Through a Crimson Veil Read online

  For a minute he thought she was going to persist, then she gave up and said, “My question was serious. Where are you sleeping?” She looked unperturbed.

  Whether or not she was disappointed by his refusal was anyone’s guess, and he couldn’t keep ascribing other motives to everything she said or he’d drive himself nuts. “I’ll sack out on the couch,” he decided.

  She looked from one side of the sofa to the other. “You’re kidding, right? You’re too tall to be comfortable. It’s so short that I don’t think I’d be able to sleep on it.”

  “It’ll be fine.” She was right, he was going to be miserable, but he’d get more rest out here than he would lying beside her. And if things became too unbearable, he could always use the floor. He’d slept in worse places. A lot worse.

  “Whatever,” she said.

  Her amusement came through loud and clear—as did a certain smugness. His temper started to simmer again and he struggled to tamp it down.

  “Do we need to discuss strategy about how we’re going to hunt the demon that’s after me?” she asked.

  “We? What the hell do you mean, we? You’re staying here.”

  She pursed her lips, crossed one ankle over the other, then asked, “Why do you get to have fun while I sit home?”

  Conor realized then that she was teasing him again—no way was she serious about hunting demons—but just in case, he said, “You hired me, so you should stay out of the way and let me do my job.”

  “Sweet talker,” she murmured, giving him a flirtatious look from under lowered lashes. “You just don’t want me along because I distract you. Say otherwise all you want, but I know you were this close”—she held up her hand, her thumb and forefinger maybe a quarter of an inch apart—“to taking me against that alley wall, and you didn’t even know my name.”

  Conor took a deep breath, then another. How much of this woman’s forwardness was a ploy? She was looking for a response, and he wasn’t going to give one to her, no matter how tempting. He wanted to tell her she was wrong—it wasn’t the alley he’d had in mind; he’d been thinking of taking her right there on the street. But that would be playing into her hands. And it might not shock her the way he wanted. She seemed unshockable.

  Control, he reminded himself. Ignore the provocation.

  “Besides”—he actually managed to sound halfway normal—“you’ll be safe here. I’ve got protection around the property. No one—demon, human, or anything else—can enter.”

  His home was a damn fortress. He wasn’t sure how it worked, but from the day a human woman, a psychic, had buried four stones at the corners of his land and performed some odd ritual, no one had been able to cross the boundary. If he wanted to make an exception, he needed to chant a spell using the person’s full name. To get Mika inside, he’d intoned the words, his voice not even a whisper, while he’d been retrieving her suitcase.

  “I walked right through,” Mika continued blithely, “without feeling any barrier. Are you sure no demon can enter?” she asked.

  “You’re not supposed to feel it, but it’s there. And I gave you permission to come in,” he growled. Was she intentionally questioning his competence?

  “How many others have you given permission?” she asked. Her tone of voice was making it difficult for him to hang on to his cool.

  “No one you need to worry about.”

  She continued pushing him: “Kiverians have been known to indwell. I’d hate to have to fight a stream of possessed ex-lovers.”

  He was standing in front of her before he realized he’d moved, and his hands were on the back of the couch, on either side of her head. Conor never allowed himself to use his demon powers when he wasn’t out slaying, yet he’d just broken his own rule. Mika blinked, but that was the only sign his unnatural speed had unnerved her. He leaned in closer, eyes no doubt blazing like two bonfires, and growled an answer. “One other person. One. My former mentor. You don’t have to worry about him. Not only does Ben now live hundreds of miles away, he’s too old and frail for any demon to possess.” Everyone knew if a human died before indwelling was complete, the demon died too.

  With a satisfied smile, Mika sat forward and rubbed her nose against his. Conor jerked away as if she’d jolted him with a million volts of electricity.

  “Why do you keep doing this?” he asked quietly. He expected some flippant answer along the lines of Because I can, but that wasn’t what he got. She sat back on the couch.

  “You’re too tight. You need to let loose and live.”

