Marked (Eternal Guardians #1), Page 8

  ***

  Casey was halfway to the living room, where she planned to lie down on the couch and get at least thirty minutes of sleep before she went to check on the mystery man in her bed again, when she heard a knock at her front door.

  She froze, glanced at the clock on the wall—3:14 A.M.—then at the door. And for a moment had a paralyzing flash of seething wild animals in the lot behind XScream.

  Which was off-the-charts insane, because such things just didn’t exist.

  The knock turned to a heart-thumping pounding. Her adrenaline shot through the roof.

  Oh, God. What if that was…

  “Casey?” A muffled voice called from beyond the door. “I know you’re in there. Your light’s still on.”

  Nick.

  Panic turned to bewilderment to apprehension. What was Nick Blades doing at her house at three o’clock in the morning?

  “Nick?” She took two steps toward the door.

  “Open the door, Casey,” he said in a more forceful voice.

  Her hand hovered over the doorknob as she glanced down at her feet and suddenly realized she was wearing nothing but ruined Keds, blood-stained jeans and her bra. “Um. Hold on. I need to get, um… I’m not decent. Just…wait.”

  She ran to the hall bathroom and grabbed her white terry robe, only to realize her hands were covered in dried blood. Crap. She didn’t have time to scrub them. Nick’s earlier warning zipped through her mind, and she knew for certain she couldn’t let him know about the injured man in her bed.

  She tugged the robe on over her bra and cinched it tight, curling the collar up so it hid any blood that might have splashed onto her chest. Then she unrolled the sleeves as far as they’d go until they hung over the tips of her fingers. Confident her hands were now hidden, she glanced in the bathroom mirror and swallowed a gasp at what she saw.

  Her hair was standing at odd angles, and dark circles had formed under eyes, but she figured, screw it. Whatever Nick wanted, she’d just find out quickly, then send him on his way.

  On a deep breath she hoped would calm her nerves, she walked to the front door and at the last second remembered her shoes.

  “Dammit,” she muttered under her breath as she toed off the bloody Keds and kicked them behind the door. Then she pulled the heavy wood back a crack and peered through the darkness to where Nick stood on her front porch.

  And this time she did gasp. Silhouetted by utter darkness, his scarred face highlighted only by the light coming from her kitchen behind her, he was huge. Like a Mack truck come calling. He towered above her, a dark and dangerous badass biker dude, just as Dana had pegged him, with narrowed eyes studying her as if he expected her to do something completely unpredictable, like attack him.

  That night three months ago flashed in her mind without warning. And as it did whenever the memory hit, her stomach pitched all over again. She’d left the club at two A.M. that night, headed for home. Halfway to her car, the two drunk guys who’d repeatedly tried to manhandle her inside stepped in her path and not so politely offered her a ride home. She said no, but they had other plans. Three minutes later she was flat on her back in the dirt of the adjacent empty lot, not more than a hundred yards from the club where she served drinks night after night. She knew they were going to rape her, possibly kill her, just as she knew there wasn’t a thing she could do about it.

  And then like out of a dream—or a nightmare—Nick had materialized behind them. A towering, menacing threat from above. Even now she could hear the screams. Smell the blood. Conjure up the horrifying sounds that still woke her sometimes in the night. She’d covered her ears and rolled away in the dirt to get away from the horror. Where, thankfully, she blacked out.

  She’d awoken in the hospital the next morning. Dana was there, holding her hand. Her friend told her one of the dancers had found her in the parking lot moments after she’d left the club, that she’d slipped on an oil patch on the pavement and hit her head. But Casey knew that wasn’t true. She still wasn’t sure what exactly had happened to those two losers, but she’d never seen them again. Nick, on the other hand, hadn’t missed a night at the club since.

  This is Nick, she reminded herself. He saved you once. He’s not here to murder you in your sleep.

  “Um, hi, Nick,” she said in what she knew was an unsteady voice. “It’s a little late. What can I do for you?”

  It’s three A.M., her mind warned. What the hell do you think he wants you to do for him?

  Stop it!

  “Everything okay?” he asked, tipping his head to the side, almost as if he’d heard her arguing with herself.

  She nodded too quickly. Kept one covered hand clutching the lapels of her robe together, the other firmly on the door. “Yes. I was just about to go to bed. Is there something…wrong?”

  His eyes narrowed to thin slits. He eyed the outside of her house. Looked over her head through the small gap in the door and into her living room.

  Casey stiffened. “Nick?”

