Possessed by an Immortal

She surrendered the wet trench coat silently, letting go of Jonathan’s hand just long enough to free the sleeve. Mark hung the garment on a peg close enough to the stove that it would dry.

“Come into the kitchen,” he said. “We can find you two something to eat.”

It was a mild deception. As he’d planned, the mention of food caught her attention.

“It’s been a long time since Jonathan had dinner,” she said.

“I’ll take care of that. It’ll be my pleasure.”

Her eyes flicked to his at the last word, imbuing it with extra meaning. Then, she looked away quickly, as if regretting that moment of connection.

Mark smiled to himself. He hadn’t lost his touch after all. “This way.”

Wordlessly, reluctantly, Bree followed him, Jonathan at her heels.

“Can I get you a drink?” he offered.

“I don’t drink.” She bit the words off as if he’d offended her. Fine. Whatever.

Mark turned on the overhead bulbs, washing the room in stark brightness. Bree followed, blinking at the bright light. Suddenly, she was in color. Her face was dusted with golden freckles, her eyes shifting between green and blue. A few strands of hair had dried around her face, morphing into long, tawny ripples. He put her somewhere in her mid-twenties, younger than he’d first thought. Hers was a face meant for summer afternoons.

Mark washed his hands in the chipped enamel sink. Then he bent and lifted Jonathan to sit on the battered wooden table.

“What are you doing?” Bree demanded.

Mark ignored her. The boy inhaled, but didn’t protest. Mark bent to catch the child’s eye again, using a tiny push of compulsion to calm him. “Hello, Jonathan. How old are you?”

“Almost four,” Bree answered on his behalf.

Mark frowned. Now that there was good light, he could see the child’s pallor. “How long has he been sick?”

She looked about to protest, as if to say she’d already refused medical advice, but then surrender washed over her features. “Just after his third birthday, I noticed he couldn’t play for long without getting breathless. Then about five months ago, he stopped talking.”

“Fever?”

“Off and on.”

“What other symptoms?”

“There have been no rashes or anything like that. He’s not in pain that I can tell.”

Now that they’d begun, her voice was brittle with worry. Mark wanted to reach over, brush the curve of her cheek in a gesture of comfort. The blood hunger leaped to life, drawing his eyes down the V-neck of her cotton sweater. He forced his gaze away. “Let’s get these wet clothes off him. They can dry while I do the exam.”

It was a good plan, but doomed to frustration. Mark had brought his doctor’s bag to the cabin, but it was meant for emergencies, not laboratory-level diagnoses. Some of Jonathan’s abdominal organs seemed to be tender, but it was hard to tell when the patient couldn’t speak. He asked many more questions, but Bree’s answers could only help so much.

“He needs tests. The nearest place that does that kind of work is in Redwood. I can arrange it if you want.” Mark watched her carefully. Her gaze lowered, but he could still see her weighing the odds, her son’s health against—what? “Is there a problem with insurance?”

For a moment, she looked as if she was in physical pain. “It’s more complicated than that.”

“How can I help?” The question came instantly to Mark’s lips, surprising him a little.

“You can’t.”

“I can see your son gets the treatment he needs.”

“That’s not your decision.” She sounded almost angry.

Mark’s temper stirred in reply. “Don’t the child’s needs come first?”

She cursed so softly he almost missed it. “I need to think.” She scooped Jonathan into her arms and walked back to the front room, cradling him against her shoulder. The boy’s dark eyes watched Mark from over his mother’s back.

The sudden silence in the kitchen jarred. Mark stared at the litter of doctor’s instruments on the kitchen table and cursed. He was trying to help, but something wasn’t right. Too many questions crowded into his mind, and he had a feeling none of the answers were pleasant. Why involve yourself with their troubles? You were at peace with just the other beasts for company.

But the one human attribute that still plagued him was curiosity. Bree and her son obviously had a story, and he wanted to know what it was. With speed born of long practice, he tidied away his medical equipment. After that he found some cans of tomato soup in the cupboards. He never had visitors, but kept a small stock of human food for emergencies. He probably should have offered food first, but he’d forgotten many of those small courtesies. Such were the hazards of living mostly among his own kind.

