Dangerously Dark: The Dreamcaster Series, #3

One

Quinn shouldered her way into the Carmichael family cabin and dropped her suitcase beside Harry, the stuffed coyote serving as immortal guardian. A weekend alone in the backwoods with a blizzard on the way, only her cat and a preserved predator for company was exactly what she needed to salvage her dignity.

I hate this. Isaac rubbed the back of his neck, lurking on the porch a step beyond the reach of lazy snowflakes. Every time I drop you off here, I feel like I’m betraying my baby sis. You could stay with me instead.

The guilt in his sky-blue eyes didn’t help, especially knowing she was the source. She pasted on a smile. The expression wouldn’t fool him, but at least she tried. You know how Wolfgang feels about she-who-must-not-be-named. Your girlfriend would wind up shredded.

Or Wolfgang a hat. He handed her the pet carrier. Molly has a vicious streak.

A low, feline growl rolled from the carrier. Quinn agreed with her cat’s sentiment, but she didn’t want to mess with Isaac’s prim and proper life. She had enough of her own problems keeping that façade.

Are you sure about this? A few fat snowflakes stuck in Isaac’s dark hair, and he lifted his gaze to the boiling clouds stained an ominous gunmetal. The blizzard’s supposed to be an overnight doozy.

Which means you better get your tush back to the airport before you get snowed in and trapped here with me.

Tempting. No cell service, whining clients, or crusty judges? I could use a mini vacation. His grin reminded her of their childhood summers, days of freedom, no politician mom agenda, and nightmares that kept to themselves. Best days of her life.

She leaned against the doorframe. Your girlfriend would hunt you down with a snowplow.

He chuckled. You don’t give her enough credit. She’d hire a snow tank squad.

Scary woman. Quinn’s shudder was only half-pretend as she shooed him away. I’ve got a full wine cellar and plenty of potential career pamphlets to keep a bonfire going for days. I’ll be fine. She’d been here alone a hundred times before. Stocked pantry, sufficient wood for a year, and a generator. The perfect temporary hole to hide in until she snapped her pieces back together and could carry out the Carmichael image without cracking.

I still hate it. Isaac wrapped her in a bear hug, and she clung to his wiry form, breathing in the faint sweetness of pipe smoke on his ski jacket. He kissed her cheek and jangled his keys. I’ll be back for you in two days.

She swallowed and worked up a winning smile. Take off, bro. Storm’s coming.

Love you, Q. A frigid gust whipped around them, and he ran for his Range Rover. He flashed a wave and jumped in.

She waited on the threshold until the taillights had disappeared behind the swirling snow and the crunch of tires on gravel bled into the growing mutter of wind-shaken branches. Ultimate solitude and a heavy dose of winter. Maybe it would be enough to figure out what the deuce to do with her sinkhole life.

***

A tickle, soft as a feather’s kiss, brushed the back of Zaire’s neck. He groaned and forced his eyes open. New snow dusted his bloodied hand, same as the surrounding pine needles.

He pushed up from the half-frozen ground. Pain arced from his hip to his knee, and another groan rattled for freedom. This one stayed bottled, a small victory. Corpses circled him in broken poses, cold and silent as the mountain air, no stench, death too fresh to stain the scent of pine and soil and blood.

His arms shaking, he sucked in a ragged breath, the air icy in his lungs. What a fool. He’d strolled straight into a group of Faction members, the greatest adversaries of his kind, the V’alkara. Apparently, the recent alliance between the Faction and the Red Crows—a V’alkara splinter group he had the great misfortune of being temporarily chained to—didn’t apply to him.

No one wanted the Prince of Purgatory on the opposite side of the battlefield.

He shoved to his knees and swayed with the effort. Blood glistened on his jeans, soaking through to the earth beneath. His entire leg had gone numb. Glorious. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d been caught unaware. Granted, he’d been distracted by his own schemes and perhaps allowed the isolation to relax his instincts, but his enemies had clearly prepared for him.

The syringe he’d been stabbed with during the attack still lay in the grasp of one corpse. Whatever they’d injected him with was important enough that they were willing to sacrifice their lives for it. And nasty enough to paralyze his leg and silence the demons always muttering in his head. He ignored the tremor snaking through him. If other side effects arose, he’d deal with them.

