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

  “I don't know.” She twisted the hem of her pajama pants around her finger.

  “Bullshit.”

  She looked up, but quickly glanced away. She lied, he saw it in her body language, heard it in her heart.

  “I can't help if you don't tell me what happened.” He tried to keep the impatience out of his voice.

  “I . . . I had a nightmare.”

  “You had a hell of a dream, then.” He used his finger to wipe away the blood trickling down her arm and held it in front of her face.

  Her eyes widened.

  “Talk to me.”

  For a moment he thought he'd won their stalemate, then she shook her head. “I can handle this. I'm not ten anymore.” Her chin rose, but a shudder ran through her, ruining her bravado.

  She didn't trust him. Didn't want his help. “Fine. Be stubborn.” He strode back to his room, letting the door slam shut in his wake.

  Maybe he should leave. Lilith was temptation personified and irritating as hell. According to Crowley she was a danger to vampires and the Watchers hadn't given him any new directions. He'd based all his assumptions about his role in her life on decades-old instructions and the ranting of a Historian he'd been sent to kill.

  Fuck.

  “What do you want me to do?” He whispered the question to the empty room, but the Watchers heard him. They heard and saw everything. “Tell me, damn you. Say something or I'm out of here.”

  His phone beeped and he checked the message.

  Protect her.

  “From who?” He paced the length of the room. “Come on. At least give me that much. Who?”

  The phone beeped again.

  Everyone.

  ***

  Lilith hugged her knees, staring at the closed door across the hall. Alone, she didn't feel as brave as she had with James in the room. She refused to turn off the lights and sleep was out of the question.

  Her chin stung. She prodded along her jawline at the scratches.

  George crept into view in the hallway, at first, nothing but two glowing eyes visible. He skulked closer, pausing in her doorway. The cat held her stare, ears back, mouth open, panting.

  The feline didn't look well.

  His fur undulated along his side, something pressing against the inside of his flesh like a baby within a womb.

  The entity was in the cat.

  Lilith sucked in a hard breath and scrambled to slam the door, but George slunk forward, disappearing under the bed.

  Crap. Lilith jumped to her feet, standing on the bed. Gods, she felt silly, like the women in those old Tom & Jerry cartoons. But she sure as hell didn't know what else to do. She was a little afraid to use her Magic again. Her gaze lit on the door across the hall and she leapt from the bed, landing with a thud in the empty hallway.

  She banged on his door. “James!” She maintained a steady tattoo with her fist, keeping her attention on the bed in her room, making sure nothing tried to sneak up behind her.

  The door swung open.

  “I don't want to be alone.” She gripped the doorjamb with one hand and his arm with the other. “Can I stay with you?” Gods, she sounded shrill.

  Sighing, he scrubbed his hand over the top of his head.

  Unable to meet his gaze, her attention locked on to the words: Calvin Klein scrawled across the top of his boxers. “I promise I won't try to seduce you.”

  He cocked one brow, his lips parting.

  Ah, gods, why had she said that? “Please, don't leave me out here.”

  Stepping back, he motioned her in with a jerk of his head.

  She slipped into the room.

  “You want in, too, George?”

  Lilith swung around, a scream burgeoning in her throat.

  George hissed, slinking down the hallway.

  “Well, fuck you very much, too.” He shut the door. Without a word, he strode past, pausing to tug on a pair of faded jeans over his boxers and got back into bed. He lifted the comforter, waiting for her to get in.

  She laid down, trying to keep an appropriate amount of space between them so he wouldn't kick her out. If she didn't come up with a plan for getting rid of Aimee, she'd be begging entrance again tomorrow.

  Stacking her hands under her cheek, she lay on her side, facing away from him. Part of her wanted to confide in James. To talk through everything that happened since she'd returned. But if she told him about Aimee, he’d want to know how she knew about daemon-kind. She couldn't tell him she was a witch. He’d be horrified and hate her. He might even go after the coven. And even though she wasn't technically part of the Grigori coven, if she revealed even a hint of their existence to a vampire, the coven would see it as the worst kind of betrayal.

