Dance with the Devil (Dark-Hunter #4)(20)
Author: Sherrilyn Kenyon

Zarek froze as he realized what he had just said to her. Those were things he’d kept hidden deep inside himself for centuries. Things he had never spoken of with anyone.

Painful truths that had languished in his heart, eating at him century after century.

No one had ever wanted him near them.

Not until Astrid.

It was why he couldn’t stay. She made him warm, and it terrified him because he knew it couldn’t be real.

This was another cruel torment fate had inflicted on him.

When he woke up, he would be with her and she would have no use for him. He didn’t belong with the real Astrid.

He never would.

"Then they were blind if they couldn’t see what you are, Zarek. They are the losers, not you."

Gods, how he wanted to believe her.

How he needed to believe her.

"Why are you being so nice to me?"

"I told you, Zarek. I like you."

"Why? No one else ever has."

"That’s not true. You’ve had friends all along, but you’ve never allowed them to help you."

"Acheron," he said, whispering the word. "Jess." He curled his lip at the thought of Sundown.

"You have to learn to reach out to people."

"Why? So they can shoot me in the back?"

"No, so they can love you."

"Love?" He laughed at the thought. "Who the hell needs that? I’ve lived my entire life without it. I don’t need it and I damn sure don’t want it from anyone."

She stood strong before him. Unyielding. "You can lie to yourself all you want to, but I know the truth." She held her hand out to him. "You have to learn to trust someone, Zarek. You’ve been brave your whole life. Now show me that courage. Take my hand. Trust me and I swear I won’t betray you."

He stood there indecisively, his heart pounding. He’d never been more terrified.

Not even the day they’d killed him.

"Trust me, please. I will never hurt you."

He stared at her hand. It was long, graceful. Delicate. A tiny hand.

A lover’s hand.

He wanted to run.

Instead, he found himself lifting his hand and lacing his fingers with hers.

Chapter 9

Tears fell down Astrid’s cheeks as she felt the warm strength of his hand on hers; as she saw his long, tapered fingers twined with hers.

His hand was large, masculine and it enveloped hers with power.

Those hands had killed, but they had also protected. They had cared for her and pleasured her.

By this simple action, she knew she had finally made contact with him.

She had just reached the unreachable.

Then the contact was lost.

Zarek’s face hardened as he jerked his hand away from hers. "I don’t want to be changed. Not by you. Not by anyone."

Snarling in anger, he pushed past her and marched out the door.

Astrid did something she had never done before.

She cursed.

Damn him for not staying. Damn him for being so stupid.

"I told you, he’s a hard-ass."

She turned to see M’Adoc standing behind her, staring out the door after Zarek who was trudging shirtless through the snow.

"How long have you been eavesdropping?" she asked the Oneroi.

"Not that long. I know when not to intrude on a dream."

She narrowed her eyes meaningfully at him. "You better."

Disregarding her and her unspoken threat, he moved to watch Zarek make his way across the snow.

"So what are you going to do now?" he asked.

"Beat him with a stick until he listens to reason."

"You wouldn’t be the first one to try that," M’Adoc said dryly. "The thing is, he’s immune to it."

She let out a long, weary breath. It was true.

"I don’t know what to do," she confessed. "I feel so helpless where he’s concerned."

Something sagelike flickered behind M’Adoc’s pale glowing eyes. "You shouldn’t have trapped him here or yourself for that matter. It’s dangerous to stay in this realm too long."

"I know, but what else could I have done? He won’t stay put and was determined to leave my cabin. You know I couldn’t allow that." She paused and gave the Dream-Hunter a pleading look. "I need guidance, M’Adoc. I wish I could talk to Acheron. He’s the only one I know who could tell me about Zarek."

"No. Zarek could tell you."

"But he won’t."

He met her gaze. "So you’re giving up, then?"

"Never."

He gave her a rare smile that let her know he was siphoning off her emotions. "I figured as much. Glad to know you’re no longer daunted."

"But how do I reach him? I’m open to any and all ideas and suggestions at this point."

M’Adoc held his hand out and a small, dark blue book appeared in his palm. He gave it to her.

Astrid looked at the copy of The Little Prince in her hands.

"It’s Zarek’s favorite book, too," M’Adoc said.

No wonder Zarek had been able to quote it to her.

M’Adoc stepped back. "It’s a book of heartbreak and survival. A book of magic, hope, and promise. Strange that it would speak to him, isn’t it?"

M’Adoc flashed out of the dream then and left her flipping through the book. She saw that M’Adoc had marked certain passages and paragraphs.

Astrid closed the door and took it to the comfortable recliner that had suddenly appeared in the cabin.

She smiled. All the gods of sleep liked to speak in riddles and metaphors. They seldom said anything outright, but made people work for their answers.

M’Adoc, the head of the Oneroi, had left her clues in this book.

If this could give her any insight into Zarek at all, she would read what he had marked.

Maybe then she might have a hope of saving Zarek.

Jess ducked into the small convenience store and shook himself like a wet dog coming in from the rain. It was so damn cold up here that he couldn’t stand it.

How had Zarek survived in Alaska before central heating? He had to give his friend credit. A man had to be hard and dangerous to make his home here without any help from friends or Squires.

Personally, he’d rather be pistol whipped and thrown nak*d into a nest of rattlers.

There was an elderly gentleman behind the counter who gave him a knowing smile as if he understood why Jess had cursed as soon as he entered. The man had a thick head of gray hair and a salt-and-pepper-colored beard. His old green sweater had snags, but it looked good and warm. "Can I help you?"

Jess lowered the muffler from his face and gave a curt, friendly nod to the man. Manners dictated he remove his black Stetson while indoors, but damned if he’d do that and let even an ounce of his body heat escape.