Zaire hauled himself to the syringe, dragging his wounded leg over pine needles and snow. His fingers trembling so badly he could barely grasp the small device, he capped the empty needle and shoved it into his jeans pocket. Maybe enough residue remained to study—to get some answers. He huddled under the sheltering branches of a tree, panting, an inferno burning beneath his skin. He should be shivering from the cold, not sweating.

More snowflakes swirled in the menacing sky, slowly stealing all color. The trees offered a bit of protection, but not sufficient to survive the night or the storm promised in the clouds. Remaining in the wilderness of nowhere Montana would mean ending in a grave beside his fallen enemies.

He gritted his teeth and fought off the fatal urge to lie down and rest. Walking was out of the question with one useless leg. He’d have to embrace the darkness, assume the form of the fiends always whispering evil in his ear, and take another step in stripping his humanity. It was either Change or death, and death wasn’t an option, not yet, not while he still had to rescue his nephew from the Crows. For Braden, he’d claw his way back to sanity as many times as necessary.

Inhaling a calming breath, Zaire willed the Change and waited for the claiming corruption.

Nothing happened.

He lifted his shaking hands, his pulse throbbing an unsteady rhythm. No talons sprang from his fingertips. No leathery wings unfolded at his back. No decay stained another slice of his soul. Since the tender age of seven, far earlier than most V’alkara, he’d accessed his ability to Change into nightmare forms stolen from dreams. Never had it failed him before. He grimaced.

The timing could have been better.

The snow fell thicker, faster, sticking to his jeans as the wind kicked through his hair and bit at every inch of bare skin. Without the ability to Change, to escape the coming blizzard, his only option was to find adequate shelter. Before the attack, he’d passed a house, isolated in the trees, likely a getaway for the rich and famous that saw annual use. It had appeared uninhabited.

A chill rolled through him, followed by a wave of dizziness so powerful he grappled with a tree trunk merely to remain upright on his knees. He leaned his forehead against the rough bark until his head cleared. Occupied or not, he needed lodging to survive and privacy to heal. He’d eliminate any tenants, wait out the storm, and decipher how to counteract whatever the Faction had done to him. Clenching his jaw, he released the welcome sturdiness of the tree and crawled in the direction of the house.

First, he had to make it there.

Two

Quinn set her mug of steaming apple cider spiked with cinnamon whisky on the end table beside the emergency flashlight and plopped on the couch with a stack of pamphlets promising career guidance. Too bad none of them screamed The Year’s Best Careers for Freaks and Anomalies.

Wolfgang sprang into her lap, circled, and curled up on the paper, a fuzzy, purring pillow hiding everything.

Not helpful, WG. She pried one pamphlet free and set her stockinged feet on the coffee table, the hearth fire beyond warm on her toes. Okay to consider my bleak options now?

His meow held a distinct assent.

Teacher. Nope. She tossed the flyer aside and slid another out, immediately recognizing the up-yours smile of the girl wearing scrubs and a stethoscope. Nursing school drop-out just made my list of accomplishments, thank you. As of yesterday. It was the broken bones that had sent her delusions spiraling out of control. At least another student had also flipped out. There was no trouble smoothing out any associated scandal, and mother’s political career remained squeaky clean. This time.

She slouched into the couch cushions. Life would be super if her nightmares kept to the dark instead of creeping out during the day, too. There had to be a profession out there that she’d overlooked in her long string of job tryouts so far, and since she refused to be a useless trust fund baby, she had to find it. Discover some purpose for her existence, something that finally felt right and wouldn’t open the door wider for all her nightmares. Something that proved her quirks were there for a reason. She needed to know she fit.

Somewhere.

Anywhere.

And auto mechanic isn’t it. She sent the next flyer sailing. Been there, done that.

A hot-pink paper fluttered free and landed on the leather cushion beside her. Neat, loopy handwriting and a sparkly red lips sticker could only be from her best friend Steph.

Hey, doll.