  Just as much of a betrayal as putting her mate at risk by not telling him an evil entity possessed his cat.

  Oh, gods, if Aimee possessed the cat, that meant she could do the same to them. That must have been what Aimee had been trying to do. To crawl into her mouth and possess her.

  A shudder ran through her. She was running out of options. For now, she’d just have to do her best to keep her mate safe until she figured everything out.

  ***

  James switched off the lamp and waited for Lilith to settle down so he could sleep. Her heart beat as fast as a hummingbird's and she shook violently. He'd never get any sleep with such a racket. “You ready to talk about it?”

  “No.”

  All righty, then. He should've demanded she tell him what the hell happened before allowing her admittance to his room. Yeah, right. He wasn't quite that much of a bastard. Although, when she'd asked to stay in here, his first instinct was to tell her no. Not just no, but hell no. It was one thing to protect her, another entirely to sleep next to her. He didn't need to be this close to her.

  But something had been in that room. And she was scared. And dawn would arrive soon. He almost moaned aloud. He’d forgotten about the fucking ghost. Damn it, it'd be best if she'd fall asleep before Nan arrived for her morning terror. The last thing Lilith needed was another scare. “Be still.”

  “I am being still.”

  “You're shaking the entire bed.” Jesus, she'd never fall asleep at this rate. He rolled to his side, wrapped his arm around her waist and hauled her up against him.

  She let out a little squeak of surprise, but didn't fight him. Ha, as if. She made herself right at home, scooting about until her head rested on his bicep, her back against his bare chest and the back of her thighs on the top of his jean-clad legs.

  Within moments, she settled down. She quit shaking. Her heart rate slowed to an even pulse. Her body relaxed and her breathing quieted to the uniform rhythm of sleep.

  The heady warmth of her body seeped into his, relaxing him and making him feel more human than he had for centuries. The cadence of her heart and her rhythmic breathing lulled him.

  Before long, he slept.

  ***

  When he entered the tent, the lash of the whip snapped, but the prisoner made no noise. She must have passed out.

  He removed the white mantle emblazoned with a red cross that covered his chainmail. He didn't want her blood on the garment—Pope Alexander III had blessed it for him when he’d become a Templar. The sounds of battle still raged outside in the distance. The scents of horses, sweat, blood, and manure tinged the air. He should be out there, fighting God's war, not dealing with her. But the sun had just dipped below the horizon and the battle would end soon. Their enemy was in full retreat.

  The prisoner hung from her arms, her feet barely touching the ground. Considering the thick webbing of lacerations the whip seared into her back, a grown man would have lost consciousness by now.

  “Enough.” He spoke in Latin, walking around to stand before the prisoner. “She can't confess if you kill her.”

  “She doesn't need to. We found the mark of the devil on her. Here.” The guard pointed to a birthmark on her shoulder, a crescent moon.

  He raked his gaze over the guard, sta
ring until the bastard left.

  James stood in front of her, legs braced apart, arms clasped behind his back. He was hard pressed to hide his shock when she lifted her head and met his gaze. She had ancient eyes, bewitching. While the deepest of brown, other colors seemed to swirl within, bits of blues and ambers. The pure scent of lavender coming from her chased all other scents away. Perhaps he'd been too hasty in dismissing the charges. Maybe she was a witch. Witches, though, were said to be ugly, foul, and corrupt. The description didn't fit this young woman.

  “What's your name?” When she continued to stare at him in silence he tried another approach. “My name is Father James Pasquino.”

  The girl rolled her eyes. “Lilith.”

  She surprised him again. “Your parents named you after a demon?”

  “They named me for a goddess.” Her belligerent tone beckoned for argument.

  “Your parents raised you heathen, then?” He frowned. She could be no more than fifteen summers. Could he fault her for her parents' sins? She didn't have the dark skin common with the Saracens; she must be a camp follower. “Convert to Christianity and I can let you go.”