Mark returned to the sitting room, about to ask if he could make tea or coffee. Bree was slouched in his chair, Jonathan—now in dry clothes—asleep in the curve of her arm. Mark’s step hitched, caught for a moment by the peaceful tableau. Mother and child. It never got old.

She rose to her feet, a graceful unfolding of her long, slender legs. Mark watched with appreciation until she brought his own Browning pistol into view, aiming straight for his chest.

A lightning glance saw the weapons cupboard standing open. She’d picked the lock. By all the fiery hells! Shock soured to bitterness. “So you are here to kill me.”

“Paranoid much?” He could hear fear in her voice. “Don’t flatter yourself. I don’t need to kill you. I just want your car keys and all your cash.”

Chapter 3

Nerves dried Bree’s mouth to cotton, making her words clumsy. The cold metal of the gun chilled her hand, driving every scrap of the stove’s warmth out of her blood.

The doctor named Mark stood frozen in the kitchen doorway, stark surprise on his handsome face. Disappointment flooded his dark eyes, making Bree’s throat clutch with regret. He didn’t deserve this. I’m sorry. You’re kind, and I’m horrible, but I have to run.

Mind you, this was the guy who’d dropped from the trees Tarzan-style and scared off a cougar. He was six-foot-plus of steely muscle, and she was very glad she had the gun.

His face dropped back into what seemed to be his usual expression—a wary, keep-your-distance frown just shy of an outright scowl. He’d cheered up when he was dealing with Jonathan, but the frown was going full blast right now.

“You’re robbing me?” he said, voice heavy with incredulity.

A flicker of annoyance bolstered her resolve. “Duh. Yeah.”

His upper lip curled with disdain, ruining the line of his perfectly sculpted lips.

Bree gulped, fighting her dry throat. With that face, he could have been a male model. Wavy dark hair, olive skin, perfect nose, dimpled chin. And a doctor. Even her mother would have approved, except—what was he doing out here? Dancing with wolves?

Though gentle with Jonathan, whenever he looked her way Mark was too intense, too raw. He scared her even as he fascinated. And just to complicate matters, she was coming to believe that he really meant to help. But there were always strings attached—strings she couldn’t afford.

Involving anyone else in her headlong flight meant trusting them. Trust meant risk. She would make fewer mistakes if she worked alone, and Jonathan would be safer—and her son’s safety was the bottom line.

The nose of the gun shook. To cover, she pulled the slide back, remembering it was a single-action pistol and she had to chamber a round. She knew the basics, but was no marksman. She frowned, doing her best to look tough.

“Have you done this before?” Mark asked in that silky tone he’d used in the woods. “Is this a new kind of home invasion?”

“Uh-huh.” Her heart pounded so hard her head swam. Behind her, Jonathan stirred anxiously. Her free hand groped behind her, catching his hand. Images flicked past. Bob the fishing guide who’d left her to freeze. The men who’d chased her from New York to these wild islands in the north. Her best friend and employer murdered, the studio where they’d worked burned to the ground. She’d heard Jessica scream that night, the sound coming shrill through the phone. The memory made her stomach roil.

This wasn’t a game. If Bree faltered, she’d be dead and Jonathan right along with her.

Dr. Bedroom Eyes didn’t know any of that. He just looked annoyed and—embarrassed? He’d probably never been threatened with his own gun before.

“You shouldn’t have wasted my professional time,” he said with deceptive coolness. “You should have just robbed me straightaway.”

Anger rose, and Bree’s hand stopped trembling. “I’m not an idiot. I know I need to find proper medical care. I was hoping you could just give Jonathan some medicine.”

“I can’t even diagnose him yet.”

“I thought you said you were better than the other doctors.”

His dark eyes flickered dangerously, sending a chill up her neck. There was menace just below that handsome facade. “I need the proper equipment. For that I need a hospital. You need a hospital.”

What Bree needed was someone—anyone—to understand. “Hospitals need names.”

Comprehension crossed his face. “You’re on the run. You’re in some kind of trouble.”

“You have no idea.” Men with guns. Men who would cheerfully take what she had and kill both her and her boy.

Mark took a step closer.

“Stay where you are!” she warned.

A second later, he was inches away from her, grabbing her gun hand and twisting her facedown against the back of the overstuffed chair. How had he moved so fast?

