﻿He kissed her.

It was the surest way he knew to shut her up fast. His mouth came down on hers and what began as a simple thing to solve an immediate problem quickly became something else entirely.

Her mouth beneath his was pliant, soft, tempting. At first, she tried to pull free, but Santos gave her no room to back away. Every cell in his body demanded that he hold her closer, tighter. He felt the pull of her and knew that there was more at work here than simple need. Simple attraction for a beautiful woman.

He had to taste her. Had to have more of her. Somthing stirred within, hungry, demanding, urging him to claim her. To take her.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Maureen Child is a California native who loves to travel. She and her husband take off for research trips every chance they get. The author of more than sixty books, Maureen loves a happy ending and still swears that she has the best job in the world. She lives in Southern California with her husband, two children and a golden retriever with delusions of grandeur.

Dear Reader,

Writing for the Intrigue Nocturne line is just a magical experience. Being able to turn your imagination loose and explore all of the worlds your daydreams continually visit is a treat for a writer.

In Nevermore you'll meet Santos, an Immortal Guardian, who was once the lover of Queen Isabella of Spain. For those of you who read my first Nocturne story, Eternally, you'll remember Santos and, hopefully, be glad to see him with his own book.

Of course, nothing goes smoothly for an Immortal whose duty it is to protect humanity from the demon worlds populating dimensions sometimes far too close to our own.

And when Santos meets Erin Brady, a psychic running from the demon who has promised to kill her on her birthday, nothing will ever be the same again.

Maureen

Nevermore

MAUREEN CHILD

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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To Diana Ventimiglia, Thanks Diana, for keeping me on my toes and never forgetting when everything is due!

Chapter 1

Her stalker was back.

Heart pounding, breath strangling in her chest, Erin Brady darted through the crowd of tourists on the wharf in Shadow Cove, Maine.

She felt him.

“Where?” she whispered through clenched teeth, her gaze sweeping the blur of faces as she ran. It could be anyone. The teenager leaning against the fence. The old man squinting into the sun. The harried housewife trying to corral a small child.

“God, where do I go?” she muttered, not expecting an answer. All she could do was run.

The air was cold with the bite of fall. The sun was setting, spreading sheets of gold and crimson across the surface of the ocean that stretched out behind her and lapped eagerly at the pylons below the boardwalk. The sun-faded boards beneath her feet groaned and creaked with the ocean’s movement, and sounded like ghosts, keening a warning.

No warning necessary, Erin thought wildly, the heels of her boots clacking against the wood planks as she ran. She knew she was being followed. Again. She felt the power of someone’s stare burrowing into her back even as she bolted for the safety she knew she wouldn’t find.

A fisherman eased back on his pole and took a step backward that had Erin clipping into his shoulder as she ran. He shouted after her, but she could only lift one hand in apology and yell, “I’m sorry. Sorry.” No time. No time to be polite. No time to worry about pissing off the locals. No time for anything but finding somewhere to hide. To get out of sight.

The bucolic fishing village was packed with tourists there to see the autumn foliage. Quaintly decorated shop fronts strived to look as they might have two hundred years ago. Cobblestones paved the main street and every door was propped open, the better to induce spontaneous shopping.

Erin had been in town for a week, looking for a place to escape the crowded, suddenly terrifying streets of New York. Raised in California, she’d lived in Manhattan for years. Erin was more at home with the big-city vibe, but over the last few weeks things had changed.

Let’s face it, she thought, things had changed five years ago. On her twenty-fifth birthday, she’d received a letter from the birth mother she’d never known, warning Erin that on her thirtieth birthday, her biological father was going to find her, steal her psychic abilities and then kill her.

Now, with only three weeks left before she turned the big three-O, life was getting scary. Especially since the day someone had shoved her off a curb in Brooklyn and into the path of an oncoming bus. Erin had survived that, thanks to a quick-moving good Samaritan. But since that day, she’d felt eyes watching her. Following her every movement.

She’d thought she would be safe tucked away in a tiny village just a half hour from the Canadian border.