  “Otherwise?”

  “They'll burn you as a witch. I won't be able to do more than give you extreme unction. Convert.”

  “I'll not.”

  “You don't know what you're saying.” He dismissed her conviction. “You're too young to die.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I won't renounce my beliefs—they're my own.”

  “So you wish me to believe this is all a misunderstanding?” He folded his arms over his chest, rocking back on his heels. “A disagreement among faiths, with no foul intent?”

  “I don't care what you believe. Unlike you, I don't wage war to force people to my beliefs.” She spat on the floor. “That's true evil, killing others because they believe differently.”

  He found himself incredulous. “You consort with the devil and you call me evil?”

  “There's no devil in my belief.”

  “And no God.”

  “I do believe in your God.” She smiled. “As one of many gods and goddesses. Yours is no more powerful than the rest.”

  “That's blasphemy.”

  “And killing in your God's name is not?” She sighed. “My arms ache and my flesh burns—let me down if you want to talk of faith and philosophy.”

  It sounded like an order. “You want to play a witch, get down yourself.”

  “We all have rules to follow, Father.” She spoke the last word with scorn. “Have you no compassion?”

  “Say you're not a witch.” He had no stomach for the killing of women but she continued to stare at him with a mutinous expression. “Speak the words, woman.”

  “I am not . . .”

  He nodded encouragement to her.

  “. . . evil.” She finished with a grin.

  “In your opinion.”

  “I've never taken a life.” Her head cocked to the side. “Can you say the same?”

  He reared back as if struck. He killed every day in the name of God. He was tired. He no longer saw the justice of this war. The Crusades would never end. He ran a hand across his head. “You're accused of conjuring fire. I've come to either hear your confession or give you last rites. The choice is yours.”

  She shook her head. “I need neither.”

  “Your arrogance will get you killed.”

  “So mote it be.” Her tone indicated her decision final, the words an admission of witchcraft, but her expression held no anger. No fear. She pitied him, he realized.

  Unsettled, he made the sign of the cross and started the prayers.

  “What if I told you I protected the Templars? That I protected you?” she asked.

  He paused. “We have God on our side.”

  She snorted.

  He continued the rite.

  “I think you and I will meet again, Father.”

  He shook his head, pausing long enough to remind her, “You're going to die tonight.”

  “Still, someday. . . .“

  He glanced up, prepared to scold her for the constant interruptions, but he lost his train of thought. Her eyes—eyes as green as a fresh blade of grass—looked straight through him. A shiver darted up his vertebrae, making the hair at his nape stand on end.

  “You'll be more open-minded by then. I think I might like you under different circumstances.”

  This wasn't how a person marked by the devil behaved. Not even his fellow priests would be so kind if in her position. He didn't know what to think, and so he continued his prayer.

  “You'll lose your soul tonight, Father.” She sounded sad. “They'll be back soon and there is no one left to protect you. My sisters are all dead.”

  James ignored her.

  “May I ask one favor?”

  He sighed. “You can ask.”

  “I don't want to die a coward, screaming in the flames.”

  A yawning abyss seemed to open within his gut. “I cannot let you go.” He wished circumstances were different. He had no desire to see her die as such, either.

  “I'm not asking you to betray your duty. I'm asking you to end my life before the flames reach me.” Clear and bright with unshed tears, her gaze held no madness. She understood what she asked.

  He forgot his prayer. He risked death for his faith every day. But would his conviction be as strong as this slip of a woman's in the face of certain death?

  Men came and took her away. He made an effort to plead her case, but three men of good standing swore they saw flames shoot from her hands. They said he'd been fortunate—the fire streaked past him into a stand of trees.

  He couldn't argue. He'd seen the same. There was no hope for her.

  James strode along the perimeter of the crowd. He'd never been to a burning before. He didn't think, after experiencing battle, anything could shock him.

  He was wrong.

