Personal Demon (11 page)

Did cheetahs go after gazelles? She’d have to look it up. Not that he was as beautiful as a cheetah or she was as lithe as a gazelle—but that wasn’t the point, was it? The point was that as compelling as she sometimes found Christopher, he was still a killer, and she was still his prisoner.

She looked at the bathroom window and considered getting out the same way her stalker had gotten in.

“Don’t try it,” Christopher called from the living room. “You’d be bound to fall and break your neck.”

“Oh, some crazy guy has no trouble breaking in, but I’m going to clumsily fall two stories trying to get out!” she shouted back.

That’s exactly what I’m saying,
he thought to her.

With even thoughts of escape not an option, Ivy concentrated on grooming.

B
y the time she returned, he’d picked up one of the overturned bookcases and was replacing the spilled books. She watched Christopher from the doorway as he glanced at each one before putting it beside the last on the shelf.

“You have esoteric tastes for a girl with a roomful of exercise equipment,” he said. His back was to her. “Folklore. History. Epic poetry.”

“Also fantasy and romance novels,” she said. “There’s a book on plumbing in there somewhere.”

He glanced her way, eyebrow raised. “No books on magic?”

“Left out in a public place?” Ivy laughed. “I don’t think so.”

“You don’t deny performing ritual magic?”

“No. Do you?”

He turned to face her. “Proof that we have something in common.”

“But I use my powers only for good. Thanks for cleaning up the mess,” she added. “Do you want coffee or tea?”

“Coffee.”

She slipped past him to go into the kitchen. He followed her in as the carafe began to fill with hot water. He took a seat by the central counter and took a deep, appreciative breath.

“That smells wonderfully brown.”

She knew what he meant, but his words reminded her of other odd ways he’d described things—sights, sounds, emotions, thoughts—they all came out in added perceptions for him, didn’t they? It was like everything had different dimensions for him, more dimensions than for everyone else, even psychic everyone elses.

“Synesthesia,” she said.

His astonished gaze flew to hers. His eyes blazed red.

Ivy refused to run in screaming terror though it was an attractive option. Her voice did shake a little when she asked, “Did you always have synesthesia symptoms or develop them after you were turned?”

“Was I always a freak of nature?” he replied, voice low and dangerous.

She would not be intimidated though she noticed she’d backed up against the refrigerator door. “It must be wonderful,” she said. She forced herself to look into his angry red eyes, and saw the pain there as well. “It’s a rare mental condition, but not freakish. I’d love to be able to see sounds or hear colors. And to be able to add psychic gifts to—”

Christopher was around the counter before she saw him move. His big hands crushed her shoulders. His furious face was very close to hers. He frightened her badly enough that she would have sunk to the floor if he wasn’t holding her.

“How would you like to hear murder? See the colors of terror? It’s not all blue laughing and joy ringing bells or seeing numbers as distances. It’s—”

He let her go and turned away. Ivy took the opportunity to try to faint, but her constitution was too strong to allow her to do that. She did lean back against the refrigerator for support and crossed her arms to rub her aching shoulders. Crossed her arms to protect the core of her being from danger even more than to massage the pain.

C
hristopher went back to his seat by the counter. He was still furious but not at Ivy. What had she done, other than recognize, and even appreciate, the mental illness that had plagued him his entire life?

It was odd how she was the first person who’d noticed his sickness since he’d been turned into a vampire. He remembered how surprised he’d been to discover that, even as a vampire, he was different from others of his kind. How as a vampire his strange way of experiencing life became even more acute and complex. As a vampire, he was a freak among freaks. But it wasn’t as bad for him as it had been as one of mortalkind. He’d managed without the help of poor Mr. Morse since the servant he’d turned into a slave had died in 1922.

He considered Ivy in all her enthusiasm for the world as he experienced it. Perhaps it was time to create a new slave. She could prove useful if he had to spend much time away from his normal haunts and habits on this investigation.