Clearly, she had been wrong.

She slapped her right hand onto a light post and used it to swing herself around the corner in her blind run. The instant her hand touched the cold, black metal though, her mind filled with the images of everyone who had touched it before her.

Visions raced through her mind so quickly, she could barely separate one from the other. Old men, young women, boys carving their initials into the black paint, drunks leaning into the pole, a young couple nestled against it, lips locked in a hungry kiss—she saw them all in a rapid progression despite trying to close them all out.

Not now, she thought wildly, doing her best to close down the psychic images flooding her mind. Normally, she could deal with the burst of visions erupting in her mind at the simplest touch of an object. She’d learned to pause, let the pictures rise up and fade away in their own time. Today, she couldn’t afford to be distracted. Not even for an instant.

She shook her head, stumbled, waved her arms to steady herself and then raced down the cobblestone street. Erin darted in and out of the crowds as she passed one shop after another. Which one? Where should she go? Where would she be safe?

Then one shop seemed to stand out from all the others. Soft blue paint, gray shutters and a gleaming front window with gold-leaf paint proclaiming The Ancient Sea. Her boots slid, then grabbed the cobblestones as she ducked inside. Her instincts had prompted her to choose this shop above all the others and she was in no shape to argue with them. Besides, all that mattered was that she get off the street, out of sight, before whoever had been watching her on the wharf could find her again.

A bell over the door pealed as she stepped on the welcome mat and the old woman behind the counter gave her a blank stare and a brief nod of greeting. Erin couldn’t blame the woman for not being delighted to see her. She must look half crazed. God knew that’s how she felt. Breathless, terrified, lost.

Where the hell could she go?

What was she supposed to do?

“Welcome,” the woman said, but the single word didn’t hold much warmth. “If I can help you find something, please ask.”

Sure, Erin thought frantically, tossing one glance over her shoulder at the wide window overlooking the street, help me find the reason someone’s suddenly out to get me.

Swallowing hard, she wandered blindly down the cluttered aisle and let her gaze slide over the shelves and display cases of antiques. There was a nautical theme to every item in the store—hence, she thought, the name of the shop. Careful not to touch anything, lest she plunge herself into another series of psychic visions, Erin wandered to the back of the store, keeping her head down and her shoulders slumped in a vain attempt to disappear.

Normally, she tended to avoid antique shops. With her kind of “gift,” antiques were overwhelming. Too many memories. Too many energy imprints left behind by sometimes generations of previous owners. But today, for some reason, she’d chosen this store out of all the others to hide in.

The air in the shop smelled of lavender and chicken soup. An odd combination, but somehow comforting. Steadying her heartbeat took a minute or two of concentration, but she forced herself to breathe deeply, slowly. Panic, her closest companion these days, crouched in the pit of her stomach and snarled, but Erin wouldn’t give into it. Wouldn’t fall apart. Not here. Not now. She couldn’t afford to. She had to think. Had to figure out a way to handle the sudden upheaval that had become her life.

Only three weeks ago, she’d been the head chef in DelVeccio’s, a small, but trendy restaurant in the Village. She’d built her reputation on creativity and excellence and the restaurant was just beginning to get noticed. Then one day, it all went to hell.

The bell over the shop door rang again and Erin stopped dead, half-hidden behind a display case filled with scrimshaw carvings and colorful glass balls that had once festooned fishing nets. She peeked around the edge of a bust of the Ancient Mariner, carved from driftwood and polished to a high gleam and released a breath when she saw two elderly women, chattering brightly, enter the shop.

Okay, whoever was following her, she was pretty sure it wasn’t those two. No way could they have kept up with her. Not the way she’d been sprinting down Main Street. Since no one else came into the shop after the women, maybe she’d lost her stalker.

But if she had, it wouldn’t be for long. Not in a town this size. “Idiot,” Erin muttered, turning to the far shelf at the back of the store. “If you couldn’t stay lost in Manhattan, what made you think you could do it here?”

