The Beacon (The Original's Trilogy Book 1) Read online

  She cut her hand, re-opening the wound from last night and let her blood drip into the wounds on his chest. “You're foolish. Brave. Very dear. But stupid.”

  He didn't respond. Likely, he wouldn't remember any of this. And the protection he'd provided, was now at an end. Nan had seen her. When twilight arrived, she'd be coming for her.

  She'd have to risk going to the coven. At the very least, she needed her mother's Grimoire for a spell that would send Nan back where she belonged.

  Good gods, had this been what the notes spoke of?

  The truth lies in the past.

  The future lies in the past.

  So was Nan her future?

  Or her truth?

  Chapter 17

  That afternoon, James woke to the sound of the doorbell.

  Groggy and feeling as though he hadn't slept a wink, he growled, slitting his eyes.

  The door downstairs opened and he heard Lilith's voice. Jesus, what the hell was wrong with him? He felt . . . hung-over. Sick.

  What the hell had happened last night? He remembered coming home and not being able to get to Lilith when she'd been in danger. He'd tended her wounds . . . Oh, Christ. He'd tended her. Quite thoroughly.

  His cock hardened as he recalled her coming apart in his arms, the scent and feel of her wet heat. Fuck. So much for not taking anything for himself.

  He pulled himself out of bed. He still had his goddamn pants on. He hadn't taken their indiscretion any further, at least. But the last thing he remembered was curling up behind her on the couch downstairs. He must've been half asleep when he'd come up.

  He grabbed some clean clothes and headed to the bathroom.

  “Good morning.”

  Lilith's voice brought him to a stop. She stood at the base of the stairs, a beaming smile on her face. The front door stood wide open and a big, burly male shouldered his way in carrying a box. With a wave of her hand, she said, “The rest of my stuff arrived from my storage unit today.”

  He must have frowned because she started up the stairs. “It's not much.”

  James held the bundle of clothes in front of his crotch, trying to hide the fact that he still had a raging hard-on. She looked beautiful this morning. Glowing. Stop looking for signs she enjoyed last night as much as you did. She's not glowing, that's the fucking sunlight lighting up her hair.

  Sunlight. She was allowing sunlight to invade his sanctuary. “How long is this going to take?”

  “Not long. By the time you’re done with your shower, they'll be gone.” Her brows drew together. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah.”

  She searched his face. “You don't look too well. Maybe you should rest more.”

  “I'm fine.”

  “James, about last night . . .” She walked up to the landing.

  “It won't happen again.”

  “Gods, I hope not, I was terrified.”

  Terrified? Oh, Christ, what had he done? He searched his memory, but she'd never said no. Never hinted she didn't want him to keep going. “Look, I shouldn't have touched you.” He looked everywhere but at her. Jesus. He knew to expect her to shut him down, but this must be a record even for him. “You didn't exactly tell me no.”

  She touched his arm. “I wasn't talking about you touching me. That I liked. That, I'd love to happen again.”

  His gaze shot to hers. Her eyes were warm, her expression open. What the hell was he missing? “Then why say you're terrified of me?”

  “Not you. The ghost.” She laid her hand on his chest. “What did it do to you?”

  He shook his head. “You must've been dreaming.”

  She frowned, glancing away. “But you feel all right?”

  “Yeah. Fine.” Christ, she looked entirely too kissable. “I gotta clean up.”

  He went to the bathroom, stripped down, and took a quick shower. He dried off, wrapped the towel around his waist, and wiped the steam off the mirror. He didn't expect to see his reflection and he didn’t. Still, he couldn't help but check now and again.

  From the way most reacted to him, he'd always assumed he was hideous, frightening. He glanced down at himself. His body was covered in scars and he'd fed recently, so the bruises from his fights discolored his skin, as well. Not what most would consider attractive. But in Lilith's eyes . . . . Well, he saw himself differently when she looked at him.