The edge of the chair back dug into her flesh. His hands were cool and horribly strong. Rough cloth grazed her cheek as her arm was wrenched behind her. The gun slid out of her tingling hand.

“Jonathan!” she wailed. Where had he gone?

With an inarticulate cry, her son threw himself against the doctor, pounding his fists against the man’s legs. Jonathan’s face was twisted with fury, tears streaking his cheeks.

“No!” Bree forgot the pain snaking up her arm.

Jonathan kicked the doctor’s ankle. With a curse, Mark released her, stepping back and removing the clip from the pistol in a single move. Then he ejected the cartridge from the chamber with practiced ease. “Enough!”

Bree fell to her knees and grabbed her son, who was ready to relaunch his attack. “No, baby.”

Jonathan threw his arms around her neck. With a mother’s instinct, she knew he was offering protection and needing comfort at the same time. She closed her eyes, her heart squeezed with dread for whatever was going to happen next.

Her arm and shoulder throbbed. “I’m sorry. Please, please don’t take it out on him.” She looked up at the doctor, putting her soul into her eyes. “Let us go.”

His gaze narrowed, his expression unreadable. “I’m going to ask questions, and you’re going to answer me. I’ll know if you’re lying.”

Bree balked, but she had no cards left to play and everything to lose. “Okay.”

She stood, setting Jonathan in the big, stuffed chair. The boy slumped into the cushions, his face still red and wet with tears. She kissed his cheeks dry. Then Bree turned to face the man she’d held at gunpoint moments ago.

“Why are you running?” he asked.

“I witnessed a murder.” It wasn’t the whole answer, but it wasn’t a lie.

“When?”

“A year ago.”

“You’ve been running all that time?”

“And hiding. I was safe for a while, until—”

He interrupted with an impatient gesture of his hand. “A doctor ran your insurance card, and somehow that let the bad guys find you.”

She nodded, and that perfect mouth of his twitched down at the corners.

“I get it.” He paused a moment, and she could almost see thoughts chasing through his head. After drawing a long breath, he thrust the empty gun into his waistband. The gesture was slow and reluctant, as if he wasn’t sure he’d made the right choice. “You’re lucky I came along. That cougar wasn’t going to back off because you asked nicely.”

Frowning, he looked at the clip in his hand. “If you’re on the run, how come you don’t have your own weapon?”

Bree stiffened. He had a point. She could have used something like the Browning when Bob had forced her out of the boat. “I’m doing the best I can, but it’s not easy. I can’t travel with a four-year-old boy and a loaded gun. That’s just bad parenting.”

He didn’t answer, but made a noise that sounded as though he was choking back a laugh. Heat flared across her cheeks.

The doctor closed his fingers over the clip. The gesture mesmerized her. She remembered the hard strength of his hands, and the delicate touch he’d used when examining Jonathan. With unbidden clarity, she imagined them skimming her limbs with the caress of a lover. Desire simmered under her skin, and it shocked her to realize that she wanted that touch with an ache so sharp it stung.

She’d been alone too long.

His voice snapped her back to reality. The menace had gone out of it, but it wasn’t warm. “Why are you here, in these woods?”

“I hired a boat to take me to the mainland. When my ride found out we were being followed, he dumped me on your beach.”

He took a step forward. “Who’s following you?”

Bree suddenly realized she’d brought danger to his door. She’d been so focused on getting Jonathan to shelter, she’d missed that point. “I don’t have names, but they’re bad news. If they catch up with Bob, he won’t play the hero. He’ll sell me for gas money.”

“Knights in shining armor are few and far between.”

She folded her arms. “No kidding.”

He shrugged. His expression was stone, hard and unwelcoming. “Knights were overrated, if you ask me. If you want to protect a treasure, ask a dragon.”

* * *

Mark had spoken without thinking, but the look she gave him was significant. He was the fierce predator, the dragon; her son was the treasure. Even if she didn’t realize it yet, Bree was counting on him to get Jonathan someplace safe.

No. No women and children, not ever again. I’m not that man. Mark recoiled. He understood the primitive instincts of pack and cave. He knew why Bree looked to him for protection. He was three-quarters beast, only a shred of humanity still tying him to the civilized world.