“Your coffeemaker just beeped,” he told Ivy. “Orange.”

She glared.

When she didn’t move, Christopher fetched a pair of mugs off wall hooks and poured for both of them. He saw she wasn’t having anything to do with further contact, so rather than have her flinch away from him, he left her mug on the counter.

“Tell me about vampire hunting,” he said after he’d taken a long, hot gulp. “Have you killed many?”

Dangerous territory, this. He didn’t expect her to talk to him about it.

“Why were we in each other’s dreams?” she asked. “What does that mean?”

She was braver than he was to bring that up. Not foolhardy. The woman burned with a deep core of curiosity. She wanted to know about everything. She refreshed him.

“Do you really want to think about that?”

She shook her head, accepting discouragement.

“Neither do I,” he said. “Tell me about Chicago vampire hunters.”

She shook her head.

He sipped coffee. Ivy sidled forward and took a drink from her own cup.

“Tell me about your family, then. Or is that the same as talking about Chicago vampire hunters?”

“Let’s talk about you,” she countered. “Why did we dream about Jack the Ripper last night—day?”

“How do you know about synesthesia?”

She literally stomped her foot in frustration. He had to laugh.

“Why can’t we have a single, simple, straightforward conversation for once?” she demanded.

“I’m not sure that’s possible when we’re both trying not to tell each other anything.”

“But—we’ve been in each other’s minds. How can we not tell each other anything?” After a puzzled pause, she asked, “Did what I just said make any sense?”

“Yes. But probably only because we have been inside each other’s—dreams.”

He couldn’t admit to her that their minds had touched, that they’d somehow
flown
together when he didn’t know how that was possible.

“Yeah,” Ivy said, and made a face like she’d tasted
something bad. “Euww—who wants to know how a vampire thinks?”

“It might be useful in your work,” he pointed out. “And I discovered a frivolous mortal with terrible taste in clothing.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You were dressed like a pantomime gypsy.”

“I’m not the one who came up with the Death in Whitechapel scenario. Did you really know Jack the Ripper?”

Christopher sighed as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “We met briefly.”

Excitement glowed pink around her.

“Who was he?” she asked.

“I have no idea.”

“I’ve always liked the theory that he was Queen Victoria’s heir, but there’s really no solid evidence for that. The new theory that he was a famous artist is—”

“Do you know something about everything? Or do you just make things up as you go along?”

“Note all the books lying around the place,” she countered. “You don’t have to live for a thousand years to know something about history,” she shot back angrily.

“I’ve hardly been around for a thousand years.”

“Do vampires live through history without bothering to study anything about it?”

“Do you think I think history is nothing more than a hobby for mortals?”

“Probably.”

“You don’t know what I think about anything.”

“And you don’t know me.”

Christopher finally noticed that they were now leaning across the counter, nose to nose with each other. He took a step back. “Right. Calm down. There’s no need for us to bicker like a pair of old marrieds.”

She rubbed her bruised shoulders. “What the hell is a pantomime gypsy?”

“Not arguing anymore,” Christopher answered.

S
he was babbling. She knew it, and hated it. She’d always been amused at her cousin Paloma’s ability to jump from one subject to another at the speed of light. Now she found out it was a family trait.
A rather unattractive one on me,
Ivy thought.
I’m reacting when I need to be thinking, doing.

She needed to get out of there, to get away from this monster. And he is a monster. First lesson, never forget vampires are monsters no matter how nice some of them might be individually.

She moved cautiously away from the fridge, squeezed past where he sat. Though he didn’t watch her go, she didn’t turn her back on him until she was well into the living room.

The bastard was leaning against the front door before she had a chance to get there. “There’s someone out there trying to hurt you,” he told her. “You’re safer here with me.”

“How do you define
safe
?”

“You’re not dead yet.”

That might actually be a pretty good definition of
safe
in their crazy world. And she and Christopher were members of a small, very small, minority of magic users. A minority that had been in danger of being destroyed by the much greater
normal
population for hundreds of years now.