  He stroked his hand over his bare head and down his face, trying to determine his features. His skin was smooth, two eyebrows just where he would expect them to be, and two eyes below. His nose was straight, his mouth felt like what he thought a normal mouth should. He didn't find any major deformation. Maybe he wasn't so terrible to look at.

  He rubbed his hand over the rough stubble along his chin. Every time Lilith dropped one of her feather-light kisses on his face, her skin reddened from his whiskers. James opened the medicine cabinet and found a razor. He lathered some soap, smoothed it over his stubble, and shaved. Jesus, if the Vampiric Council could see him, they'd be disgusted.

  But they couldn't possibly understand. Lilith had shaped his whole existence as a daemon. That's why he was fascinated with her. After he'd killed her all those centuries ago, he'd been transformed physically into a daemon. The guilt from his actions, his inability to see past the confines of his human life made him rebel. He'd been bastard for the majority of his existence as a vampire. He'd lived for himself, shunning any morals he'd had in his human life.

  Until the Watchers directed him to save Lilith. He'd started coming around then. He’d realized the life he had gave him no pleasure and only added to his guilt. He'd crafted a set of morals to live by, and stuck to them. And now, all he wanted to do was break those morals. He wanted to be a part of her life. He wanted to be a part of her. Christ, he just wanted her. But eventually, she'd hate him.

  He shook his head. In his human life, he did his best to ignore women after he'd taken his vows. Then, as a vampire, he'd used them and allowed them to use him to slake lust. Only now, after all this time, did it occur to him what he really wanted.

  A mate. And why not? The Historian had taken a mate.

  When he finished shaving, he rubbed his hand over the smooth surface of his skin. Better.

  He banged the razor on the edge of the sink a couple of times. Hair didn't fall to the sink.

  Ash did. It bled into the running water, turning the liquid black.

  James closed his eyes. What was he doing? He wasn't human. He didn't have a soul. Couldn't have a mate. She'd run screaming from him if she ever really saw him or the things he did every night. And if the Council found out about her, he'd cease to exist.

  ***

  Lilith had sexy down pat.

  They had spent the afternoon moving boxes and talking amiably. She continued to break down his defenses, and he tried to ignore her smiles, her touches. She was constantly touching him—placing her hand on his, touching his arm, and patting his knee. And if she wasn't touching him, she was reminding him of last night with the soft sway of her hips. He didn't know how much more he could take.

  If that wasn't enough, she had changed the house, too. Transforming Haven House from an occasional sanctuary to something he never expected to have, something he hadn't thought to desire—a home. It was more than the stuff she decorated the place with, more than the cleanliness or the pleasant scents. He had memories here, now. Because of her.

  And it was slowly killing him, because he still couldn't figure out what she was or how much about daemon-kind she knew. Knowing those things would determine whether or not he could have her. It would determine whether this was a dream or a nightmare.

  So as they unpacked he questioned her, coaxing her to talk about her travels abroad by asking about the various tidbits she'd collected on her trips.

  His attention shifted to the kitchen. She'd gone in there to get some dinner and soon he’d get his orders for the night and have to go to work. He needed a better plan, because in the last three hours, he'd discover
ed everything but what he needed to know. He discovered she had an adventurous streak, flitting from country to country. He discovered he liked her sense of humor. He discovered he enjoyed talking to her.

  But he still didn't know if she could be his.

  Lilith entered the living room carrying a sandwich on a plate and a glass of soda. She broke into a sly smile as she sat. “You sure you’re not hungry? I'll share.”

  Vixen. He chuckled. He couldn't help it. This was becoming a comedy of errors. He damn well knew she knew what he was and that he couldn't eat. He opened another box, and glanced up. “Dishes.”

  “Just unwrap them and stack them here. I need to wash them before I put them away.” She took a bite and sat back, watching him. “So, you never did tell me why you decided to live here.”

  He smiled, pulled out a dish and unwrapped it. “Neither did you. Not really.”

  “I guess you could say I felt drawn back.” She brushed her hair back off her forehead in a feminine fashion. “You?”

