Kick The Candle (Knight Games) Read online

  “Where did you find me anyway? Julius said he moved from Tiltworld.”

  “The coven has purchased the Thames Theatre, now in immediate need of renovation.”

  “A theatre? Smart. Dark, no windows.”

  “Yes. Julius is a worthy adversary.”

  “He’s nothing compared to Bathory.”

  Rick slipped another spoonful into my mouth. “No more talk. You need to rest.”

  Now that he mentioned it, I was exhausted again. I leaned back into the pillows and held up my hand when he tried to feed me another bite. “Rick, will you do something for me?”

  “Of course, mi cielo. Would you like something different to eat?”

  “No. Tell me about the day we met. The first time. Before you were my caretaker.” I dug my fingers out from under the covers and entwined them with his.

  Eyebrows rose in surprise. He met my gaze. What I saw in his expression bordered on disturbing: loss, grief, reminiscence, and love. Slowly, he pulled his hand away, but he did not deny me. In a silky-smooth ripple of a voice, he began his story.

  “I was only fifteen when we met the first time. You looked the same age but perhaps you were older. Red Grove was a much different place then, with stone cottages like this one distant from each other to allow for the acres of land families must farm to survive. The members of our community lived austere lives of faith. Monk’s church was our hub, and his Sunday service, the only time we were all in the same room.

  “In some ways it was a simpler time. Expectations were clear and opportunities were few. I was a curious boy with a fascination for the unknown. When I’d finished my chores, I would wander into the woods, sometimes for miles, under the guise of going hunting. In truth, I rarely sought game, but instead visited a fresh water pool at the bottom of a waterfall where I taught myself to swim. My mother would become quite worried at my long absences but would allow it because occasionally I would bring back wild game or fish.”

  He smiled wistfully. I wondered what his mother was like but didn’t want to sidetrack his story, so I nestled into the pillows and listened.

  “The day we met, I was swimming, floating on my back in the pool, when I saw you for the first time. I opened my eyes, and there you were, watching me from the shoulder of the waterfall. Of course, I became quite flustered and thrashed to shore.”

  I giggled. “Why would my fifteen year old self fluster you?”

  He smiled, and a hint of color warmed his cheeks. “One reason, I was naked, and another, you were a Wampanoag Indian.”

  “What?” I interrupted. “I was Native American?”

  “Yes. Your father was. Your real mother was the goddess Hecate, but I wouldn’t find that out until decades later.”

  I tried to digest that nugget of information while he continued.

  “In that time, Native Americans were often dreaded as violent or wild. I feared for my life. Without bothering to dress, I reached for my bow. But when I turned back toward the pool, you were breaking the water’s surface. You’d stripped and dove in behind me. You were always like that: brave, strong, unashamed.”

  “You knew all that from me diving into the water?” I took a deep breath as a wave of pain washed through me.

  He brushed my hair back from my face. “You’d never been there before. Later, you would tell me that your tribe had migrated to the area to escape being sold into the slave trade. You dove into the pool naked, knowing I was watching, with no idea how deep the water was or how safe. Even my fifteen-year-old self knew that made you a force to reckon with.”

  “Could I speak English?”

  “Yes, fortunately for me.” He rubbed his forehead, his eyes taking on the sheen of long forgotten memories. “As your head broke the surface of the water, you met my eyes for the first time. I’d never seen anything as beautiful as you. Maybe it was fitting that we should meet completely naked because from that day forward you stripped me of everything. It was like I was born again to a new existence.”

  “But you didn’t know what I was?”

  “You didn’t know what you were, Grateful. True, you found out before I did, but in the beginning we were both innocent. We met daily after that. You taught me how to hunt and track game the Wampanoag way. I participated in your ceremonies. And we grew together. We became best friends, although my family in Red Grove never knew about you. They only knew that our pot was always full, long after the land gave out and the beginnings of starvation nipped at our community.”