“I beg your pardon,” the shopkeeper asked, appearing beside her, “were you speaking to me?”

“No, sorry,” Erin said and forced a smile she was fairly sure looked as ghastly as she felt. “Just thinking out loud.”

“I see.” The woman, in her seventies, was dressed in a long, flowing red caftan over black slacks and her snow-white hair was done up in an elaborate French twist at the back of her head. Her blue eyes studied Erin for a long moment, then she asked, “I noticed you were looking at the scrimshaw. Is there something I can show you?”

“Um, no, thanks. I’m really just browsing.” And hiding from whoever was outside that door. It probably wasn’t safe to stay in one place too long, either, but she couldn’t seem to make herself walk through that front door. She had to stay here. But for how long?

“Fine. But please be careful around the antiquities,” she said and quietly moved away to offer assistance to the two elderly women arguing over a teak tea chest.

Erin sighed and glanced around at the shelves full of merchandise. She wondered if the woman would mind if she just stayed here in the shop, hidden away for a month or two. But as soon as she thought it, Erin knew hiding wasn’t the answer. Whoever was following her would find her again. And if she stayed in this shop, she’d be trapped.

But wasn’t she trapped already? She hadn’t been safe at home and running hadn’t helped the situation any. What she needed were some answers. Answers that made sense. Answers about the birth mother who’d reached out from who knew where to set into motion dangers Erin had no idea how to fight.

She stepped away from the wide front window and moved deeper into the shadows toward the back of the shop. Up near the cash register, the three women were chattering, their voices a steady stream of noise that both comforted and annoyed.

Moving beyond the reach of sunlight, Erin stepped into the shadowy corner where the less impressive antiques were shelved haphazardly. Cracking leather tobacco pouches were crowded alongside mortar and pestles. Wooden cups and bowls were stacked in uneven towers and a pewter platter lay gleaming dully in the dim, overhead light.

There was nothing there to intrigue anyone. Nothing to dazzle the imagination or fire curiosity. And yet, Erin was drawn to the back shelf, her gaze landing on the butt end of a lone ivory knife, partially hidden behind the platter. Her fingers itched to touch the knife even while her mind pulled back from the thought. One touch and she knew she would see the memories locked into that weapon. She would see the person who had held it, used it, worn it on his hip.

And yet…she moved in closer, holding her breath as her gaze locked on that knife. There was something about it. Something that called to her.

The ivory handle of the knife was intricately carved, though its edges were worn with time. Erin leaned in, heart racing. She picked out the designs in the yellowed ivory and recognized them as dolphins cresting the tops of waves.

“A seaman, then,” she whispered, her voice hardly more than a breath. The edges of the knife seemed to glow as she watched it, as if it had been lying here in the shadows of this shop forever, just waiting for her to arrive and find it.

That thought brought her up short for a second or two. Was this the reason she’d chosen this particular shop to hide in? Was her psychometry getting stronger? Was she developing deeper psychic abilities? Was it just another piece of the puzzle surrounding the last few weeks?

“Oh, God. I don’t know how much more of this I can take, you know?” She could deal with the “touch and see” gift she already had. But she so didn’t want any extra psychic prizes. Still, she couldn’t ignore the urge to touch that knife. Whether it was fate she’d landed in this store or pure chance, that knife meant something. So, she took another shaky breath and closed her hand around the ivory handle, pulling it from the darkness into the light.

The cool, carved bone warmed in her hand. Erin tightened her grip, pulled in a deep breath of air and held it, trying to prepare for what was to come. But nothing could have prepared her.

Instantly, Erin’s world shifted, shattered and rebuilt itself again. She was used to this, having experienced these vivid visions all of her life. But this time, she thought, as she felt the wind in her hair and the sea spray on her face, it was different.

More vivid.

More immediate.

The cluttered antique shop dissolved into mist and Erin gasped as she tumbled into her vision.

Men shouted all around her, their voices clamoring to be heard over the roar of the wind and the crash of the waves pounding against the wooden hull of the ship she rode.