  He shrugged. “Don't know. Woke up one day and I was here. You know how it is.” Her gaze narrowed, so he mimicked her expression. “Did you live here with your grandmother your whole childhood? I mean, until she died?” He paused. “And come to think of it, why were there so many kids here that night?”

  She waited until her mouth was empty. “I moved in with Nan when I was nine.” Lilith sipped her soda. “I lived with my mom until then. She was an amazing lady.” The corner of her mouth lifted in a shadow of a smile. “She had the aneurysm just after my ninth birthday. Then, Trina's mom was killed in a car accident. She didn't have any family, so they asked Nan to take her in, too. Soon after, the others came for similar reasons. Trina and I named the place Haven House.” She smiled. “All lost souls welcome. They loved the idea and made the sign.”

  Seemed odd for so many deaths to happen in such a short span of time. Carnation wasn't a big town.

  George hopped up onto the couch and meowed. Lilith broke off some bits of her sandwich and set them down in front of the feline, who lapped them up.

  “Who's they?”

  She took a large bite of her sandwich and he could almost see the wheels turning in her mind. She dabbed her mouth with a napkin and then held it in front of her mouth. “The community.”

  Jesus, for someone who told falsehoods as often as she did, she was a horrible liar. Even if he couldn't hear the changes in her pulse, there was no way he could miss her tells. She always touched her face as if she wanted to hide, and her beautiful eyes couldn't meet his. “Oh?”

  “Carnation's a small town. Everyone is in everyone else's business.” She kept her eyes on her sandwich, picking it apart as she spoke. “All the girls were from local families. If not for Haven House, we'd have been scattered across Washington in foster care.” She shrugged. “I guess everyone thought keeping us together would be best.”

  It sounded like a reasonable answer, but her erratic pulse said her tale wasn't the truth. She made it sound like all the girls had known each other before living here, which made sense, there was only one school, but if all their mother's had died in a short time period . . . where were the dads? “What about your father?”

  “Don't know. My mom kept his name to herself.” She shrugged, tucking some hair behind her ear. “I doubt he was interested. I never was.” She brought her hand to her face again.

  “Growing up with no family is tough.”

  “I had Trina.” She picked more crumbs off her sandwich. She didn't mention Nan or the other girls who lived here. So, she didn't think of them as family.

  “What about you?” She met his gaze. “Do you have any family?”

  “No.” He balled up some of the packing paper, hoping the noise would deter her.

  “You must have at some point. I refuse to believe you spawned from ether.” She grinned. “What were they like?”

  He shrugged.

  “Come on.” She leaned forward, whispering, “Just tell me the safe bits.”

  He raised a brow, but relented. “My mother died when I was born, my father when I was in my twenties.” He shrugged. “Not much to tell.”

  “Did they live in Washington?”

  “Italy.”

  “Italy?” Her expressive face showed her surprise. “You don't even have an accent. Do you speak Italian?”

  Damn, why couldn't he seem to keep his mouth shut around her? He gave her a quick nod.

  “Say something.”

  He murmured several sentences in Italian and her eyes went liquid.

  “Beautiful. What did you say?”

  He stood and took the empty box to the entryway. “I said 'I'm done with this box and I need to grab another.'“

  Her suspicious gaze followed him as he walked away. “Liar.”

  He motioned up the last of the boxes. “Where does this one go?”

  “It's books. I already cleared off the shelves but be careful, that box is heavy.”

  He rolled his eyes at her nagging and picked the box up, carrying it into the living room. He started removing books and lining them up on the shelves, browsing the titles; the Bible, the Dead Sea Scrolls, The Gnostic Bible, and the Torah. Seemed she had a thing for religion. “So did you pick one yet?”

  “Pick one what?” She set her plate aside and took a sip of her drink.

  “A religion.”

  “Oh. I'm not religious, but I find them fascinating.”

  Of course she wasn't, she had a pentacle dangling from her rearview mirror. Maybe she'd talk about that, though. “You don't believe in God?”

