Fallon [Darklands] Read online

  "Alaska. That's where I'm based."

  November in Alaska—not exactly a thrilling thought. “Am I free to leave?"

  He hesitated. “The Counsel of Elders will want to speak with you first."

  The Counsel was the Haunt equivalent of parliament. Most of them were quite old, clan heads and respected leaders. A powerful group, they had final say in all Haunt business.

  So, she wasn't free. She knew what happened to anyone who was rescued from the Cult's clutches. Once their face was known, they were bustled through the gate to “protect themselves and others.” The Cult had a world-wide network of affiliates; shape shifter hating psychos who'd stop at nothing to see her people dead. Not that she wanted to be captured again, but she wasn't wild about letting the counsel dictate where she could live. Her father had raised her to take care of herself. She wasn't going to be dragged to an alien world, and good intentions be hanged.

  It wasn't as if she was really one of them, anyway.

  Sleep sucked her down, and she went without a fight. When this thing landed, she wanted to be ready to bolt. Once they got her under formal guard, her chances of escape would sink out of sight.

  * * * *

  It was forty below and dark, with a sharp wind blowing. Scratching her idea to run the moment her feet hit pavement, she ducked her head instead and pulled the blanket, she'd been given, tighter. How did people survive in this frigid climate?

  A black Jeep was waiting for them. Fallon opened the door for her and she slid into the passenger side, grateful for the warmth. Had she been thinking faster, she might have thought to hit the auto-lock and attempt to steal the Jeep, but the cold and her awkward blanket distracted her. Just as well—she'd never learned to drive a stick.

  Fallon slid into the driver's seat. One look at his big body convinced her that she'd been wise not to try and run. Guys didn't like women messing with their autos. A guy like him ... she had a feeling he'd go through the window.

  Curiosity made her ask. “What would you have done if I'd driven off?"

  He glanced at her mildly. “My insurance premiums would have gone up, but the body shop guy would have been very happy.” He looked back at the road. “You're not that stupid."

  Annoyed, she sniped, “I thought your type didn't hurt women."

  "We practice discipline, especially of our women. If you were mine, you wouldn't tempt me.” This time his glance was speculative.

  If he was trying to unnerve her, it worked. She didn't want any part of his ‘discipline,’ and she sure as fire didn't want to date him. A second glance confirmed that he was cute—no surprise she hadn't noticed, considering—but good looks didn't make the firearm at his side disappear.

  Frozen scenery and ice fog flowed past her window, along with occasional traffic. It was only four in the afternoon, and already dark. She had no money and no friends. Running for her life had sucked away every last dime, and it was hardly conducive to maintaining friendships. For that matter, even her last change of underwear had been lost when she'd been seized, and she expected the day to go downhill from there.

  She felt tired. A year was a long time to run, and she was beginning to feel like the rope in a tug of war. The bad guys had her, then the ... well, she wasn't ready to call Fallon a good guy yet, but at least he hadn't tied her to a chair. She sighed.

  "What's wrong?"

  "I lost my toothbrush."

  He choked, probably on a laugh. “We'll get you another one."

  "Are there any banks open? Trent and his buddies didn't bother to check my pockets, and I've got a little money I'd like to exchange.” Two shillings was a little money, after all.

  "I'll take care of it for you. Wouldn't you rather shower first? You've had a rough day."

  Debating the merits of escaping him in a bank while exhausted, nearly penniless, and hampered by freezing weather, she reluctantly grumbled, “Where are we going?"

  "My place. I've got good security, and it will make it easy for the counsel to speak with you."

  "About that ... I'm not real eager to chat with them."

  He looked at her. “You have nothing to fear. You've done nothing wrong."

  Her lips tightened and she stared back out the window. He was wrong there, but she wasn't going to argue with a stone wall. Assuming she could refuel and evade him, she was going to run the moment she got the chance.

  Not everybody hunting her was human.

  * * * *

  Fallon watched her out of the corner of his eye. Something was scaring her, something other than the obvious. In spite of her attempt at careless chitchat, she was still wound tight. One wrong move on his part and she'd be off at a sprint, never looking back.

