Draicon: Enemy Lover Part 12

"Rafe sent the car over. Are you ready?"

Damian poked his head into her bedroom. She snapped the suitcase lid shut as he came forward. Tension knotted her stomach.

"I feel just like I did when we evacuated for Katrina. Like I'm never coming back."

"You'll be back. This is just until my brothers can sweep the house with magick and clean out the dirt." Damian gave her a rea.s.suring smile.

"By using magick." At his nod, she sighed. "Magick I lack. Because inside me, there's nothing but blackness. That's why you put the binding spell on me back in New Mexico."

"No." He came forward, cupped her face. "I put the binding spell on you to guard you from harm. If you couldn't use magick, the Morphs wouldn't want you. I didn't know Kane had already infected you with a spell to drain your life."

"I feel like I'm still linked to them," she said in a low voice. "But it's weird because there's something else there, as well."

He went preternaturally still. "Like what?"

"Something struggling against darkness, wanting out. I feel like a loaded gun waiting for the right trigger. Like there's good magick inside me, waiting to be used. But I can't tap it."

An intent look came over him, as if he struggled with a weighty decision. Damian stepped away from her. He lifted his hands and began chanting in a strange tongue. Iridescent sparks swirled around her, dancing in the stray sunbeams.

She felt a curious lifting inside her spirit, then it faded. He dropped his hands.

"You're free. I released the spell binding you from doing magick."

Power hummed inside her. The magick instilled in her through Damian's blood sang like a crackling electrical line. Awe filled her at the trust he'd placed in her. If there was darkness inside her, she could direct it at him with a killing thought.

"Aren't you afraid I'll use it against you?"

"You can't hurt me. My magick is very powerful."

"I could try." She stared at him. "I did before. I nearly killed you."

"With a kiss. Remember? You kissed me. Do you want to try again? Kissing me?"

A knowing smile touched his mouth. He was all control, in power and knew it.

His smile s.h.i.+fted, became speculative. "Why did you try to kill me, Jamie? Someday you'll tell me the truth." Damian reached out, fingered a lock of her hair as if he couldn't bear not to touch her. "I know how much you hurt inside. I've seen your pain, your anguish. You hide something from me, something important. But I still can't read you."

His hand fell. He looked away. "If there is good magick inside you, it's time to release it. But be careful. The more you exercise power, the less the magick I've given you can hold the stone spell at bay."

A haunted look flashed over him. "And if something should happen to me, you can protect yourself. Just in case. I will never again lose anyone like..."

Her heart gave a crazy lurch. "Like what?"

"Nothing. Let's go. This place is too dangerous to linger."

Minutes later, Damian parked the Lexus on the street in front of a mansion on Esplanade. Home, for now. Until it was safe to return to her house.

She wondered if it ever would be safe. If a cat could turn into a Morph and attack a helpless little girl, what else? If Damian hadn't caught and dispatched the Morph, it might have been her that lay in a pool of blood. Just like Renee.

Damian a.s.sured her Raphael's home was safe. The mansion welcomed her with quiet warmth. Fragrant honeysuckle and rose bushes scented the property. Painted a soothing ivory, the two-story house boasted Ionic columns and a wide front porch with comfortable white wicker chairs. A wrought-iron fence with lacework grilling guarded the property from the street. Spanish oak trees bearded with moss lined the avenue. The Creole mansions lining the street reflected a more relaxed era.

A time where you could sit on the porch sipping a cool iced tea, never worrying about the friendly cat winding about your legs turning into a demon.

The iron gate had a complicated latch. Damian reached for it, hesitated. He raised his eyes to the majestic house as if in benediction, his expression forlorn and yearning.

Jamie studied the gate. "What's wrong? Is something broken?"

"Mon coeur," he whispered. "Toujours."

High school French flashed back. My heart, always.

A lump clogged her throat. She touched his arm. Damian looked down at her hand. He flicked up the bolt, opened the gate and ushered her inside the house.

Her sneakers made soft squeaks against the polished hardwood floor as she examined the entrance hall with its antique oak coat stand, gilt mirror and delicate vases and imposing grandfather clock. In her ragged jeans, faded Nirvana T-s.h.i.+rt and scuffed sneakers, she felt like a hillbilly. Yee-haw.

