When Wicked Craves (14 page)

She didn’t need to hear his words to know his answer. The anger was rolling off him in waves.

“Tiberius is too concerned about his seat on the Alliance to think about anyone but himself.” He closed his eyes, visibly composing himself, pushing back the daemon that wanted to erupt with the anger. He didn’t touch her until he was calm, then he gently stroked her face.

She reached up to catch his hand, then pressed her cheek into his palm. “Who would have thought that between the two of us it would be me that forced us to live like fugitives?”

“We won’t,” he whispered. “I will find a way. I will see you free, Sara. I won’t rest until I do.”

And though she couldn’t imagine how, this was Luke talking—her husband—and she believed him.

“Petra!” Nick knelt in the narrow airplane aisle, his attention on the unmoving girl. “Dammit, Petra, wake up!”

Her clothes were in tatters, her body covered with scratches, long red welts, as if claws had ripped through the mist and torn her open. But the external injuries were nothing compared with the battering she’d taken inside. He was certain of it. Already the scent of approaching death clung to her.

What the hell had her brother done, whipping his wind around a human traveling as mist? Her essence hadn’t been able to withstand being shaken like that. Hadn’t been able to re-form properly after the battering.

But this wasn’t her brother’s guilt to shoulder alone. Holy Christ, Nick had insisted she travel as mist, knowing that she was weakened. Knowing that he was as well.

Dear God in heaven, he’d done this to her.

Something cold and heavy penetrated his chest. Regret. And something more, too.
Fear.

He had to keep her safe. Had to tend her injuries. Had to ensure that she survived.

He needed her.

He needed her to save Serge.

Dammit.
He lashed out, hard, his fist pounding against and hopelessly bending the armrest of a nearby seat.

Damn him, damn her, and damn her goddamned meddlesome brother.

He leaned close, listening for the beat of her heart, and now he heard nothing.

Goddammit!

Frantic, he took his jacket off, then tossed it over her chest. He positioned his hands on the jacket over her heart, and he pressed down, fast and firm, but careful not to put his full strength behind the thrusts. He wanted to revive her, not puncture a lung, but the truth was that he’d never actually delivered chest compressions before. And when he’d been human, the technique had not been known.

Press, again … again …

Press, again … again …

Were it not for the curse, his lips would close over hers, and he would use his functioning but unnecessary lungs to breathe sweet life into her. With Petra, he could only manipulate her heart and try to start it beating once again.

Press, again … again …

Press, again … again …

Nothing, and the fingers of fear that had been clinging to him tightened their grip. He couldn’t lose her—not now. Not before their quest had even truly begun.

“Dammit, Petra, come back!”

“Holy fuck!” The voice came from the cabin, and Nick spared a look. A werewolf stood there, concern on his face.

“You’re Gunnolf’s pilot?”

“Yeah. Name’s Pyre. What happened?”

“Get me a pitcher of water,” he said. “
And then get us in the air.”

Pyre did, and Nick doused her with it, the action equal parts instinct and anger. “Dammit, Petra. Goddammit, don’t you fucking do this.”

Another compression … and another …

And then a sound.

So soft he almost didn’t hear it over the roar of the engine. Wouldn’t have heard it were it not for the preternatural hearing inherent in his nature.

He stilled, listening again, every muscle in his body tense with anticipation. He needed her, and until he knew that he had not lost her, he couldn’t relax, couldn’t let down his guard or—

She moved.

“Petra!” He tossed the jacket back over her and gave a gentle shake as the plane broke contact with the ground and rose into the air. Beneath his hand, she shifted, and the surge of relief that flooded through him was so palpable he had to sit back, press the heels of his hands to his forehead, and say a silent thank-you to whatever power had decided to look out for him.

Her eyelids fluttered, then closed again.
Fuck.

“Petra.” He leaned close. “Petra, can you hear me?”

She made a low moaning sound, and Nick frowned, terrified that the damage within would drag her back toward death.

“Petra,” he said softly. “Open your mouth.”

She didn’t answer, but her lips parted slightly. It was enough. He lifted his wrist to his mouth, closed his eyes, and sank his fangs deep into his wrist. He couldn’t press the wound to her lips, but he let the drops of blood fall onto her lips, into her mouth. And slowly, ever so slowly, the color returned to her skin and her eyes fluttered open.

“Nicholas?” She blinked, then turned her head from side to side, taking in her surroundings. “We’re on the plane? What happened?”

“Your goddamn brother killed you. Your heart stopped and everything.”

“What?” Her forehead crinkled in confusion and shock, and he forced himself to rein in his anger. Now wasn’t the time to rag on Kiril, especially when Nick was to blame as well. And now that the danger appeared past, he could afford to be generous to both of them.

“It’s okay,” he said gently. “You’re okay now.”

“Kiril?”

“He didn’t realize, but that damn wind of his—I thought it was going to pull you apart.”

She shifted, then propped herself up on her elbows with enough energy that he relaxed, realizing the blood had done its trick. “I did, too,” she said. “He would have, I think, if I hadn’t told him to stop.”

Nick rocked back on his heels, her words not making sense. “If you hadn’t what?”

“Told him.” She sat completely up, then lifted her fingers to massage her temples. He shifted, realized he was about to put his arm around her in a gesture of support, and pulled back.

She licked her lips, her forehead crinkling as she frowned. “That’s blood. My blood? Or …”

“Mine,” he said, then eased closer as she scooted backward, shaking her head in protest.

“Wait a minute,” she said. “Wait just a minute. What the hell did you do to me?”

“I told you. For a few seconds, you died. I did CPR—heart compressions. But it wasn’t enough. I—”

She stopped, her body stiff, her eyes right on his. “Died?”