  Did she fear extradition? The Darklands, where many of their people had fled, was a wondrous place, but dangerous as well. It abounded in massive lightning storms and dangerous native flora and fauna, but their people were taming it acre by acre. Reached only by a portal located in Alaska, it demanded strength from its people, and gave richly to those with the heart to rule it. A spirited girl like her would do well there, but perhaps she didn't know that. The few of them left here were increasingly ignorant of Darkland lore.

  Like his father before him, Fallon was the guardian of the portal, and he divided his time between the two worlds. It was necessary to know politics on both sides of the border, for his job was often complicated by bickering between the Darkland rulers and the Earth based Elders. Despite the tensions, his job was to protect the gate from criminals intent on escaping human justice and regulated the flow of emigrants fleeing the increasing power of the Cult. Because of this, he found himself playing ambassador and politician more often than he'd like. He was a warrior, not a nursemaid.

  Only a few families lingered still on Earth. Almost all that remained of their young men had chosen to receive special combat training, protecting their people and the gate until the stragglers could make up their mind to cross over. Fallon hoped it would happen soon. Those that were left couldn't escape the vigilantes for long.

  He checked on his passenger out of the corner of his eye. She was cute, in spite of the shadows under her eyes and eye-watering stench. Not that he begrudged her that—she'd had a rough day. A good shower would take care of the grime, and sleep would restore her color. A faint grin played around his mouth as he considered what rest would do for her feisty attitude. She'd be a handful, and he wouldn't mind the distraction. Life had been dull of late. He had a feeling her visit might be just what he needed.

  The sound of gravel crunching under the Jeep's wheels woke her from her light doze. Squinting with lingering sleep, she blinked as the motion lights clicked on, illuminating the miniature castle Fallon called home. She stared at the mullioned windows and round tower as one of the three garage doors slid up. He smiled in amusement when her eyes widened at the bad, black, and very expensive Lamborghini Diablo and custom made Harley parked on either side of the Jeep. Women had a thing for sports cars, even if most of them knew little about the specifics. Looked like she was no exception.

  "Bachelor,” she muttered to herself, eyeing his toys with misgiving. The odds of him having a wife and kids tucked away in here had just drastically diminished. Fighting the urge to squirm at the thought of them sharing his house unchaperoned, she paid close attention to his quick tour.

  "Laundry room. Toss your clothes out the door when you hop in the shower and I'll throw them in. You can use one of my shirts and my robe until they're dry. You'll be comfortable sleeping in the shirt, and there's no way my pants are going to fit you."

  She cleared her throat and suggested uneasily, “Boxers might.” Heat rose in her cheeks, but she did not feel comfortable strutting around without underwear at the best of times, and especially around him.

  "Don't wear them,” he answered easily. They passed through a spacious kitchen. She glimpsed a roomy living room with leather couches, overstuffed armchairs and a big screen TV as he guided her upstairs. He paused before a doo
r and swung it open, revealing a sparkling bathroom with a huge tub, a shower stall and double sinks. The words ‘wife’ drifted through her brain, but she shook it off. There were no feminine frills, no soft touches of womanly possession. “You've got a housekeeper, right?"

  "Right. Look in that drawer there—should be spare toothbrushes. Soap and shampoo are in the shower, all the towels are clean. Be right back with some clothes."

  Grimacing at her reflection in the mirror, she made good use of the toothbrush, thrilled to have clean teeth again. She'd been running hard for the better part of a week, ever since the Cult had picked up her trail again. She'd slept in alleys, hay barns and even broken into a church once to sack out on a pew. Even before, she'd been constantly on alert, taking odd jobs and staying on the move in a chess game that had spanned much of Europe before it had ended abruptly in London. For her, little things like pure water and the prospect of a clean, soft bed held the emotional appeal of a vacation at Club Med.

  "Here you are. I'll be in the kitchen working on dinner when you're done.” Her host deposited a pile of clothes on the counter and left her to her business.