  His gaze ran back to her. Rolled from head to foot. Not a steamy sweep, like she’d seen some men do at the club, but more of an observation. Like he was satisfying a curiosity.

  “Cooking something?” he suddenly asked.

  “Oh. Um.” Could he smell the lavender? She drew in a deep whiff without realizing it. “Just tea. I always have some before bed,” she lied. “Was there, uh, something you needed?”

  His gaze settled back on hers, but she couldn’t read his stone-faced expression. Had no idea what he was thinking.

  “There was a commotion at the club after you left,” he finally said. “Those college kids that you spilled beer on. They were asking about you, where you lived and stuff. That dancer, the one you don’t get along with—”

  “Paula?”

  “Yeah. Paula. She was talking to them. I thought maybe she gave them your address. Figured I’d drive up here on my way home and check on you, just to be safe.”

  “Oh.” Confusion at his sudden appearance turned to gratitude, though something in the back of her mind screamed, Don’t you think it’s odd he feels so protective of you? “Thank you,” she said, pushing that thought aside. “I’m fine, though.” She tried a smile she hoped reached her eyes and didn’t give away any of what she’d dealt with tonight. “Just tired. But safe and sound. So there’s no reason to worry about me.”

  He didn’t look convinced. His gaze swept over her again, but he nodded, as if he knew not to press the issue. “Okay,” he said, backing off her porch and down two steps, until he was on the ground but still taller than she was. “I’ll let you go back to bed then. Sleep well, Casey.”

  He made it halfway down her front walk before common sense finally kicked in. “Nick?”

  He turned slowly. “Yeah?”

  “How did you find me?”

  “Dana.”

  Her eyebrows drew together. “Oh. But—”

  “G’night, Casey.”

  Her mouth snapped closed. By the time she thought to ask just how he’d wrangled that info from Dana, he was already on his Harley, revving the engine. Seconds later he was gone, and all that was left was the sound of his bike whining through the trees off in the distance.

  Casey closed the door with a click, latched the dead bolt and turned the lock. Still reeling from Nick’s strange visit, she wove through the house to the hall bathroom.

  Her mind was a tumble of activity as she slowly peeled the clothing from her body, then climbed into the shower and turned the water on hot. Fifteen minutes later, with the mystery man’s blood cleaned from her skin and her nerves somewhat steadier, she wrapped the terry robe around herself once more and went to find clean clothes.

  Her patient was still sound asleep in her bed, in the same position she’d left him—flat on his back, with his head tipped slightly to the side, his dark hair fanning over her pillow. Why hadn’t she taken him to the hospital before? Tentatively, she walked to the edge of the bed and felt his forehead again. Finding he
was still cool, she lifted the towel covering his wounded leg and drew in a sharp breath.

  It was already healing. A scab had formed over the wound as if it had healed for two days already. Unable to believe what she was seeing, she lifted another rag on his chest to see that the gash over his ribs was healing in the same way. Another on his arm. One on his chest. And looking closely at his face, she realized the swelling had already gone down near his eye and that his scrapes weren’t nearly as fresh as they’d been only an hour ago.

  “Just who are you?” she whispered aloud.

  He didn’t answer. She knew he wouldn’t. Whoever he was, though, he was a medical miracle.

  Suddenly more exhausted than she’d been before and too tired to come up with answers of her own, Casey replaced the towels and blanket and headed for the couch. She left the bedroom door open so she could hear him if he needed her in the night, but something in her gut told her he wouldn’t.

  She blew out a breath as she lay on the worn cushions, pulled the afghan over her and looked up at the ceiling. A thousand questions raced through her mind as her eyes slid closed and sleep tugged at her, but the only thing she could focus on was his words.

  Thank you, meli.

  That husky voice of his seeped into her thoughts, whirled around and around until it was all she could hear. And then she wasn’t listening anymore. She was dreaming. Of cotton fields and cannons and soldiers in gray coats, charging. Guns firing from across a valley. The clash of weapon against weapon. Ear-piercing cries of agony and heart-stopping shouts of victory.

  And on the fringe, the man in her bed dressed all in black, standing in the shadows of the trees, watching the battle with a keen eye. Beside him, another man, this one older, with a similar facial structure and the same strong body, and wide, broad shoulders.

  “This all will be yours,” the older man said with a sweep of his hands. “All of it. Yours to guard. Your birthright. Do not disappoint me.”

  Before Casey could hear her Greek god’s response, the world went black.