Family would be his nightmare reborn, history mercilessly repeating itself. Sure, he could play doctor, whether it was with one small boy or a country ravaged by flood and fire. But as a medical man, he could come and go at will, getting involved on his own terms.

A family man had no escape from their needs and his failures. I am not your dragon. Still, he had to do something for her, if only to get her out of his cabin—and maybe after centuries of woe and slaughter, he was ready to see someone like her win.

Nevertheless, this would only work if he set limits. He was a vampire, and far, far from a saint. “I’ll take you as far as Redwood. I have hospital privileges there. I can run tests off the grid.”

She stared at him with something like wonder. “Why are you doing this for us?”

“After you threatened to shoot me?” And, as the most ferocious creature in the room, he would just skip past the fact that she’d got the drop on him with his own weapon.

“Well, yeah.” She had the decency to look abashed.

“I’m a doctor. You seem to need help. It’s what we do.”

“You’re very kind.”

“Not so much. Getting to Redwood is the matter of a phone call.” And if she was being followed, it made sense for them all to leave. He folded his arms. “Where did you learn to pick a lock like that?”

“My dad’s liquor cabinet. All it takes is a paper clip.”

He remembered she’d said she didn’t drink—but obviously she had once. “Very resourceful.”

“I have to use what I’ve got.”

Don’t I know it? She was beautiful. He might be a monster, but he was still male, moved by her grace and her courage. Despite himself, Bree’s desperate protectiveness had made him care. A dangerous woman.

“Stay here,” he said, removing the rifle from the cupboard where he had—emphasis on the word had—locked his weapons. He began mounting the stairs to the second floor. “I don’t have any other firearms sitting around, so don’t bother looking for another gun to finish me off.”

“I would never...”

Turning on the staircase, he gave her a look that made the words fade from her lips, reminding her that he was the dragon, not the knight.

Still, the anger between them had eased. Jonathan had grown comfortable—and tired enough—to have fallen fast asleep in the tattered armchair. Mark turned before Bree could see him smile.

Once upstairs, he found his cell phone and the spot by the window that caught a signal. This far out in the country, cell coverage was spotty and he exhaled with relief when the call connected. It was the middle of the night, but in the supernatural community, that was business hours.

“Fred Larson.”

“It’s Mark Winspear.”

“I didn’t expect you to call for weeks yet. You’ve barely been out there a month.”

“Something came up.”

“Business?”

“Yes and no.” It wasn’t Company business, but Larson didn’t need to know.

“Must be serious to call you back to civilization early.”

“My bad nature precedes me.”

“Just a bit. What can I do for you?”

Mark studied the horizon. The rain outside had slowed, now pattering instead of pounding on the roof. Light was already turning the horizon to pearl-gray. Bree’s pursuers were probably lying in wait, biding their time for sunrise to make a search of the island easy. “I need to get into Redwood as soon as possible.”

“Today?”

“I’m talking hours. There will be passengers besides me. A woman and child.”

The ensuing silence vibrated with curiosity, but Larson knew better than to ask. Mark wasn’t just Company, he was one of the Horsemen, a small team of elite operatives. As a doctor, they’d nicknamed him Plague, his two friends War and Famine. Death, ironically, was dead. A pang of sadness caught Mark. He treasured the few friends he had. Losing Death—whose real name had been Jack Anderson—had cut deep.

“I can have the plane in the air at first light,” Larson replied, mercifully breaking into his thoughts.

“Be careful. There’s a good chance we have hostiles in the water nearby.”

“I’ll keep my eyes open and my powder dry.”

“Good. See you then.” Mark thumbed the phone off.

And then winced. First light. By the fiery pit.

Larson worked for the Company, but he was human. Daylight flights were no problem. Vampires could function during sunlight hours, but only under protest. It felt like stumbling around in the blare of a zillion-watt floodlight. Bloody hell.

Mark pocketed his phone and started for the stairs.

A square of white paper lay on the floor. As he stooped to pick it up, he saw it was an envelope. He had obviously passed by it on the way up.

The cabin didn’t have a mailbox, much less delivery straight to his bedroom. He tilted the envelope to the faint light falling through the window. The handwriting read Dr. Mark Winspear.

Curious, he ripped it open and slid out a folded letter. The salutation inside used his real name: to my Lord Marco Farnese.