Yet for all its charm, the house's hushed elegance felt like someone preserved it to seal in the past. The word floated into her mind. Ghosts.

Damian watched her. She glanced at him, knowing he expected a reaction.

"It's very beautiful," she managed.

"I hate it."

"Then why bring me here? A hotel is good."

"It's safer here for you. Rafe set up enough safeguards to fry Morphs small as a gnat," he muttered.

She ran a hand over the silk wallpaper. A s.h.i.+ver raced down her spine. Jamie shook her head. "I don't think I should stay. Something happened here. Something bad. Really bad. It's faint, but I still feel it."

Damian's face tightened. "Nothing here will hurt you. The energy you feel is from the past. But it can't-won't-hurt you."

Jamie waited. He set her suitcase down as if it were gla.s.s. Then he dragged a worn boot back and forth over the glossy floor. Making scratches, as if raking claws over it. Damian arched his neck, staring at the high ceiling, the carved crown moldings, the artwork hung tastefully on the forest-green wallpaper.

A minute dragged by, rasping like his heel against the fine-grained wood. Finally he jammed his hands into his jeans pockets.

"My parents' house was once here. When they died, I inherited. Remy, my stepfather, insisted on my rebuilding to honor my heritage."

Damian's home. Not Raphael's. "Why does Raphael live here?"

"I gave it to him as a gift. He sees himself as a caretaker." His eyes took on that haunted, tormented look. "I didn't want anything to do with it."

"What happened to your original home?"

"I torched it after my family died."

Jamie blinked. "You destroyed your own house?"

He shut down like a machine powering off. She knew why. Some things were just too d.a.m.n painful, like slicing open a healed wound with a knife. But if he wanted her to sleep tonight, she had to know.

"Let's give you a tour." He nodded toward the closest room.

The living room boasted a burgundy Aubusson carpet, oil paintings on beige walls, a mahogany couch and Louis XV upholstered chairs, but an Xbox and PlayStation sat before the wall-length armoire. Jamie pulled open a door. "You scored a copy of a.s.sa.s.sin's Creed. Sweet."

Those wide shoulders shrugged. "Rafe and Gabriel play."

"What about you? I hear it teaches good fighting skills," she teased.

"Computer games are a frivolous waste of time."

He looked so serious, his chiseled jaw set like dried concrete, his green eyes stony.

The rest of the downstairs tour went quickly. Damian picked up her suitcase, headed up the stairs. Jamie trotted behind. When they reached the last bedroom at the end of a long hallway, he opened a door with a crystal k.n.o.b. Jamie gasped in awe. Forest-green and rose carpets added color to the hardwood floor. Hanging on the mint silk wallpaper was a large gilded mirror and two Sargent reproductions. Cut-crystal lamps on a carved walnut dresser cast shadows on the luxurious four-poster. The room boasted a mahogany armoire and a Queen Anne desk. It was all very charming, Creole and elegant.

He set down her suitcase near the bed and jerked a thumb at a side door. "My room is next door, connected through the bathroom. We have the two master suites. My brothers are staying here. The house has five bedrooms, plus a large playroom in the attic with bunk beds, and the old slave quarters in the back are a guesthouse. Rafe stays there."

Despite the room's beauty, an underlying feeling of something bad ran through it. Something horrific, as if it screamed up through the earth, penetrating floorboards and howling through the house.

"Someone was hurt here."

He went still. "How can you tell?"

"I'm sensitive. Always have been." Jamie hugged herself, looking around. "There's nothing evil here anymore. I just feel sad. Very sad, like my heart is breaking."

A muscle twitched in his jaw. Damian went to the window, lifted the lacy curtain with the back of his hand.

"Damian, how did your family die? It was violent, wasn't it?"

For a moment, he said nothing. When he spoke, his voice was low and raspy. "They were killed by Morphs. Slaughtered in our own home. It was...brutal."

Jamie's breath hitched. She joined him, ran a hand over the whitewashed sill. "Killed here, that's why I feel the sadness. Your sister...your little sister, she was only four..."

He drew in a deep breath. "I found her. Under the bed, trying to hide."

Sickening dread punched her chest. Jamie s.h.i.+vered, imagining the little girl's terror, the howling grief Damian felt when he discovered her body.

"And you survived," she marveled.