Isaac told me what’s up—don’t go all Hurricane Quinn on him. You know me. He didn’t have a chance to escape without spilling the deets. Psychology 101. Hound ‘em ‘til they surrender. Or threaten. Whatever it takes.

Just because you’re hiding away from a purely reasonable freak out (no way would I make it past the first semester of the nursing program) doesn’t mean you’ll miss out on the benefit of my free one-on-one consult. For the zillionth time: you need a man, girlfriend. If not a boyfriend, then at least a fling. Hey, a one-nighter would be a great start. Admitting you have a problem is the first step. The future Stephanie Miller, Ph.D. is never wrong.

Forget your quest and just let life happen. You know I love you. Don’t make me organize a man-starved intervention on your behalf.

See you soon,

Doc Steph

P.S. (I’m totally NOT bluffing.)

Quinn’s chuckle joined the cozy crackle of the fire. Steph’s remedy for a bad day was to find a hot guy, party it up, and start fresh the next morning. What worked for her should work for everybody.

If only. Her string of failed dates could circle her hires and fires and still have enough names to surround her college major turnabouts. Twice. No man had ever intrigued her enough to go for a third date. It’s not you, it’s me seemed set on permanent replay.

She tossed the note on the coffee table and wrapped one hand around the warm ceramic mug, absently petting Wolfgang with the other. Dusk took over beyond the wall of windows, made darker by the blizzard. Falling snow hid the skirting tree line. Wind howled at the house corners and turned treetops into jerking puppets. The perfect meltdown location. No phones, no people, no problem.

The lamp flickered and died, leaving her with only the dancing firelight, not that she minded. The power had lasted longer than she expected. Stoked fire, hot cider, and now she had a great excuse to procrastinate reading unhelpful flyers. She sipped her drink and wriggled back on the couch.

Wolfgang launched off her lap, kicking papers everywhere and sloshing her drink.

Bad cat!

He scurried into the kitchen, out of sight. A distinct thud followed, which meant Wolfgang was up to no good.

I should’ve sent you off to the Nameless One. Quinn shoved the remaining flyers aside and nabbed the flashlight from the end table. You’d make an amazing hat, and there’d be enough fur left to make a stole, the perfect ensemble to compliment her plastic face.

She flicked on the flashlight and shuffled into the kitchen, ignoring how the light made all the shadows twist and scuttle on the walls and ceiling. Broken bones might bother her, but the dark never had.

Wolfgang expectantly stood at the back door. He meowed, high and plaintive. Nothing looked out of place. Whatever had made the thud wasn’t in the kitchen. Maybe the wind had blown a loose branch against the house.

What, you’re a snow leopard now? There’s no fancy feline feast waiting out there for you.

Wolfgang rubbed his cheek against the doorframe, circled, and meowed again.

Thud. The entire door shook.

Quinn jumped. That was no branch. All the horror movies she loved to watch and ridicule flashed to mind, a lot less funny now. Alone in the woods. Killer storm. No electricity. No connection to the outside world.

Wolfgang’s purr rumbled, and he slid his face over the jamb again. The noise hadn’t spooked him even a little, and animals always sensed evil. Wolfgang had had no problem detecting it in Molly.

She squared her shoulders. No one would be roaming around in a blizzard. An animal had probably knocked the trashcan into the door, and a quick look would ease any worry. At the first glimpse of fur or fang—or red, glowing eyes—she’d go for the door slam.

Pushing Wolfgang back with one foot, she cracked open the door. Wind exploded in, ripping the doorknob from her grip and firing snow and ice into her eyes. The door banged into the wall, and the storm’s full force rushed inside. Quinn scrambled for the knob and stopped, frozen by more than the sudden blast of cold.

A man filled the entryway from threshold to frame, dark as the nightfall behind him. Steam drifted from his bare head. Frost coated his short, sable hair, and even in the flashlight beam, his complexion held an unhealthy blue-gray hue. One hand was anchored to the doorpost in a white-knuckled grip. The other brandished a wicked as sin knife.

She shone the light on his face, and her stomach roller-coastered. Her demon. The one who’d haunted her nightmares years ago and then abruptly bailed, never to return. No matter what face he wore, his death-black, abysmal eyes were unforgettable.