  I squeezed his hand. “I saw the day Monk came for me in the Book of Light. I lived alone, in town. How did that happen?”

  He turned away, to face the wall for a moment. “You are getting ahead of me. Wouldn’t you like to hear about our first kiss?” When he turned his attention back on me, his face looked wistful, young.

  I nestled lower into the pillows, capturing my bottom lip between my teeth and inhaling sharply at the surge of pain the movement cost me. Rick looked at me with concern. I nodded for him to continue.

  “We were seventeen. A late kiss by today’s standards, but Monk’s parish was a conservative congregation. Most men didn’t marry until their mid twenties and physical affection was tightly bound to marriage. Couples had to ask permission of an elder to marry. All very official and reserved. In your tribe, things were different. Any who took a liking to one another could marry; the girl must only demonstrate that she was capable of caring for young and most women of your tribe could by seventeen. And kissing? Your people loved to kiss.”

  “You’re blushing!” The red tint to his cheeks was endearing. I tried to meet his eyes but he looked away.

  “The couples in your tribe were quite affectionate. I was…enthralled. From an early age, you showed an aptitude for healing and knowledge of herbs, so you’d trained with the Wampanoag medicine woman. You took me home one day and introduced me to the leader of your tribe in your native language. I didn’t know what you’d said, but he seemed very happy. You turned to me and asked if I would like to marry you, as you had obtained permission from your tribe. Then, in the plaza at the center of your community, you grabbed me by the collar, pulled me forward, and kissed me within an inch of my life.” A broad smile spread across his face. “I felt it to my toes.”

  “Wait, I asked you to marry me? When I was seventeen?”

  A low rumble shook his chest and he turned to face me. “You knew exactly what you wanted, Grateful, and after that kiss, if I hadn’t before, I knew exactly what I wanted too. Forever.”

  Our eyes locked, and I tried to picture what it was like for us back then. I had a feeling there was more to the story, and by the way he reacted to my question about moving to town, that it wasn’t particularly pleasant. What had we suffered together?

  He reached over to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, then seemed to remember himself and retracted his hand. “I will get you something to drink. It is important for you to stay hydrated.” He stood and retreated to the kitchen.

  Chapter 19

  My First Engagement

  Rick returned with a tall glass of ice water, slices of lime nestled among the ice cubes. Gently, he tipped me up to drink, then placed the glass on the nightstand.

  “Refreshing. Thank you.”

  “You are welcome.”

  “Why are you Spanish?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Puritans were English Protestants. I’ve never heard of a Spanish Puritan.”

  “It is true that we were a rarity of our time. My ancestors came over with the conquistadors and migrated north where they joined the Puritan settlers. In truth, my grandfather may have been a criminal, although it wasn’t spoken of in my family. I believe he was escaping punishment. The Puritans welcomed my family’s practical skills and strength. Survival was priority one for Monk’s congregation, although I can’t remember any of the English being overly welcoming. Perhaps that is why I spent my time in the woods with you.”

  I motioned for him to lie down next to m
e. He hesitated, staring at the empty sliver of bed. Through our connection, his emotions seemed muddled and dark. Being in someone’s head isn’t like talking to them. Sure, there were times Rick wanted me to know something, and the thoughts came across in complete sentences. But people didn’t think that way naturally and today Rick’s head was filled with a mixture of what I would describe as jealousy, possessiveness, hurt, anger, and resentment. I supposed he was still thinking about Logan but suppressing his emotions for my benefit. Grunting, I scooted over to give him more room. That was enough for him to stretch out and get comfortable next to me. Even without touching, the smell of him filled my nostrils, earth, pine, saltwater and honeysuckle. I breathed him in.

  “Did you agree to marry me?” I asked, wanting to get him talking again. Truly, I would have liked the chance to explain about Logan, but Rick wasn’t ready to hear it. Not yet.

  He laced his fingers over his stomach. “Of course I did. I could no sooner part from you than my own arm. We were to be joined in the official way of the Wampanoag. I was prepared to disappear from my family forever, to live out my life with you and yours.”