The moonless night seemed as black as the inside of a bag. Yet, there were pinpoints of light, too. Lanterns, flying crazily in the wind, tossing shadows across the boat and the faces of the men who worked frantically to save the ship from the storm.

She turned in a slow circle, a part of the scene and yet separate from it. On either side of the sailing ship, another ship fought the same raging storm and the shouts of their crews floated like phantoms on the wind. Erin experienced a wild surge of emotion as the fear from the past filled her. Rationally, she knew that this world and all the men now screaming and fighting the storm for their very survival had faded into the mists of time centuries before.

But now, Erin stood on the heaving deck of the ship and was bathed in icy sea spray. Caught in the memories trapped within the ivory-handled knife, she felt the wind tearing at her hair with cold, tenacious fingers. She experienced the twist of terror gripping the long-dead men.

Helplessness choked her as she was forced to admit once again that there was nothing she could do to alter the vision flooding her. No way she could help these men, ease their fears. Inhaling deeply, she tipped her head back to see men climbing the rigging, hurrying to furl the sails before they could be shredded. She watched others slide and skid across the wet deck, screaming for help and shouting to God.

Then he stepped into her line of vision. Tall, with shoulders broad enough to land an airplane on, he wore brown leather pants, a long-sleeved white shirt and knee-high black boots. His dark brown hair was tied at the nape of his neck and hung to the middle of his back. His dark eyes swept the deck and he shouted orders as he moved with sure steps toward the railing. He leaned into the wind, squinting into the fury of the storm, as if trying to gauge the danger they faced.

There was no fear in his expression, just a nerveless acceptance. She didn’t need to see the ivory-handled knife strapped to his hip to know that he was the owner of the knife she still held with a grip that made her fingers ache. Yet there it was, gleaming new and bright in the darkness. Existing both in the past and the present where Erin stood in an antique store in Maine.

“¡Manolo,” he shouted into the wind, grabbed a length of rope off the railing and glared at a smaller man sliding across the deck, “venido aquí!”

The man rushed toward him.

“Lleve la cuerda el arco de la nave.”

“Sí, sí, Señor Santos,” the short man shouted, then took the rope from Santos and ran with it down the length of the ship.

Santos. His name was Santos, Erin thought, completely caught up in the man and his world as they all fought together to stave off death. His energy was so strongly imprinted on the knife, it was as if it was charged with his very soul, giving her a clearer glimpse of the past than she’d ever experienced before.

Erin wished suddenly that she could speak Spanish. That she could understand what everyone—okay, mostly Santos—was saying. But as her vision swirled around her and the men on the boats dropped to their knees to pray to a God who clearly wasn’t listening, she knew it wouldn’t matter. Whatever Santos had been—his time was gone.

And knowing that this really amazing-looking man was no more than a memory tore at Erin in a way she hadn’t expected. She felt as though she should be mourning him—though he stood not a foot away from her, alive and strong and magnificent.

He turned then and seemed to look right at her. His dark eyes flickered with shock and he took a step toward her. “¿Qué?”

“No,” Erin whispered and swallowed hard. “That’s impossible. You can’t see me. The visions only work one way.”

“¿Cuales son usted?” he asked, still staring at her as though she’d dropped from heaven and she supposed that’s what it must have looked like to him.

But how could it look like anything to him? How was he seeing her? How was a connection bridged through the centuries? And what the hell was he saying to her?

“This can’t be happening,” she said and took a step back, shaking her head as though the action alone would convince her that none of this was taking place.

“¿Cómo usted consiguió aquí?” he demanded and the strength of his voice carried over the fury of the storm. He was a man used to giving orders and seeing them obeyed.

She couldn’t give him what he wanted. She had no idea what he was saying. And just for a moment, Erin felt a punch of disappointment and grief so fierce, it shook her to her soul.

He was real. Alive. More alive than any other vision she’d known. And yet, in her time, his bones had gone to dust long before she was even born, and that knowledge filled her with a sense of emptiness that threatened to swallow her as surely as the ocean was trying to swallow the ship of the past.