"I survived only because I learned to fight. And win. Life is nothing but survival for my people. When we cease to fight, we cease to exist."

Something more lay beneath the surface. Damian's muscles tensed. Knowing he'd suffered his family's loss just as she did made the distance between them shrink.

Maybe, just maybe, Mama Renee had been right. Trust those you want to trust the least.

Damian dragged a hand through his short, dark hair. His gaze was haunted. "Go ahead, settle in. I'll be downstairs."

When the door shut behind him, she sat on the high four-poster, swinging her feet back and forth. The itch beneath her skin intensified. A heavy sorrow filled the air, currents of melancholy. Not just the past, but Damian's emotions, as well.

Jamie headed for the shower. She lingered, letting hot water cleanse her skin. When she emerged from the misty bathroom, the intense sadness was worse. She pulled on a black vintage Star Wars T-s.h.i.+rt and jeans, feeling Damian's pain screaming through her veins.

She could go outside, escape, wander the courtyard. She needed fresh air.

Barefoot, she jogged downstairs. In the hallway, the thick sadness nearly suffocated her. Jamie paused before a masculine study with a long English oak bar, Chippendale slant-front desk and white marble fireplace. The twin scents of Damian and alcohol tinged her nostrils.

She ached for s.p.a.ce and untainted air, but loathed leaving him alone in his misery. Jamie poked her head into the room. Damian lounged in one of four leather chairs arranged in a circle. On the marble-topped table beside him sat a half-filled bottle. His muscled legs were splayed open. A crystal winegla.s.s with ruby liquid dangled from his long fingers.

Despite the relaxed att.i.tude, his jaw was set like steel. Jamie girded herself.

"Hey, want some company?"

He hedged a minute. Then shrugged.

She snagged a gla.s.s from the bar's overhead rack, poured from the opened bottle and sat opposite him, tucking her legs beneath her.

Damian stared at the fireplace as if it divined the world's secrets. Jamie took a bracing sip, running her tongue over the liquid. "Awesome. Hint of smoke, a touch of something sharp, like leather. I'd say it's from the Medoc region."

Surprise widened his eyes. "You know your wines."

"I learned because of Mark. He was an oenophile. In addition to being an audiophile and a biophile. I think he had some other, more refined philes in him, but those were the most prominent."

Her little joke failed to raise a smile. Damian raised his gla.s.s, gave it a desultory swirl. "My father drank wine as if it were water. When he and my mother left France just before the Revolution and came here, he packed his habits with him."

"The Revolution. Is that a new Xbox release?" she teased.

"The Revolution was nothing compared to the war we're fighting now."

Finally he raised his green gaze. Jamie stifled a gasp. It was like glimpsing an algae-choked pond. No life. No movement. Nothing. G.o.d, he looked like she'd felt after Kane had bitten her and given her magick. Alive and breathing, but dragged under by cloying, impenetrable blackness.

Whatever happened, it sank to his soul. She knew all about that kind of desolation. Seeing this strong, proud and resilient male wrapped in deadness twisted her in knots. Jamie set down the gla.s.s, driven by a desperate need to shake it out of him.

Don't do this. Don't let it own you like it did me.

"Tell me, Damian. Tell me about it."

Damian sipped the Cabernet Franc in his gla.s.s. Complex, excellent vintage, but it could be muddy water in his numbed mouth.

She wanted to know about his war. It seemed never-ending, a rolling ribbon of violence.

"My life has been nothing but war. After my family died, I lived with Rafe's family. Remy and Celine took me in, taught me to hunt and survive."

He studied her slender, still body through the dark ruby liquid. Red, like blood.

"The Fedoighlas, as they're known in the Old Language, or in English, Morphs, were once Draicon like us. Before the last century, they were few and easier to eliminate. Now they outnumber us. Daggers straight to the heart is the only way to kill them."

"Why do Draicon turn Morph?"

The question was simple as a child's, but he sensed the deeper meaning. Damian dragged himself out of a vat of self-pity. She'd swum in a quicksand of evil darker than anything he'd ever encountered.

"Millennia ago, our race lived in the dimension of the Other Realm. We could move through air, create matter from energy, manipulate objects, shape-s.h.i.+ft to any form. But we wanted to learn of Earth, so to do so we willingly split ourselves in half to lessen our powers."