  “But?”

  “But, on the morning of our impending marriage, you met me at our pool, hysterical. You told me everyone in your tribe was dead.”

  “Dead?”

  “Drained of their blood. Everyone we knew and loved, dead.” His voice cracked.

  “Vampires?”

  “We didn’t know what they were at the time. Vampires are predators and they followed their prey. Just like everyone else that migrated to Red Grove, they came here to feed because so many other places were ravaged by starvation.”

  “Why didn’t the vampires kill me?”

  “I can only speculate, but I believe you were protected by your mother.”

  “My mother…the goddess of the dead, Hecate.”

  “Yes. I can’t be sure, and you never told me, but afterward you…changed, became more powerful. You successfully enchanted Monk’s congregation into accepting your presence, no questions asked.”

  Instinctively, I reached over and placed a hand on his chest as I tilted on my side to see his face. His body stiffened. I removed my fingers and placed them beside me. I cleared my throat. “Nobody asked where I came from?”

  “People asked. You told them you’d washed ashore after a shipwreck, having traveled with a band of pilgrims who were killed during your journey. Everyone believed you.”

  “Sounds plausible.”

  “Plausible that you would come over one hundred miles from the nearest port without anything but the clothes on your back?”

  I laughed softly. “So, my magic had been awakened.”

  “Yes. And you’d lost everyone you loved.” His fingertips trailed through my hair again. The feeling was comforting, like coming home.

  I closed my eyes, slipping into sleep. “Not everyone,” I whispered. His story had lulled me into that space between sleep and awake, all of my defenses down. “I still had you.”

  The bed jostled. Through a crack in my eyelids I watched him stand. “Yes, mi cielo,” he mumbled so quietly I might only have heard it thanks to our connection. “And you still do.”

  * * * * *

  When I opened my eyes again, I rolled over and looked for Rick. He wasn’t in the room; the door was closed, but the curtains were open, revealing a frosty winter’s night. I must have slept most of the day. Likely, Rick was out patrolling the graveyard.

  Rick. If I’d ever questioned his love for me, I’d been a fool. The story he’d told me was painfully genuine and nagged at a long forgotten memory. Some part of me knew it was truth, as was my past love for him. As confusing as it all was, the warm feeling blooming in my chest was more than heartburn. I was falling in love with him. Not because of my past, although it played a part, but because of the present. He gave of himself selflessly, even when he thought I’d strayed from him. And I was fairly sure, based on everything I’d heard and seen in my grimoire, that I had tricked him into becoming my caretaker, or at a minimum, didn’t fully warn him of the consequences. The thought opened up a gaping hole in my chest. Since I’d become the witch, I’d always assumed Rick was the predator, leading me into this life because he had something to gain. Maybe Julius was technically telling the truth about our relationship, but it wasn’t the whole truth. I realized, now, Rick had a much greater burden to bear than I originally gave him credit for.

  A moment of panic caused my heart to palpitate. Julius wouldn’t be happy about Rick’s methods of rescuing me, Bathory surely had a price on my head, and Mr. Nekomata could be moving into my house any day now. How long did I have before they came for me? For Rick? I needed to tell Rick what I’d learned and find out what he knew about the possessed woman who died in my ER. We had to be at full capacity, acting as a team, or we wouldn’t stand a chance.

  I lifted my shaking hands in front of me. The deep, bloody grooves that had etched my skin had filled in, thanks to Rick’s blood, but the ache in the joint told me I wasn’t completely healed. Another feeding and I’d probably be as good as new. Speaking of blood, I reeked of it. The sponge bath Rick had given me only went so far. I desperately needed a shower, if not to get the stink off of me, to wash away the feel of Julius’ fangs at my throat or Bathory’s bull whip. With both hands, I pushed myself up and swung my legs over the side.