“You really can see me.”

His dark eyes narrowed on her. “¿Está usted un ángel?”

God, why hadn’t she taken Spanish instead of French in high school?

The ship bucked and rolled with a wave that crashed into the side of the hull, sending icy cold water spraying over the deck. “¿Qué usted desean?”

Weird. And shocking.

Almost as shocking as seeing another man come up behind him and pull the bone-handled knife from Santos’s belt.

“Santos, look out!” She shouted it, but it was already too late.

Distracted, he had no time to prevent the other man from stabbing the bone-handled knife up and into his back. Santos howled in fury and pain—glaring at Erin as if this were all her fault.

She could do nothing for him, even as the attacker, clutching the bloodied knife, backed away, shouting, “¡Para el honor de mi reina!”

Erin reached for Santos, though she knew it was useless and while she stood, a helpless observer, locked in the past, a rogue wave swept up over the side of the ship, plucked Santos from the deck and dragged him down beneath the surface of the black, churning water.

Erin dragged air into her lungs and fought the threat of tears that shuddered through her along with a profound sense of loss.

But before she could drop the knife, another vision erupted in her mind, sending her on a roller-coaster ride of blurred colors, blaring sounds and jolting emotions.

Santos again. His hair was shorter, though still clubbed at the back of his neck, his ponytail only reaching his shoulders now. He wore black pants, scuffed black boots and a long black coat that spun around his long legs as he moved with the grace of a stalking panther.

She stared hard at the scene unfolding before her as the man she’d watch die moments ago fought an opponent like a master swordsman. His long blade slashing at a smaller, quicker man with flames in his eyes, Santos laughed, throwing his head back, enjoying this fight, thrilling to the challenge, the danger.

She felt his joy in the battle, and his complete confidence in his abilities and wanted to laugh with him. But what was happening? What were her visions showing her? They’d never been this disjointed before. Never showed her a man dying only to show him alive and well and…she looked around and caught sight of a small green and white sign…in San Diego?

Erin stood on a modern city street and tried to make sense of what she was seeing. It couldn’t be true. He’d died centuries before. Yet here he was now, in this time. Her time. Healthy. Alive.

His dark eyes were the same. His features were harsher, sterner, but still, it was him. The man she’d seen on the sailing ship. The man who had reached across a chasm of centuries to connect with her at the moment of his death.

The man she’d seen stabbed and drowned.

“Another day, Guardian!” The small man screamed in rage, and then the sword fight ended in a blurring shift of color and light and then Santos was alone under the hazy yellow glow of a streetlamp.

“Cowardly demon,” Santos muttered, sliding his sword into the scabbard he wore beneath his long black coat. “Shifting to escape a battle. Does no one have honor anymore?”

“Demon?” Erin whispered, wondering what the hell he was talking about.

Santos whirled around, instinctively pulling a knife from his belt and dropping into a crouch as his long black coat swirled out around him. He scowled, narrowed his gaze and stared directly into Erin’s eyes, as he had before during the storm on the ship.

Impossible, but again he seemed to be staring right at her.

“You?” This time, he spoke English. Rising slowly, he kept his knife at his side in a tight fist and took a step toward her. “Who the hell are you? Where did you come from?”

“This can’t be happening,” Erin whispered.

Instantly, she dropped the bone-handled knife, effectively ending the vision, and a heartbeat later she found herself back in the antique store in Maine. She was stretched out on the cold tile floor, staring up at the proprietor, who didn’t look any too happy with her.

“Are you having a fit or something?” she demanded.

Erin blew out a breath and tried to get her bearings. Coming out of a vision was always a little tiring and this time, she felt as though she’d been running a marathon.

“Huh? What? A fit?”

“What’ve you got? Amnesia?”

“No,” Erin said and eased up on one elbow. “Why am I on the floor?”

“Because you tipped over in a dead faint,” the woman said and the two elderly customers Erin had seen before each nodded in agreement.