  “Yeah, of course I believe in a higher power. But I'm more spiritual than religious. I'm eclectic—I take what rings true and leave the rest.”

  More diplomatic nowadays, but her statement reminded him of their first conversation centuries ago. “Ah, so you're a heretic.”

  “I just see things differently. To me, religion is the box people stuff their spirituality into in an effort to understand it better. Each theology has benefits, and each has a dark side. I think, in the Book of Thomas—he wrote, 'If a blind person leads a blind person, both will fall in a hole.' For me, that statement exemplifies religion—the blind leading the blind.”

  She'd changed quite a bit since they'd had a similar conversation, and she posed intriguing ideas for someone like him, a daemon no religion would want. If he could take the religion out of spirituality, wouldn't he then have the tiniest hope? The small possibility that maybe God still had a use for him. Maybe even still loved him?

  “I'm sorry. I kind of went off on a tangent there. I apologize if I offended you. You're Christian, right?”

  James shrugged. “Catholic, at one time.” He squeezed the Bible in his hand. “A priest, actually.” He braced himself for her reaction.

  For a long moment, she stared, her lips parted. “I've been lusting after a priest.” She covered her face with her hands. “Is that a bad sin?”

  He let out a short bark of laughter over her unexpected confession. He wasn’t sure what kind of reaction he expected, but that wasn’t it. He sat down and scoured a hand over his head. “I have no idea, but I'm not a priest. Not anymore.”

  “You don't exactly have the, uh, aura of a priest,” she said, as if she hadn't heard him.

  “I'm. Not. A. Priest. Anymore.” That's all he needed, her thinking of him like that. Why the hell had he admitted that to her?

  “So how does one become not a priest? I thought the priesthood was a lifelong commitment.”

  Jesus, he didn't want to talk about this, but he'd only make himself look worse if he avoided the question now. He stood and started putting her books on the shelf. “You can ask to be laicized, you can just walk away, or they can have you excommunicated.”

  “Which was it for you?”

  He grabbed another armful and gave her his back again. Christ, he was a coward. “Excommunication.” He lined the books up on the shelf.

  “Does that happen a lot?”

  H
e turned to gauge her expression, but found no judgment. “No.” Not unless a mortal sin had been committed.

  Lilith's gaze followed him while he unpacked more books and he couldn't imagine what she might be thinking. Maybe they hadn't laid all their cards out on the table, but she damn well knew what he was. She knew he was damned. So why had she asked? To rub his nose in his shame?

  He thought the conversation done, but after a while she spoke again, whisper soft. “It doesn't matter, you know. It was a man's decision in a religion created by men for men. Men make mistakes.”

  “They didn't make a mistake. I'm not welcome in their faith nor in their heaven. Now let it go.”

  “My gods, James.” She stood. “Why would you want such a thing? The Creator, She made heaven for humans.”

  “And hell for . . . .” Shit. He blew out a breath. He couldn't keep up this charade forever. Eventually he'd slip up. And then he'd be guilty of breaking the Discovery Laws.

  “She made Machon for . . . Her other creations.”

  His gaze narrowed. What was she? She seemed human, but no human would give a second thought to any of God's other creations. The only human religion he knew of that acknowledged Machon at all was the Jewish tradition.

  Her hand settled on her hip. “If you had ever bothered to read any holy book but yours, you might not be so set on heaven.”

  “Oh?”

  “Machon is hell for humans, true. It's dark and hot and a myriad of creatures freely roam the place. For humans, it'd be a frightening, uncomfortable place.”

  He folded his arms over his chest. “And for . . . the others?” He lowered his gaze. He'd had plenty of chances to see Machon before the portals had closed. He wouldn't do it, though. It'd be like admitting failure. Admitting he belonged in hell.

  “Constant darkness with no fear of the sunrise? I'd think that might be pleasant for some. And the heat? Some might welcome the constant heat. Not having to hide. Having an entire world to explore at their whim.” She nodded. “Yeah. I think for some, it might just be heaven.”