  Stripping naked, she gratefully tossed her dirty clothes out the door and locked it, suffering a brief pang for the mess she was about to make of his tiled shower. She stepped in and cranked up the heat. Hot needles of water rained down on her, heavenly forerunners of a hopefully restful evening. It took three shampoos and lots of soap, but finally she felt squeaky enough to brave the kitchen.

  Borrowing his brush, she worked the tangles out of her waist length hair, wishing in vain for a hair dryer. His shirt slid over her bare skin like a caress, making dormant senses prickle uncomfortably. “Stop it,” she muttered, belting on his maroon silk robe. There was no lotion in the bathroom, so ignoring her itchy skin, she took a deep breath and opened the door.

  True to his word, he was in the kitchen, stirring something in a wok. Ignoring her flash of awareness at the sight of his muscular back, and the way he turned and looked her over slowly, as if surprised, she cleared her throat. “Mind if I borrow this?” At his slight headshake, she took his bottle of olive oil and spread a drop on her palms, rubbing it on her face and hands. Spying a clean dishtowel, she used it to wipe the excess from her face. “Dry skin,” she explained at his curious look.

  Nodding, he gestured to the kitchen island and a plate of raw fruit and veggies. “Help yourself. This will be done in a minute."

  Fallon was ... surprised. He's suspected she'd clean up well, but he hadn't expected sable hair that gently waved down to a trim little waist. Baggy clothes and sweat streaked grime had disguised a clear complexion and nice curves. Full lips and smoky blue eyes that occasionally glowed green peeked at him warily from a frame of thick lashes. The girl was hot, and he was interested. Her fear was a hurdle, but time would cure that.

  A faint whiff of smoke caught his attention. Saving their dinner before it could burn, he tossed a heating pad on the island and drew up a stool. He'd already set out plates and sundries, and Rain was making good use of them.

  "Care to pray?"

  His request caught her off-guard. Guiltily swallowing the bite in her mouth, Rain looked at him expectantly. With a self-deprecating smile, he moved around the island and reached for her shoulders.

  She grabbed a fork and spun around, breathing hard, jabbing the utensil threateningly into this stomach. “What are you doing?"

  He looked at her strangely. “I was about to bless the meal.” He looked askance at the fork, then up at her. “Do you always react this strongly to displays of religion?"

  "You d-don't have to touch me to pray,” she said warningly. Touchy-feely men had not been a pleasant part of her last years.

  "I am not going to hurt you,” he said slowly, confidently. Never taking his eyes from hers, he carefully reached down and closed his hand over hers, directing it away from his belly. Then, as if she weren't still quivering with adrenaline, he softly intoned a short blessing. Releasing her just as leisurely, he moved away and reclaimed his stool.

  When he said nothing, simply served himself, she slowly uncoiled. The pattern of the fork was still imprinted on her hand, but she unclenched it with an act of will and returned to her eating, keeping a wary eye on him.

  "Wine?” he poured a glass and offered it to her, then filled his own glass.

  Rain knew about wine. It had little effect on her kind and went down like water, so she was surprised at the rich flavor and depth of her first sip. Drawing back, she eyed the golden liquid, then the decanter in front of Fallon. “This can't be wine."

  "Darkland wine. Careful, it's stronger than you're accustomed to.” His green eyes were amused.

  Taking the caution to heart, she sipped curiously at the otherworldly liquid. “What's it made from?"

  "Dream flowers. It's a very rare and special vintage."

  "What's the occasion?"

  "Saving a woman is always an occasion."

  She looked away. “I suppose it was worth it—I might have known some names, caused some needless deaths."

  It disturbed him, the scant belief in her worth. As transparently as a glass, her expression said death hadn't been such a fearful thing. It was very bad when someone looked at death as a release. Maybe he could shake some sense into her. “If we hadn't come, Rory would have abused you in ways I wouldn't describe to my least favored dog. The pheromone would have ensured you got some pleasure out of it—at first. The sexual pleasure it evokes is phenomenal and impossible to resist, but I've seen what was left of the women he used. Their minds are gone long before their body goes."