Or were her delusions returning with a vengeance?

Get out of my way. His chest heaved, and he lurched forward, the knife pointed at her. His guttural words erased any suspicion that he might be another hallucination. He was too present, too solid to be anything but real.

Merde. He was real.

Hands lifted, aiming the light at the ceiling and leaving him half-hidden in shadows, she backed away, which was the direction she wanted to go anyway. She never came to the cabin without protection. A flashlight would work for an impromptu weapon, but her gun waited in the foyer with her purse…which she should’ve grabbed before opening the door. Nothing better than hindsight to make a girl feel like a genius.

His front leg buckled. He dropped to his knees and faceplanted on the tile. The knife clattered from his fingers and spun across the floor.

Wolfgang skidded across the tile and vamoosed, Quinn on his tail. She sprang from the kitchen, slipping only once in her socks, and sprinted to the foyer. With unsteady hands, she dug through her purse, unsnapped the hidden holster inside, and pulled her loaded Walther free. Safety off, laser sight on. Victim wasn’t in her genetic makeup.

The generator’s low hum kicked on, and the lights blinked back to life, erasing most of the darkness. Quinn kept the flashlight in one hand anyway.

Blood pounding in her ears, she crept back to the kitchen. The man was in the same spot, spread-eagled, quickly becoming a snowdrift. A corpse looked livelier.

"Merde." She lunged for the door and shoved it back against the shrieking wind, her socks sliding in the slush. The door snapped shut with a hard push, and the sudden silence thrummed, taut and heavy. She pressed her back to the wood and faced her unexpected guest.

She’d always believed at some point she’d come face-to-face with a demon, not just the ones in her nightmares. What better time than after a meltdown, while she was alone, isolated, and skirting the edge of despair? She should drag him back outside, lock the door, and hope the blizzard blasted him back to the pit.

But what sort of demon would pass out? If her delusions made him appear to be something he wasn’t, she’d be responsible for his death, and that would be a mental screw-over. She didn’t need any more help in that department.

Then there were his eyes. Her mouth went dry. Whether or not her childhood hopes had merely resurrected, awakening her imagination, she had to look into his eyes again—to confirm or refute the recognition she’d thought she detected. Make sure it wasn’t just the flashlight’s sullen beam making her see things that weren’t there. In the meantime, she had to assume he was human.

With the lights back on, it was easier to take in details the dark had hidden. His jeans, combat boots, and black ski jacket weren’t exactly cross-country blizzard attire. No hat or gloves either, as if he hadn’t expected to be snowbound. Maybe his vehicle had slid off the road, and he’d gotten lost while searching for help. If so, it was a miracle he’d found his way here. Miles of uninhabited wilderness surrounded their property on all sides, the whole reason for owning the place. No neighbors, disturbances, or scandal worries.

A hint of crimson joined the puddle of melting snow around him. Blood. Human blood.

Whatever, whoever he may be, he needed help, and if a medical inspection freaked her out, at least there wasn’t an audience. Keeping her gun trained on him, she sidled closer and kicked the black knife further out of reach. He didn’t move. Quinn set the flashlight on the counter and crouched beside him. Her fingers shaking, she touched the back of his neck. It was burning hot.

Before she could squeak, he rolled and wrapped a huge, icy hand around her throat. He blinked rapidly, his eyes narrowed and watering enough that there was no way he could see her clearly. Or the gun she pointed at his chest.

You’re bleeding, she croaked, not ready to shoot him, not yet. Not unless he gave her no choice. Trying to help.

His grip tightened for a second, and then he thrust her away, grimacing.

I’m a nurse. Kind of. She rubbed her throat. You need medical attention.

Face white and slick with perspiration and melting snow, he jerked a nod.

Swallowing her heart down, she eased close again. Blood darkened most of one pant leg, and a jagged rip in his jeans opened from hip to thigh. Maybe it was his lucky break to be caught in a blizzard. At least the cold slowed the bleeding.

I need to cut your jeans, she said in her best soothing bedside manner. Nursing school wasn’t a total loss. Can you handle that without violence, implied or otherwise?