  “I can’t ‘let loose.’ I’m half Kiverian—you know that. I have to keep the evil leashed.”

  She shook her head. “Kiverians aren’t evil. They’re…dark. There’s a difference.” She looked at him intently.

  He didn’t agree, but he wasn’t going to argue with her.

  Mika’s mouth twitched into a frown and she said, “There’s a Japanese proverb: ‘The bamboo that bends is stronger than the oak that resists.’ You’re resisting what you are, and some day you’ll snap. It’s inevitable. But if you accept your demon self, integrate it into who you are, you’ll be the stronger for it.” She continued to stare at him.

  Conor shifted uncomfortably. Did she expect him to believe she was offering this advice because she cared for him? More likely she wanted his demon side out for some reason of her own. He changed the subject.

  “Your mother is Japanese?” At first, he didn’t think she’d go along, but he could almost see her give a mental shrug.

  “My dad. But he prefers to be called American. He’s the fifth generation of his family to be born in this country.”

  “Your mother is the demon?” Conor asked. When Mika nodded, he felt shock course through him. This put a whole different spin on things. He’d assumed her mother had been raped the way his own had. “Did she trick him or force him in some manner in order to conceive you?”

  Mika looked confused. “How would I know? But I doubt it. I don’t remember any tension between them.” She suddenly scowled. “Why would you even ask that kind of question?”

  He kept his face blank, but it didn’t make any difference; he saw the truth dawn on her. Though he thought he’d been oblique enough, somehow he’d tipped her off and given her another weapon to use against him. Conor braced, waiting for her to wield it. She surprised him.

  “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. Then, after a short pause, she started a monologue about the wood floors in his house. Their eyes met and her lips twisted—not in humor, but in understanding. For the first time, Conor realized he could really like Mika.

  And that made her far more dangerous than he’d first believed.

  Chapter Three

  The sound of a door closing jerked him from a light doze, and Conor’s whole body tensed. Then he remembered Mika. He didn’t relax until he heard the water come on in the bathroom. With a soft curse, he pushed into a sitting position and leaned back against the couch. It was daytime. He didn’t remember the floor being this hard, but his body ached from sleeping on it. Or from trying to sleep.

  It wasn’t only the discomfort that had kept him awake, either. Mika had insisted on leaving the door to his bedroom open—said it would make her feel safer. Talk about bullshit. It had been another invitation, pure and simple.

  Conor brought his knees up and rested his forearms on them. Every time she’d shifted in bed last night, he’d heard. And as the hours passed, resisting the pull he felt to Mika had become tougher and tougher. He rubbed a hand over his eyes. The time spent lying awake had allowed him to think, and he’d come to a realization: Despite her behavior, despite her willingness, Mika wasn’t as experienced as she wanted him to believe. There was something in her eyes, a watchfulness maybe, that made him think she was studying his reactions and learning from them.

  And damn, if that wasn’t an even bigger lure.

  She liked to play games; he was aware of that. And demons lied. He knew that too. But her lust for him was real and unconnected t
o the reason she’d sought him out—it was a truth he could sense. Of course, that didn’t mean she wouldn’t use it to her advantage.

  When the water went off, he stood and stifled a groan as his body protested the movement. Conor eyed his shirt and decided to leave it; Mika wouldn’t be offended by a bare chest and he didn’t feel like pulling it on.

  He stopped short when he saw his home comm was blinking, indicating he had messages. Swallowing a curse, he sprawled in his desk chair and brought the unit online. When some slick salesman went into a spiel about home siding, Conor minimized the window and pulled up the day’s headlines. Demons tended to do things that got them noticed, and part of his plan to hunt down the Kiverian after Mika was to scan the news.

  Maddox Clan Denies War Prep Rumors. Conor snorted. Like the dogs were going to tell reporters anything different.

  Donner: “Business As Usual.” Donner might head B-Ops, but he was a politician, not an agent. He had no clue what usual was. At least he knew enough to keep his nose out of operations. Conor grimaced, scrolled down the page.

