keep him talking despite his objections.

One that failed. “Gun,” he growled.

Clearly, he'd answer
nothing
until she complied. Biting the inside of her cheek, she sheathed the weapon and waved her empty fingers at him. “Happy?” If he made an aggressive move in her direction, she could withdraw a blade and gut him. Simple, easy.
I've got this.

Negligent shrug.

All that protest, and
that
was what he did when he won?
Bastard.
He really
hadn't
changed. But at least he wasn't gloating. “What. Did you. Do to me?”

“Now. Isn't that better?” He tossed his glass over his shoulder. “I did what was necessary. I bound you to me.”

She watched the ice scatter across the furs. Anything was better than peering at Vasili. As he'd spoken, heat had sparked in his eyes. So much heat. Her skin tingled, pulling tight over her bones, and she had to fight the urge to rub her arms, her thighs. Had to fight the urge to beg
him
to rub her arms and thighs. “What does that mean? Bound me to you?”

“Anytime you enter this world, you will come directly to me.”

“Imposs—”
No.
She had long since struck that word from her vernacular.
Nothing
was impossible. “How? How did you do that?”

“Remember the words you spoke? The wine you drank?”

“The poisoned wine,” she snapped, at last facing him again. He was closer to her, so close.
More tingling
 . . .
no fear
 . . . “Because of you, my parents thought I was doing drugs.”

He reached out and smoothed a lock of hair behind her ear. “And that pained you. I'm sorry.”

Ignore the contact . . . the fever now spreading . . . the shock of his words.
“Thank you,” she said, backing as far away from him as she could get. “Now stop threatening and stop stalling. The wine? What was in it?”

Another shrug. “My blood, among other things.”

“Blood?” No. No way. She would have known. Wouldn't she?

“Afraid so. Must say, watching you drink it was the
grossest
thing I ever witnessed.” He shuddered.

Gross. Exactly what she'd said to him when he'd lapped up
her
blood.

Rose's eyes widened as the consequences of his consumption hit her. “You licked my wound.” A wound she'd later convinced herself she'd imagined, since a scab had never formed.

“Yes,” he agreed easily. “I did.”

“So you can't . . .”

“No. I can't.” Anger had infused his voice that time. “And yes, that makes you my child bride. No need to thank me. Twelve months of torturous abstinence is thanks enough.”

Hell. No.
“Why would you do that? And by the way, we are
not
married.”