“If I hadn’t given you some of my blood, you would
have slipped back into death. What?” he asked, looking at her face. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” she said, but she didn’t look at him as she spoke, and her forehead puckered slightly as if in question.

“Doesn’t look like nothing.”

“Just … I feel strange. Shivery.” As if in illustration, she trembled. “Probably just shock or something. I’m okay. Really.”

He considered arguing, because he was certain she wasn’t being completely honest. It wasn’t something he had the chance to pursue, though, because her questions continued.

“Am I going to change? Your blood, I mean. It doesn’t make me a vamp or anything, does it?”

“No. It only helps you to heal, might possibly make you a bit stronger. Give you more energy.” That wasn’t entirely true, but considering how pissed she’d been when he got into her head, he didn’t think this was the time to tell her that he was now attuned to her. That he could find her in his thoughts. That he could lose himself in her emotions.

“Nicholas?” This time she met his eyes dead on. A stray hair curled against her cheek, and he had to clasp his thumb inside his fist to fight the urge to brush it away, to feel the silk of her skin under his touch.

“Yes?”

She hesitated, and he wondered what she intended to say. When she finally uttered a soft, “Thank you,” he was certain that wasn’t what she had first planned to say.

He chose not to call her on it. “Anytime.”

She reached up and grabbed an armrest. “I think it’s
standard to actually sit in the seats when on an airplane.”

“Standard, but not nearly as interesting.”

The plane had only eight seats, two sets of four, each set surrounding a table. They both took window seats facing each other, and as soon as they were seated, Petra pressed her hand to the shade. She didn’t move to lift it, though. The sun was dipping toward the horizon, but hadn’t sunk yet, and he realized that she understood what that meant for him as well as he did.

Her mouth curved into a quick frown as she pulled back from the window. “Gotta admit, I’ve never been crazy about flying. It seems … unnatural,” she added, then grinned at him. “Kind of a crazy thing to say considering what I am and the world we live in.”

“More crazy when you consider it’s one of the most natural things in the world.”

She raised her brows. “Several tons of steel soaring through the sky is natural?”

“The forces that make flight possible have been present since the dawn of time. Weight, lift, drag, and thrust. Just because it took men a while to recognize them and learn how to manipulate them doesn’t make the action itself unnatural.”

“Point taken,” she said. “But that doesn’t change the fact that we’re thirty thousand feet in the air, and it’s a long way to the ground.” She leaned back in her seat and sighed. “Then again, it’s better than the alternative.”

“The alternative?”

“Duh. Mist. What do you think? That was the freakiest thing ever.”

He recalled what she’d said about telling Kiril to stop, the import of her words suddenly hitting him. “Are you telling me you were aware?”

She grimaced as she flexed her arms, then looked at him with a curious expression. As if he was either joking or an idiot. “Well, yeah.”

“This time. But what about before? When we left the prison? When we traveled to your house?”

“I’m getting the distinct impression that I’m freaking you out.”

“You’re human. You shouldn’t feel anything when you’re mist.”

“No? Well, that doesn’t seem fair. Although this last time I would have been happy to have been blissfully unaware.”

He leaned back, his mind whirring with the possibilities. “You
are
human?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, I’d know if I wasn’t, wouldn’t I?”

“You felt me,” he said, thoughtfully. “Back at the warehouse. You realized that I’d gotten into your head. Most mortals can’t feel that, either.”

She laughed. “And that makes you wonder if I’m mortal? Or are you just frustrated that you got caught?”

He surprised himself by grinning in return. “A little of both.”

“Not used to things not going your way, are you?”

“I’m not.”

“Stick with me,” she said. “I’ve got it down to a science.”

She sat there, still unsteady, and yet self-assured as well. A woman who could take care of herself, who’d had no choice but to do exactly that. A woman with secrets,
who was so much more than met the eyes. “What did you mean when you said you told Kiril to stop?”

“Is this a trick question? I told him to stop. Screamed it. I couldn’t take it—he was ripping me apart. It was like all the bits and pieces of me were supposed to stay together, but he was messing that all up, and it hurt. Oh God, it hurt so bad.”

“He was,” Nick said. “And somehow you told him so.”

“And that bugs you?”

“It may be a clue.”

“To the curse?”

“I don’t know,” Nick admitted. “But the more information I have about you—about what makes you and your family tick—the better.” He cocked his head, looking at her thoughtfully.

“What?”

“What’s the source of your power, Petra Lang? You say you’re human—that your family is—but if that’s so, then where does your power flow from?”

“Are you saying I’m more like you than my next-door neighbor? Believe it if that makes you feel better, but I’m human. I can get sick, I can die, and whatever power I have is channeled through me. It’s not part of me.” She looked him up and down. “I haven’t changed into something else entirely.”

“Interesting,” he said, more to himself than to her. He’d often pondered the nature of humanity. He’d started out human, and yet vampires were decidedly not. Still, though, he had retained his passions, his interests and fascinations. He was still capable of love, and an opera could make his heart swell to the stars.

So wherein exactly did humanity lie?

It was not a question to which he had an answer, and as his years on this earth ticked by, Nick had become acutely aware that he still had more questions than answers. What was the point of immortality if the most basic of mysteries were left unresolved?

With Petra, perhaps he could explore at least some of those questions. “From where do you channel the power?”

“First of all,” she said, “I don’t. I already told you. I pretty much suck.”

“And yet you almost burned through that guard’s uniform and conjured a wall of fire.”

“Score one for the man in the tight denim. I can manage a little. But not much.”

“I’m not asking about volume,” he said. “I’m inquiring about the source.”