“That’s very true, dear,” one of the ladies said with a brisk nod, “you did. Frightened me and my sister half to death.”

“So,” the proprietor said loudly, “if you think you’re going to sue me for this, you can think again,” the woman warned. “I’ve got surveillance cameras, young lady. And witnesses. You didn’t trip over anything. You just toppled clean over.”

Oh, for Heaven’s sake.

“I’m not going to sue,” Erin assured her and sat up slowly, since her stomach was a little on the icky side at the moment. Astral traveling always upset her stomach.

“It’s closing time,” the old woman, clearly not a people person said, “so I think you’d better go.”

“Yeah.” Erin picked the knife off the floor beside her warily, half expecting the visions to come again. But for the moment at least, the knife was quiet, as if it had shown her all it could and now she was on her own.

Well, that was fine. She at least had an idea of what to do now. Where to go.

Standing, she said, “I’d like to buy this before I go. How much?”

“I’ll have to check,” the cranky old woman said as her eyes lit up. She led the way to the cash register and Erin knew her VISA card was going to take a serious hit.

But that didn’t matter. She’d found the man who could help her. She knew it instinctively. Just as she knew that though he had died centuries ago, Santos was alive now.

And Erin knew just where to find him.

San Diego, California.

Chapter 2

Santos stalked through the night, keeping his legendary focus directed solely at his target. The demon who had shimmered away from their fight early that morning. Better than trying to understand how that mysterious woman had suddenly appeared before him. Again.

He hadn’t seen her in more than five hundred years. Hadn’t experienced that flash of something molten sliding through his system. One look into her green eyes had thrown Santos off his guard—just as it had the night he’d died so long ago.

Who was she?

What did she want?

And where the hell had she gone?

“No matter,” he said, willing himself to believe it. She was nothing to him. No more than a distraction, perhaps arranged by the very demons he fought.

As an Immortal Guardian, Santos, like his fellow warriors, possessed powers gifted to them by the beings who had first created them. It was the duty of every Guardian to guard the portals leading from the demon dimensions and to capture and return to their personal hell any demon who managed to escape into this reality.

And like Guardians, all demons were different. Each might have powers that others lacked. The demons were motivated to stay free of their dimension in order to kill, to spread dissension, to infiltrate humanity and create chaos.

The Guardians were all that stood between them and the mortal world.

Santos could not afford to be distracted from the job at hand. The small demon had escaped him earlier—after Santos had captured the demon’s master. And though the small one was no great threat to humanity, its presence in this world was unacceptable.

“Little bastard,” Santos muttered, slipping through an alley, barely noticing the stench of garbage spilling from one of the industrial-sized trash cans pushed flush against a brick wall. “What honor is there in running from a fight?”

But even as he thought it, Santos could admit to the irony in that statement. Demons? Honor? The two words had no business being in the same sentence.

And yet, in the more than five hundred years he had been fighting the underworld, he had found that even the most vicious of demons had their own “code.” Not one that he or any of his fellow Guardians would ascribe to, but a code nonetheless.

Centuries of life and a steady stream of battles had taught Santos to never discount an opponent. So he was here, in the back alleys of downtown San Diego, following the trace energy patterns of the demon that had escaped him. He’d never failed to capture his target and he wasn’t going to fail now.

His quiet, careful footsteps were lost in the noise of the city. A rat scuttled out of his way. Traffic hummed on the main streets and tourists laughed and chatted as they meandered along the sidewalks. None of those in the light could even guess at what was happening in the shadows.

But that was as it had always been. Those safe in their own comfortable little lives rarely took the time to glance around them at the darkness. Which ordinarily made his job that much easier.

He stopped suddenly at the mouth of the alley and lifted his gaze to the night sky. The moon was partially covered by clouds, allowing peaks of silver to shine through as brightly as diamonds. The stars were nearly invisible, lost in the harsh glare of the city lights. But did it matter? Humans so rarely looked outside themselves, he doubted many of them ever bothered to glance upward. Shaking his head, Santos stared down the sidewalk and looked past the crowds, searching for the demon’s trail.