His eyes had closed again, his head lolled to the side. Passed out. The easiest kind of patient.

Using scissors from the kitchen drawer, Quinn carefully sliced his jeans along the seam and paused, and it had nothing to do with blood or bones. His skin was cold, paper-white, but beneath the blood, a deeper pale than his skin, strange, silver markings covered his leg. They could be tattoos, but she didn’t think so. They looked more like scars, as if a hundred small mouths with razor-sharp teeth had left half bites.

Hesitantly, unable to help herself, she traced the ridge of one. Ice arrowed up her arm, into her core, sharp and quick as an electric shock. She snatched her hand away, her pulse stomping.

He moaned, but his eyes didn’t open.

Get back on track, Q. Easily distracted by curiosities, another reason she’d make a terrible nurse. She bent over his leg. A laceration ran from his knee all the way to his hip, but not anywhere deep enough to expose bone. She blew out a breath and sat back on her heels. Nothing a little disinfectant and liquid bandage couldn’t fix.

His wound took all of ten minutes to clean up, and other than that first moan, he remained still and silent. Her work done, Quinn rose and leaned against the kitchen counter. What was she supposed to do with him now? The darkness beyond the windows was a deadly blend of night and snow and frozen everything. Even if he was responsive, she wasn’t ready to send him on his way without answers, but sharing her house with someone who was more prone to strangulation than asking for help didn’t fit into her meditative retreat from the real world.

There was only one thing to do.

It took her far longer than ten minutes and considerably more effort to drag a shivering, unconscious Neanderthal into her bedroom, get him onto the bed, and handcuff him to the headboard. Her short stint as a corrections officer had left her with some neat tools, and the sturdy iron bedframe would prevent any future choking. The fire was close enough to thaw out her uninvited guest and keep him from freezing to death on her watch. Win-win.

Panting, she plopped onto the hearth ledge for a well-deserved break. Wolfgang sauntered past the door and jumped onto the bed. He sniffed the big man shivering on the blankets and narrowed his eyes at her, accusing.

Don’t look at me like that. This is your fault. So what if she talked to her cat? It was totally normal, and her pet was right. While the intruder’s skin had lost its winter-bite tinge, the continual shaking wasn’t a good sign. His wet clothes had to come off.

With a sigh, she crossed to the bed and removed his footwear. At least he had enough sense to wear wool socks. She released one of his wrists and reattached the handcuff to the bedframe, leaving his other wrist safely shackled. I don’t usually strip strangers. She unzipped his coat and tugged one limp arm from the sleeve. Talking to an unconscious man was the same as conversing with her cat, completely sane. On the bright side, I can now honestly tell Steph that I got a man naked. She won’t care about the circumstances, so thanks in advance for saving me from her intervention.

She pushed up his long-sleeved, wool, V-neck and the shirt beneath, and her fingers skimmed soft skin, hard muscles, a dusting of hair. Her breath caught. The guy was athletically built from his navel to his neck. She should take a picture for proof. Or to ogle later in private.

"Merde." Leering at an injured, passed-out man who couldn’t defend himself… True desperation.

Wolfgang meowed.

Wasn’t talking to you, WG. She eased the sopping sweater and shirt over his head and off his arm. A delicate chain slipped free of his clothing, and the plain gold cross attached dropped against his—she swallowed hard—his finely sculpted chest, and she still had the rest of him to go. But the fact that he wore a cross eased her worry another notch. Surely no self-respecting demon would wear a religious symbol.

Recuffing him, she saved the second arm for last. Now for his jeans. She grazed the cold silver belt buckle, and a tremor curled in her stomach. Maybe Steph was right, and she’d been too long out of the game. An insensible, wounded man who’d threatened her twice shouldn’t trigger her apathetic libido.

Even if—and that was a big fat maybe—he had, eons ago, ventured into her dreams, only to abandon her.

She leaned back and closed her eyes, waiting for the inappropriate tingling in her nerves to disappear. How was she supposed to strip him without going pervy on a stranger? Wait…Isaac had spare blankets in his room, a perfect cocoon to warm him and a shield from her unhealthy interest in parts of a man she had no business finding interesting. Good plan.