He needed ever bit of it.

"Howdy, sir," he drawled all polite like. "I’m searching for some black coffee or anything else you’ve got that’s hot. Real hot."

The man laughed and pointed to a coffeepot in the back. "You must not be from around here."

Jess headed for the coffee. "No, sir, and thank God for that."

The old man laughed again. "Ahh, stay up here for a little while and your blood will thicken up enough to where you don’t even notice it."

He doubted that. His blood would have to be petrified not to feel this cold.

He wanted to get his butt back to Reno before he became the first Dark-Hunter in history to freeze to death.

Jess poured an extra large Styrofoam cup full and headed for the counter. He set it down and dug through the five million layers of coat, flannel shirt, sweater, and long johns to pull his wallet out of his back pocket to pay. His gaze fell to a small glass case where someone had placed a hand-carved statue of a cowboy on a bucking bronco.

Jess frowned as he recognized the horse, then the man.

It was him.

He’d e-mailed a picture to Zarek last summer of him saddle-breaking his latest stallion. Damned if that wasn’t an exact copy of the photo.

"Hey," the old gentleman said as he noticed it, too. "You look just like my statue."

"Yes, sir, I noticed that. Where did you get it?"

The man looked back and forth from him to the statue as he compared their likenesses. "The annual Christmas auction we had last November."

Jess scowled at that. "Christmas auction?"

"Every year the Polar Bear Club gets together to raise money for the poor and sick. We have an annual auction, and for the last, oh I don’t know, twenty years or so, Santa has been leaving a couple of huge bags of these one-of-a-kind hand-carved statues and figurines that we sell. We figure he must be a local artist or something who doesn’t want to let anyone know where he lives. Every month a big money order comes anonymously to our post office box, too. Most of us figure it’s the same guy doing it all."

"Santa, as in Claus?"

The man nodded. "I know it’s a stupid name, but we don’t know what else to call him. It’s just some guy who comes around in winter and does good deeds. The police have seen him a time or two carrying the bags up to our center, but they leave him alone. He shovels driveways for the elderly and carves a lot of those elaborate ice sculptures you’ve probably seen around town."

Jess felt his jaw go slack, then he quickly snapped it shut before he exposed his fangs to the gentleman. Yeah. He had seen those sculptures.

But Zarek?

It hardly seemed like something the ex-slave would do. His friend was crusty at best and downright ornery at worst.

But then, Zarek had never told him what he did up here to pass the time. Never said much of nothing to Jess really.

Jess paid for the coffee, then headed back out to the street.

He walked to the end of it, where one of the ice sculptures rested at an intersection. A rendition of a moose, it stood almost eight feet tall. The moonlight glistened off the surface that was so intricately carved that it looked like the moose was ready to break loose and run for home.

Zarek’s work?

It just didn’t seem right.

Jess went to take another drink of his coffee only to realize it had already chilled.

"I hate Alaska," he mumbled, tossing the coffee to the ground and then wadding up the cup.

Before he could find a trash can, his cell phone rang.

He checked the caller ID to see that it was Justin Carmichael, one of the Blood Rites Squires who was up here hunting for Zarek. It seemed once the Oracles got wind that Artemis and Dionysus wanted Zarek dead, they had immediately notified the Council, who in turn had sent out the orneriest bunch of Blood Rite Squires to hunt and kill the rogue Dark-Hunter.

Jess was all that stood between them and Zarek.

Born and raised in New York City, Justin was a younger man, about twenty-four, with a nasty attitude Jess didn’t care for much.

He answered the call. "Yeah, Carmichael, whatcha need?"

"We have a problem."

"And that would be?"

"You know the woman who was helping Zarek? Sharon?"

"What about her?"

"We just found her. She was beaten up pretty bad and her house has been burned to the ground. My money says it’s Zarek bent on revenge."

Jess’s blood went cold. "Bullshit. Did you talk to her?"

"Trust me, she wasn’t in any condition to talk when we found her. She’s with the doctors right now and we’re headed back to Zarek’s cabin to see if we can find that bastard and make him pay for this before he hurts anyone else."

"What about Sharon’s daughter?"

"She was staying at a neighbor’s house when it happened. Thank God. I’ve got Mike watching over her in case Zarek comes calling again."

Jess couldn’t breathe and it wasn’t from the frozen bite in the air. How could this have happened? Unlike the Squires, he knew Zarek didn’t have any part in this.

He alone knew where Zarek really was.

Ash had trusted him with the truth of what was going on and had charged him with making sure no one fubarred it until Zarek’s test was over.

Well, things just went further south than a herd of geese in the fall.

"Don’t move until I get there," he told the Squire. "I want to go to his cabin with you."

"Why? You planning on getting in our way again when we take him down?"

Those words rubbed him like a herd of porcupines. "Boy, you better take that tone and flush it. I’m not a Squire you’re talking to; I happen to be one of the guys you answer to. It ain’t none of your damned business why I’m going. You just don’t move until I tell you to or I’m going to show you how I once made Wyatt Earp piss his drawers."

Carmichael hesitated before he spoke again. When he did, his voice was nice and cool. "Yes, sir. We’re at the hotel and are waiting for you."

Jess hung up the phone and returned it to his pocket.

He felt awful about Sharon. She shouldn’t have been in any danger at all. None of the Squires would have dared hurt her.

And in spite of what the others thought, he knew Zarek wouldn’t have done it even if he’d been able to.

Zarek just didn’t strike him as the type to go after those weaker than him.

But then, who else would have dared?

Astrid found Zarek alone in the center of a burned-down medieval village.

There were bodies, burned and unburned, scattered everywhere. Male and female. Every age. Most of them had torn throats as if a Daimon or some similar creature had fed off them.