He could see nothing from his vantage point though, and moved to enter the crowd. But first Santos waved one hand, creating a wall of energy around himself that would hide him from all eyes. Now he could move through the people of this perpetually damp city without concern. No one here would ever know that an Immortal Guardian had walked among them. Had tracked and captured a demon bent on trouble. No one would have any idea that life was anything but ordinary.

He shook his head and took a deep breath of the sea-scented air. He’d had enough of this place. The damp, cold air seeped into his bones. The never-ending crowd of tourists choked him. The tangle of homes and cars annoyed him. He longed for his home in Barcelona. There, even though he lived atop a cliff overlooking the ocean, the air was cool without the ever-cloying sense of wet. His blood was made for Spain. The heat, the searing sun and the sense of openness that was denied him here.

He averted his gaze from a homeless man staggering along behind his shopping cart and looked instead out at the night. San Diego might be thought of as a nice place to live but to Santos, it was merely another city, with a dark, dangerous underbelly like any other.

The moment he could, Santos would be taking his jet and flying home.

He’d only meant to remain in San Diego briefly. He had come up from Mexico, where he had followed a demon, expecting to go directly to the airport to fly his jet to Spain. Instead, Michael, the being who directed the Guardians, had asked him to stay.

The Guardian who had long protected San Diego, had finally chosen to end his existence. Pain whipped through Santos like a lash and then dissipated again. That Guardian, Stewart Marsh, had been a friend. A stalwart fighter. One who had held the demons at bay for three hundred years. Santos frowned at the loss, then let it go. There was no time. For pain. For remembrance. There was only battle.

Until Michael could assign someone else, this area was undefended. So it was Santos who must stand between the city and the dark.

“First, there is the matter of the demon.” His dark eyes flashed as he scanned the motley crowd near the downtown bus station, searching for that soft pulse of colored energy that would lead him to his prey.

Finally, he spotted a pale wash of red stretched across the base of trees lining a postage-stamp-sized piece of green in the middle of downtown. It wasn’t really a park. There wasn’t enough of it for that. It was more an open spot not yet swallowed by the decaying buildings crouched alongside it.

For those who lived here, the empty lot with straggly bushes and a few spindly trees wouldn’t mean much. But the demon was obviously trying to lose himself there.

Stepping out of the alley, Santos rushed into the street, never slowing for traffic. Instead, he simply leaped over the hoods of moving cars, their drivers completely unaware of him.

His blood quickened, and his heartbeat raced in anticipation of the coming fight. This was what made eternity worth living. Pitting his own strength against the demon world, one at a time. This was why he continued in an existence most men would have given up as empty centuries ago.

As his friend had.

To Santos, there was no other world but that of the warrior. He’d lived and died fighting and he would continue on doing so throughout time.

He moved through small swatches of pale yellow thrown from the street lights. He slipped into the tree line, no more than a barren square. This was what passed for countryside in the city. This tiny plot of ground where trees tried to survive and grass was parched and brown. Where straggly bushes bent in an icy wind. Santos sneered and once again allowed himself a brief memory of home.

The brown hills, the craggy mountains scraping the sky. The winding paths a man could wander and taste freedom. The sun spilling out of a brassy sky. The wide open expanse of land surrounding his mountaintop home. And the crash of the waves against the rocks below. Room enough for a man to breathe. He missed it with a soul-deep ache.

A rustle of sound caught his attention and Santos stopped. Lifting his head, he tasted the wind and smiled. Turning right, he crouched, moving along the gnarled bushes until he came to the final hibiscus. Gaudy pink flowers bloomed among the dusty green leaves, but he wasn’t interested in the plant, only in what lay beneath it.

“You try my patience, small one.”

“I’m not going back, Guardian.” The bush rattled again as though the demon were trying to scramble even deeper into its cover of leaves. As if that would protect it. “I’ve done nothing to make you hunt me down this way.”