Quinn ventured into her brother’s room and returned. Pausing in the doorway, she clutched the blanket to her.

Firelight flickered over the man’s features. His mouth was sinful, luscious, created for kissing, and stubble shaded his jaw in a sexy, just-woke-up look. Straight, proud nose. Sable eyebrows and hair. A fallen angel dreaming of peace.

Her turtleneck seemed to shrink around her throat, and she tugged at it. Cashmere was clearly overheating her brain. She focused on the flames, anything but him. Down, girl. Wandering around in a blizzard unprepared made him a couple of cats short of a herd, and looks were nothing without brains to back them up. Nope. No jumping bones material here.

Definitely not.

That settled, she kneeled beside him again and unfolded the blanket, spreading it over his hips. Maybe she’d put too much whisky in her cider. Her cheeks felt sunburned.

No ogling. She fumbled beneath the blanket for his belt and unbuckled it without taking her gaze from the line of windows and the flicker of white in the night beyond. If the blizzard kept up, she’d be snowed in.

With him.

Her heart flopped. He could be a kidnapper out for Carmichael money. A twisted hunter who preferred human prey. An escaped sociopath. A hitman. Quinn forced her shoulders to relax. Or an injured victim of a car accident. Whatever his situation, he probably just saw her cabin light, and his delirium drove him to be more threatening than thankful. Plus, she had her Walther, and he was handcuffed. He was the one who should be nervous.

A determined tug released the rest of his button fly. She dragged his jeans over his hips, and only icy skin slid beneath her fingers. Totally commando, something she should’ve noticed when she fixed up his leg. She squeezed her eyes shut. Nope. No looking. Besides, no long johns reinforced the fact that he wasn’t the smartest cookie in the cupboard. She pulled his jeans off without breaking her resistance and sat on her heels, job well done.

The blanket barely covered his man-bits, his naked torso and calves all sorts of suggestive. The only hint that he wasn’t snoozing after a night-long sexcapade before the fire was the shivering. All that was left was the wet jacket, and the shirt and sweater still stuck on one arm.

She circled the bed, unlocked the cuff, and wrangled his second arm free. The garments dropped heavily to the floor, but his coat remained stuck beneath his back. Gripping the sleeve, she gave it a gentle yank. It snagged, and she jerked harder. The outerwear suddenly dislodged, sending her stumbling back against the corner loveseat. Straightening, she lifted it and frowned. The thing weighed as much as a backpack.

Snooping wasn’t her usual style, but in this instance, ID might be useful. At least a name. She poked through the pockets, finding no wallet, but her fingers met a solid row of something. She flipped the jacket inside out and went still. Each side held eight knives tucked into sewn-in bandoliers. Black, wicked edges. Not hunting knives. Combat knives.

Knives for killing.

She sat on the edge of the loveseat before her knees gave out. If he were an outdoor enthusiast, surely he’d have other devices stashed away besides the weapons—a compass, matches, an emergency whistle. If his car had run off the road, he’d have keys. Only Rambo or Freddy Krueger would carry that many knives, and she wasn’t a fan of either one. Bruce Lee was more her style.

Quinn returned to the kitchen and stuffed his jacket beneath the sink, behind the garbage can. Without his fancy skewers, he’d have to be creative if he wanted a weapon. And he’d have to get free first.

On tiptoes, she slunk back to her bedroom. He still sprawled on the bed, sinister and striking in the firelight, but the hypothermia shivers continued. As he trembled, the blanket slipped dangerously low on his hips.

Great. She’d left one cuff undone, and whatever his identity and intentions, he needed to be tucked up tight and warm. She wasn’t monster enough to let him suffer. The gun slick in her damp palm, she crossed the room and eased carefully onto the mattress close to his head. She reached for the empty handcuff.

Faster than she could aim and pull the trigger, he rolled slightly and wrapped his free arm around her hips.

Merde!

He pressed his hot forehead against her thigh and muttered something incoherent. His breathing evened out, but his grip on her didn’t relent.

She remained frozen, gun shaking in her hand, her heartbeat a cannon bang in her skull. In his fever, he must believe she was someone else, a lucky break for