  Strange Events West of City. He skimmed the article. It didn’t say much, but it sounded like someone was shapeshifting or maybe creating illusions. Definitely worth checking out.

  Finally, the siding salesman ended his pitch and the comm unit beeped. When McCabe heard the next voice, he brought the image back to full-screen. Ben looked older than the last time Conor saw him. His mentor’s hair was more gray than brown now, the skin wrinkled and sagging around his face. It gave Conor a pang to see how his friend had aged in only a few months, but he reluctantly smiled as Ben muttered about “all the damn technology.”

  Ben ground to a halt, shook his head, and said, “I was hoping to talk with you, but I should have realized you’d have your comm turned off. Kid, you can’t stay so isolated. It’s not good for you.” There was affection laced with the exasperation in his voice. “Never mind,” he said, “I’ll lecture you in person when you call me back. You know my code.”

  There was a close-up of his mentor’s nose and more complaints about “gizmos” before Ben managed to disconnect. The double beep signaled the end of messages, and Conor leaned forward to return the call. The last thing he wanted was a reprimand about being such a loner, but he owed too much to his friend to blow him off; he’d endure the speech, even if he’d heard it so many times that he had it memorized.

  No answer. A glance at the time told him Ben was probably at his usual afternoon poker game. Conor left a message and pushed to his feet.

  He entered the kitchen grimacing, and not just from the late afternoon sun pouring in through the uncovered windows. His next—and final—project for this house was remodeling this room. Conor hated the yellowed linoleum, and the way it had started to curl near the walls, but time had been hard to come by lately. He couldn’t remember when more vampires and werewolves were listed as wanted by the government, and freelance work from B-Ops had kept him busy.

  Tensions were high and had been for a while. The Preemptive Defense Initiative against vampires had ended, but the armed truce Crimson City’s inhabitants lived in was tentative. It wouldn’t take much to set off a damn interspecies war.

  As if that weren’t bad enough, word on the street was that the werewolves and vampires had formed an alliance. Conor had no problem believing that. Fangs were snobbish as hell, but they were opportunistic and would realize it was to their benefit to team up with the dogs. It probably hadn’t been easy to convince the werewolves—not at first—but the packs had no doubt realized if PDI were successful, humans would eliminate their species next.

  Frowning, he reached into one of the kitchen cabinets, pulled out a plastic glass and put it on the table. For a few days, he didn’t have to worry about B-Ops or alliances—he’d just be protecting Mika. A nice, straightforward job.

  He snorted at that thought. It had been maybe fourteen hours since he’d met her, and she’d already turned his life upside down.

  Taking out a carton of orange juice, he filled his cup to the top, then returned it to the fridge before settling in the wooden chair facing the hallway. Something made him freeze—a shift in energy maybe—but as he tried to focus, he heard the bathroom door open and he lost the sense. Had it even been there? He shrugged and raised his glass as Mika made her entrance.

  His hand jerked, causing a wave of juice to slop over his fingers and pool on the wooden surface of the table. Quickly, he put down the cup in order to stare. Mika’s legs looked impossibly long, and he let his eyes trail over every inch of them. By the time his gaze reached the edge of her red, high-cut panties, his jeans had become restrictive. He shifted in his chair seeking relief.

  Her midriff was bare, her skin golden. She was wearing a red tank top that ended above her navel. It clung to her, especially her breasts, and outlined her erect nipples. More blood surged away from Conor’s brain. He wanted his mouth on her, wanted it bad.

  Her dark hair was mussed, her eyes heavy-lidded—probably from sleep, but it made her appear even more sultry. Conor swallowed hard as she started walking toward him. For a moment, he was mesmerized by the sway of her hips. Then he snapped himself out of it.

  “What the hell are you wearing?” His voice was a combination rasp and growl, but he was relieved he could form a coherent sentence. He slid his chair back from the table far enough to reach the dish towel looped through the oven handle, and wiped the orange juice off his hand.