He sucked in a breath. No one had called him that in hundreds of years. Seeing that name written in modern ballpoint pen gave him an odd sense of dislocation, as if he were neither in the present day nor the past.

He clicked on the bedside lamp, welcoming the puddle of light. The message was only a single line: I haven’t forgotten you.

He flipped the paper over, studying the blank side, then turned the page print-side-up again. He was annoyed more than disturbed. Except...there was a human woman and child downstairs. Whoever came for him would kill them first. They were easy targets.

Just like before. He’d played this game long ago, and lost.

A second thought crowded in. While he had been out playing pat-a-cake with cougars, his enemies had been in his house. Standing over his bed. Territorial rage swept through him, leaving his fingers shaking.

The signature on the letter was a crest, the inky impression of a signet ring used like a rubber stamp. It hadn’t worked very well—the ink had run, making the whole thing look smudged—but Mark could make out the serpent and crossed daggers of the Knights of Vidon. Below the crest were the initials N.F.

Nicholas Ferrel.

Vile memories ripped through him, old but undiminished. He killed my wife. My children. He burned them alive.

Mark had slaughtered Ferrel, Commander General of the Knights of Vidon, back in the fifteenth century. Then he’d torn every Knight he could find flesh from bone.

Mark clenched his teeth. Vengeance had solved nothing. Ferrel’s sons had sworn a vendetta. They’d sworn their service to the vampire-slaying Knights, as had their sons after them. Back then, the Knights were a breed apart, stronger, faster and resistant to a vampire’s hypnotic powers. The Ferrels were the foremost among them.

None had killed Mark, but a good many men, human and vampire, had paid for the feud with their lives. Was this new Nicholas a descendant eager to perpetuate the fight? Why leave a note and not just, say, drop a bomb on the cabin?

Mark glanced at the horizon again, calculating how long it would take the plane to arrive. Two hours at most. He crumpled the letter in his hand.

Assassins had come before, but this time was different. These had been in his bedroom. These had used Ferrel’s name.

And that meant Mark had more than himself to protect. History was repeating itself. There was a woman and a boy, and they were depending on him for their lives.

Bree’s enemies weren’t the only ones he had to fight. Now there were his, too.

Suddenly two hours to dawn was a very long time.

Chapter 4

Dawn clawed its way into the sky. It came stealthily at first, a lighter shade of steel that threw the craggy trees into sharp relief. Then the sky erupted in streaks of crimson and orange, a flame that started low in the forest and slowly climbed as a rising wind shredded the clouds.

To Bree, the light brought little comfort. Jonathan was asleep in the big chair, buried under blankets, but she was too restless to sit still. As the fire in the stove burned down, the circle of heat around them grew steadily smaller, as if the cold, wet forest pushed through the cabin walls.

Mark moved about the small space with quiet efficiency, packing a large nylon knapsack with clothes, books, weapons and a whisper-thin laptop. He wrote a note and left it on the table for someone who was coming in to ready the cabin for winter. He spoke little and checked the window often, a sharp crease between his brows.

“It’s time to go,” he said at last.

His low voice startled her. She turned from staring out at the fiery sky. The light inside seemed a thick, pearly gray—neither day nor night. His scowl was deadly serious. Not the face of a healer, but of something far more dangerous. She prayed he would keep his word. She prayed he was really on her side. If she guessed wrong, it would be Jonathan who suffered.

“Okay.” She pulled on her coat. It was still wet in the folds, but most of it was warm from the stove. “Is it far to the plane?”

“About a ten-minute walk.”

With Jonathan, it would take twice that. The boy was asleep and not ready to be disturbed. She started putting on his shoes. They were cold and damp to the touch, and must have felt awful. He woke up with a noise of protest.

“Sorry, baby,” she said, crouching down before the chair so she could get a better angle.

He jerked his foot back, his lower lip jutting and his eyes resentful.

“C’mon, we’ve got to go.”

Bree reached for his foot again. She was exhausted, with a numbness that came from no sleep all night. She felt as though she were moving underwater.

But her fingers closed on air as Jonathan’s feet disappeared under his bottom like darting fish. As she reached under him, he curled into a ball, drawing the blanket into an impenetrable cocoon.