Ivy considered making a broad statement about how she could take care of herself. But since she would be proclaiming that while imprisoned in her own home, such bravado would only be embarrassing in the end, even if she knew how self-sufficient she normally was.

“The night is wasting,” she said. “Why don’t we each get out there and do what we have to do? Alone. All by
ourselves. Go. Have fun.”
As long as you’re not killing anyone,
she added to herself.

She’d been with him in dreams but really still had no idea what he wanted, why he was in Chicago, why she’d caught his attention. She wished she’d been able tell Selena more about him. Hopefully, mentioning him had been enough warning.

But if Christopher was the killer of those two kids in DeKalb, catching him wasn’t Selena’s job. It was hers.

“You’re looking very brave,” he said, coming forward. He reached his huge, horribly strong hands out toward her again.

Instead of flinching away, she shocked herself by leaning toward his touch.

C
hristopher held Ivy’s face between his hands, soft and sweet as peaches. He breathed in her heat, saw bravery in the blood rushing under her tender skin.

He brought his lips closer to hers. She was anything but surprised by his intentions.

“No biting,” she said.

Kissing her was the only way to shut her up. With telepathy, even that wasn’t likely to last for long. Unless they could distract each other to the point where words meant nothing. Reach the point where sensuality totally overruled thought.

Her mouth was hotter and sweeter than when their souls kissed in the dream. Her reaction was stronger, the thrust of her tongue more demanding. Desire seared through her, caution and fear burning to ash, sensation hovered on the edge of addiction. Blood or no blood, he could taste it.

She belonged to him.

T
his was dangerous.

This was sexy beyond belief. This was hot and heady and—

His tongue played against hers.

Delicious.

He hadn’t held her like this before, gently, possessive, but with no threat. There was so much arousal and promise of more to come in his touch as he cupped her face, her breasts, her bottom. He’d held her tightly before, but they hadn’t been drawn together like this, hip to hip. Heat to heat.

They’d shared the bed, been close, but they hadn’t touched. Not really. Skin to skin.

They dragged off each other’s clothes, pulled and tugged and tossed away layers of shirts and pants and underwear in an awkward, feverish dance. Hands and mouths began to explore. Discover.

This was dangerous.

His lips touched and skimmed her throat, left side, right, left again. Kisses paused on pulse points, moved on. She explored his lean body, her fingertips tracing his chest and down his sides. She dug her short nails into the wiry muscles of his back. Warning? Encouraging?

Dangerous. Dangerous. Dangerous. What fool thing was she doing?

“No more fool than I am,” Christopher groaned against her mouth between kisses.

He tasted of coffee and darkness. Hot with need. Eager. Pouring desire into her, pulling it out of her.

He kissed each of her bruised shoulders, slowly, gently, tracing his lips down to her breasts and belly. He waited, urging with his hands, his mouth, and all the powers within him. It would be so easy for him to take. So easy for her to be claimed and taken. But he waited.

No excuses allowed for later. Free will. What a bitch that was.

Dangerous.

His arousing fingers danced down her belly, between her legs, inside the wet heat of her core.

“Sweet Goddess!” she groaned, convulsing with pleasure.

Rising fire raced through Ivy. Need beyond any she’d ever known begged for more.

“Free will, my ass,” she muttered, her lips against his shoulder. She licked his hot skin, breathed him in.

“You can still say no,” he whispered in her ear. While his fingers teased her swollen clit.

“Hell, no!” She gasped through the lightning running through her.

“I’ll take that as
yes
.”

The vampire picked her up and put her on the bed. Just as well—she couldn’t have stood if he let her go.

She clung to him, arched against him as his body covered hers.

Should never have kissed him, inside or out of her head.

Caution swept away. Every bit of psychic shielding melted. She became as vulnerable as any other mortal, but wasn’t naked alone.

W
hat color is sex?”

“Green,” Christopher answered, before he realized what she meant.