  “What’s wrong with my pajamas?” she asked. She stopped in front of him and rested her hip lightly against the table. She looked confused, which was bullshit.

  “Pajamas? You’re in underwear. Go put some clothes on.”

  “Everything’s covered,” she agreed. “Besides, women wear less than this at the beach every day.”

  “We’re not at the beach,” he forced himself to say.

  She smiled, and Conor tensed, but although he realized she was up to something, he wasn’t prepared for it. Before he could react, Mika straddled him. It was a bold action except for one thing—she leaned backward, away from him.

  He dropped the towel he held and took her waist, but instead of lifting her off his lap, he drew her tightly against his body until her breasts pressed against his chest. Nothing before in his life had ever felt so good. He managed to stop his groan, but not the shudder. She smiled at his reaction and nipped his chin. He hated that he wasn’t indifferent to it, hated that Mika’s teeth on his skin made him so much hotter, but Conor arched forward anyway.

  Why her? He’d been immune to the few other female demons he’d met, but from the instant he’d sensed Mika, he’d skated on the edge of control. “Stop that,” he said, but she ignored him. Even he could hear the lack of conviction in his tone.

  Her mouth moved up his jaw, kissing, licking and nipping. Conor had his hands on her waist again, and he stroked the bare skin over her spine, tracing each of Mika’s vertebrae. He was losing himself in lust when he felt the disturbance again. It had something to do with the protective barrier around his house, but he couldn’t figure out what. His residence was tamper-proof. Or as close to it as possible.

  He attempted to zero in on what he sensed, but Mika reached his ear and traced its outside edge with her tongue. He shuddered more strongly and his hands went to her hips, pulling her against his erection. She eased back, letting him see her smile, then rocked her body into his.

  Conor wouldn’t have guessed he could get any harder, but she showed him differently. His world narrowed to Mika: the feel of her curves against him, the sight of her eyes glowing red, the scent of her arousal. She took his mouth in a kiss as wild and unrestrained as he felt. At first he tried to hold back, tried to keep from scaring her, then he realized he didn’t have to do that—his relentless hunger wouldn’t frighten her. The part of him that was Kiverian strained at its tether.

  Which was enough to knock him out of his sensual daze. Breaking the kiss, he said, “That’s enough.”

  It wasn’t, no
t even close, but he couldn’t risk it, couldn’t let his demon nature loose. Mika was bad for him. Very bad. And she still leaned into him, tempting him to throw control aside and take what he wanted with every cell of his being.

  His grip tightened and he shifted her back so she wasn’t molded to his torso. He nearly groaned in protest at the separation, but closed his eyes and fought the need.

  Mika didn’t help. Although he kept her from sliding forward again, her hands were roaming his chest and belly, even dipping beneath the waistband of his jeans. He pinned her with a hard stare. His resolve faltered for a moment as he saw the thick glaze of arousal in her eyes, but he said, “Stay still.”

  She froze. Her obedience shocked the hell out of him before he realized she was probably trying to keep him off-balance. It worked. He didn’t know which end was up. “You’re trouble,” he said stupidly, his voice still thick with need.

  She grinned. “Why? Because when you’re with me, you actually start to feel things? That means you’re alive.”

  “No.” He shook his head, denying what she’d said.

  “Yes. Look at you, Conor. Your eyes are burning, your skin is flushed and—”

  He sensed something. Immediately, Mika tensed and stopped talking, trying to figure out what had made his body go rigid. Conor forced his awareness of her out of his mind; he couldn’t afford the distraction. His protective shield: someone definitely was testing it. If he had to make a guess, he’d say they were probing, trying to find out if there was a weakness and where. He needed to figure out who or what was out there.

  As hard as he focused, though, he couldn’t get a good read. Whoever it was had shielded himself, and had done a damn good job. That tipped the odds in favor of this uninvited guest being a demon. If he weren’t in tune with his security, he might not have picked up on it at all.

  “What is it?” Mika whispered.

  Conor shook his head, silently telling her to stay quiet.