  The soldiers crowded around, jeering and throwing stones and rotten food at Lilith. Tied to a pyre, she could do little more than endure the humiliation. And she did so with grace. She didn't yell back. She didn't curse. She stared into the crowd in silence. At him. Silently trying to convince him to do what she'd asked.

  He'd never killed a woman before, vowed to never commit such a grave sin.

  A soldier he didn't recognize walked up to the pyre with a torch and set the straw ablaze.

  Though James couldn't hear her voice, he read his name on her lips. “James.”

  Before he even made the choice consciously, he drew his sword from its sheath. The crowd was too thick for him to get close, at least not in time. He stood on a bale of hay, said a prayer for accuracy, and let his sword fly.

  James woke with a gasp, his skin so hot that for a moment he thought flames licked his flesh.

  Lilith shifted against his attentive body, grounding him in the present. Her body heat warmed him. Uninhibited in her slumber, she'd draped herself across him, her head tucked under his chin, chest-to-chest, her legs entwined with his. She moaned in her sleep.

  What haunted her dreams? Did memories of her attacker intrude? Or did she dream about a past life? Of unbending priests and fire and great swords?

  She let out a soft cry and he enfolded her in his arms, holding her close.

  Footsteps pattered up the hallway.

  Damn, he shouldn’t have allowed himself to sleep before sunrise. He rolled to his side, lowering Lilith to the mattress so she lay between him and the wall.

  The door opened, hinges creaking. The old bitch was noisy as hell most nights, but harmless.

  He pulled the comforter over Lilith, hiding her from the ghost. No need for it to realize there was someone new to terrorize. And better if Lilith didn't see the old woman.

  The ghost approached the bed and he clenched his jaw, bracing himself. For what, he didn't know.

  And then he remembered.

  Pain scored into his back, bringing back the memory of those missing three weeks. Of the dawns an
d dusks. The bitch was feeding off him, keeping him too weak to leave, too weak to do more than wander the fucking house in a daze.

  Until Lilith woke him up.

  This morning he didn’t have the option to fight. Not if he wanted to keep Nan's attention from Lilith. He didn't even have time to move away from her, so he curled his body around hers, hoping to hell she stayed asleep. Better for Nan to feed from him than her. Nan couldn't fully manifest with his energy. He didn't have a true life force, the darkness keeping him in existence would do little more for her than what it had already done.

  But if Nan got hold of Lilith, it'd be a whole different story. Lilith lived. She had a soul, a hot commodity among the dead.

  A low moan snuck past his lips. His back hurt like hell. He fixed his gaze on his charge and counted out the minutes until dawn broke, relegating Nan back to wherever she existed between twilights.

  Chapter 11

  Lilith startled awake. Unsure what caused the jolt of adrenaline to flash through her veins, she opened her eyes to find James staring down at her in the darkness, his face a bare inch from hers, his eyes glowing silver. For a heartbeat, she thought he might have something amorous in mind, his body lay half over hers, one arm curled around the top of her head, the other across her body. But his posture was more protective than anything. His whole frame trembled, his lips drawn into a thin line.

  He'd tugged the comforter over her, leaving her a small pocket for fresh air. The room had grown cold; their breath showed as little white puffs of steam. The ghost?

  A shudder ran through James, and he lifted his hand to lay a finger across her lips. His breath shook out of him. “Shh.”

  A fresh surge of adrenaline pulsed through her veins and she tried to sit up, to see what caused the lines of strain on his face.

  He pushed her back down. They struggled silently. She had no chance of winning their stalemate; he was far stronger. She didn't want to lie here quietly while he hurt. Tears welled in her eyes. Damn him.

  He curled the arm he tucked around her head, drawing her face into the crook of his neck. Pressed his lips to her ear. “Be still.”

  Unable to do anything else, she lifted her hand and cupped his cheek, trying to soothe him. His arm tightened around her. So she pressed her lips to his throat. Quiet moments passed, seeming to bleed together. She was ready to scream in frustration by the time he slumped on top of her, unconscious.