  She still wouldn't look at him. Her voice was hollow. “I know what he was. I'm glad he's dead."

  "The pheromone really shook you up, didn't it? That's normal. Time and a real lover will cure that."

  Her eyes widened in shock. “I'm not—” she sputtered, then seemed to flail for words. “What is this, Dr. Fallon's Rx for love?"

  "If you like. I've had some experience with female Sylphs. The only real cure was lengthy separation and.... “he trailed off, smiling with fond remembrance. The cure had been intensive, the relationship short. She'd sent him away, claiming affectionately that he'd exhausted her, but there'd been a smile on her lips as she wished him well. The smile grew wicked as he remembered what else she'd said. Find a woman who can keep up with you, love. I'll be content with lesser wine from now on—you've proven how exhausting it is to drink from your vintage." Rain's presence reminded him that it had been months since he'd last shared pleasure. Interest crooked her siren finger, making his smile grow. “I could help you, if you like."

  "I don't like,” she snapped, far too quickly. “A cold shower works just as well."

  Judging from the look in her eyes, that wasn't the whole truth, but some playful flirting might be just what she needed to overcome the fear he read there. The girl needed to lighten up. “What about a massage? I've been told I have the magic touch."

  Had she been a porcupine, her quills would have gone up. “Do you understand rejection, or do I need to get you a dictionary? I don't bedrock with anyone, and definitely not total strangers."

  That made him study her. A virgin? Untouched at twenty-two? Or so battered she refused to acknowledge want and need, possibly even emotion? His mood grew more serious. “Has someone forced you?"

  Anguish flashed in her face. Her jaw tightened as she hid her wounded eyes. “Not exactly."

  Protectiveness made his voice darken. “You were attacked."

  "Nobody finished what they started,” she said quickly, staring at her plate. “I'm not that helpless.” She sent him a quick, fierce glance, then stabbed a bite of dinner, pushing it around on her plate.

  'Nobody’ implied more than one attacker, perhaps more than one incident. When had it happened? After her father's death, while she was on the run? She was too tightly wound just now to question further, but there would be another time.

  It grated that any woman would be at
tacked, but bit even deeper with this one. She was under his protection now, whether she cared for it or not, and he took that responsibility seriously. She couldn't stay on the edge she was walking—one wrong step, and the knife's edge would cut her in two.

  Fortunately, he was a man of many talents. Taking care of women ranked among his best.

  They were finishing their meal as the doorbell rang. Excusing himself, he answered it, then returned bearing the delivered packages. He set them on the counter before her. “Your clothes have arrived."

  Clearly puzzled, she reached for a bag, then stared at the contents. Slowly, she drew out a pair of folded jeans and looked at the tag. “These are in my size."

  "I glanced at the tags on your cloths before I tossed them in the wash. We can exchange anything you don't like, but I wanted you to have selection to choose from.” He watched her as he casually started clearing the table. She looked overwhelmed.

  There was nothing extravagant in the bags; not knowing her tastes, he'd had the sales lady pick up common designs—t-shirts, a clingy knit top, a sweater. The white athletic shoes would do until she could choose her own, and though more personal, the packages of underwear and socks shouldn't embarrass her beyond recall. Annoyed, he realized he'd forgotten to order a coat, but she could wear one of his when they went shopping tomorrow. He glanced at her to say as much, and stilled. Her eyes were wet.

  She was staring at a new hairbrush, but didn't seem to be looking at it. “Thank you.” The words were strained, almost whispered. “Nobody's ever—” she broke off and swallowed.

  Awkward. He didn't do tears well, but Fallon instinctively understood the basics. Moving to her side, he gingerly wrapped an arm around her, carefully patting her shoulder. He was tempted to say, “There, there” like some inane fool, but resisted the urge.

  Rain sucked in a breath and stiffened her spine. “Too much wine,” she said a trifle damply, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “I need to sleep it off."