  Near the bed, leaning against the wall, I noticed a long, round, purple candle, like the ones you see in church. My intuition hummed. This had not been here before. There was a stamp in the wax, maybe the store logo, in the shape of a scarab beetle. Was this what Rick had obtained during his absence? Immediately, I had to know more. He’d traveled far for this. Why? I reached for the candle.

  Apparently, I’d overestimated my degree of healing because my head swam. I tilted forward at the hips and face-planted on the carpet.

  * * * * *

  “Mi cielo!” Rick shook my shoulder.

  My cheek was pressed into the scratchy area rug next to the bed. I groaned.

  “How did you fall out of bed?” He lifted me into his arms.

  Morning light shone through the window, warming my face. “I wanted to shower. I feel like I’ve been rolled in vampire saliva and left to dry.”

  His shoulders drooped, and he squeezed my waist gently. “I will help you.” Gingerly, he undressed me, balling the bloody and torn slip in one hand and tossing it into the garbage can near the bed. As if I weighed nothing, he lifted me and carried me into the bathroom. Holding me up with one arm, he started the shower with the other, testing the temperature of the water with his wrist.

  “You must be tired,” I said into his neck.

  “No, I slept Monday.”

  “It’s Sunday.”

  “Yes. I am good for a few more days.” He tested the water again, then carefully undressed himself while maintaining his hold on me.

  I was completely naked but not ashamed. Our connection ran deep, an ancient bond I was still discovering. I tugged at his shoulder. “Bathroom.”

  It took him a moment to register that I needed to use the toilet, but once he understood, he lowered me to the porcelain.

  “Call when you are finished,” he said, bracing my arm on the nearby sink. He left me then, closing the door to preserve my privacy.

  When I was done, he returned and helped me behind the glass door of the shower. Holding me close, he tipped my head back under the spray. The warm water coursed through my hair, assisted by his fingers, and washed down the length of my body. I watched red tinged water circle the drain. Rick stepped back, taking me with him, and lifted a bottle of shampoo from the ledge. With his free hand, he squeezed some out into my hair and began massaging my head. I closed my eyes and hummed with pleasure as he worked the suds from the crown of my head to the ends of my long hair. The smell of vanilla and lavender wafted through the steam around us.

  I leaned into him, not from fatigue but to indulge the sensory drive of my body. Even thro
ugh the ache of my muscles and joints, a different kind of discomfort bloomed from my core, an ache for him. My body knew what it wanted, what it needed.

  He finished rinsing my hair, and our eyes locked. A torrent of energy and magic spiraled through my body, building as we stood skin-to-skin. The corners of his eyes wrinkled, but he shook his head, breaking the connection.

  Reaching for another bottle, he coated my hair in conditioner that smelled just as good as the shampoo, then grabbed a washcloth from the rack outside the door. He worked the soap inside the cloth, then placed my hands on his shoulders. “Can you hold yourself up?”

  I nodded, unable to speak around the lump in my throat.

  He kneeled down in front of me, carefully lifting my right foot and lathering it with the rag. He worked his way up my calf, around the back of my knee, and up my leg. As he neared the apex of my thighs, I gripped his shoulders more desperately, not for balance but because my body burned for him. My breath came in shallow pants. He switched to the other foot, the other leg. When he reached my crest, he stood, lathering my abdomen, then my back.

  I tried not to register my disappointment, as he seemed to skip the parts of me I wanted him to wash the most. My nipples were straining, peaked with anticipation. My core throbbed with desire. And under it all was this hunger, an unnatural, inhuman craving for his blood.

  Supporting the base of my neck, he tilted my head back, rinsing the conditioner from my hair, then positioned me, a rag doll in his arms, under the spray to wash the lather away. I slipped my arms around his neck and pressed myself against him until no space was left between our wet bodies. He wanted me too. I could feel the hard length of him against my belly. Why was he hesitating?

  “Please,” I whispered into his ear. I followed up my plea by wrapping my lips around his earlobe and sucking gently.