Santos shrugged. He’d heard desperate pleas from his prey before and hadn’t been moved to mercy. This time would be no different. “You are here, demon. Where you do not belong. That is enough.”

The hibiscus swayed with a violent motion and suddenly the small, dark demon was standing in front of him. Like humans, every demon was different. There were those who were the stuff of nightmares—and there were those like this one. Annoying yes, but hardly evil.

“Your master has already been returned to its hell.” That was a fight to remember, he thought, his blood stirring at the memory. The demon had fought with teeth and claws and a raw desperation. This creature would not provide such diversion. “You must follow.”

“Forget you saw me,” it whispered frantically “and I’ll disappear. I’ll get out of your territory.”

Santos laughed and damn, it felt good. It wasn’t often he ended a hunt with humor. “Demon, this world is my territory,” he said, though that wasn’t exactly the strictest truth. “And you are not a part of it.”

“I’ll fight.”

“Good,” Santos said, reaching for the sword in the scabbard at his side. “I had thought when you ran from me this morning that you had no honor. I am glad to see I was mistaken.”

The demon was a foot shorter than Santos and its long black hair hung nearly to the ground. Its legs were short and bowed and its arms thick with muscle. Its dark red eyes locked on Santos as it mused, “I could shimmer again. You wouldn’t be able to find me. Why not just let me go, save us both the trouble?”

Santos sighed. “You tire me. I thought you would fight like a—” he broke off and let that sentence fade.

“Like a man?” Clearly furious, the demon backed up, one slow step at a time. “You insult me.”

“And you waste my time.” Santos swung his sword out in a wide arc and the little demon tried to shimmer away again. This time though, Santos was ready for it. Attaching a net of finely spun silver webbing to the edge of his sword, he’d dropped it over the demon before it could move. Once caught in a Guardian’s net, a demon was helpless and powerless to escape.

“You should have fought me,” Santos said as he slid his sword back into its scabbard and reached down to tighten the net around his catch. “It would have been the honorable thing to do.”

The demon squirmed and kicked and snarled, but was unable to do anything beyond hurl insults and threats at the man who had caught it.

“I’ll only escape again,” it promised, its voice scraping the night air like broken glass. “And when I do, I’ll find you and kill you.”

“That has been tried before.” Santos swung the demon over his shoulder and walked out of the city’s pitiful excuse for a park. Moving through the shadows, Santos headed for his car. It wouldn’t take long to drive to the closest demon dimension portal.

There were many—each leading to any number of hells. But the energy trace surrounding every demon was a signature of sorts—preventing demons from moving from one hellish world to another. Once returned to a portal, the demon had no choice but to return to the world from which it had come.

“If only the gods had chosen to seal the portals into this world,” Santos mused aloud, then reconsidered. If they had done that, what would a warrior have to do?

“I will kill you, Guardian. This I swear. I will find you and tear out your liver. I will wear your eyeballs on my hat. I will—”

“Cease, demon!” Santos bellowed. “Your threats mean nothing. But should you ever manage to escape again—when you come looking for me,” he said, “come to Spain. There we will have a fight for the ages, small one.”

He was close.

Erin could feel him.

She’d spent the last hour driving up and down the streets of San Diego, letting the ivory-handled knife lead her. There’d been no more visions, but the deeply carved handle was still warm to the touch and still filled her with an urgency she was in no position to argue with.

It was also sort of like radar. Every time she turned the wrong way, she felt a sense of loss. But if she was going in the right direction, a sense of rightness welled up inside her. As if the knife were leading her to its original owner.

Her eyes felt gritty and every bone in her body wept with fatigue. She’d been on the move since leaving Maine the day before for New York City. She’d taken a red eye out of La Guardia, landed at LAX and rented a car. Two hours later she’d arrived in San Diego.

The day was gorgeous. Full clouds sailing across an achingly blue sky. Erin watched late-season tourists headed for the zoo or for Sea World with more than a little envy. She wished she were on a mission of fun. She wished she could have her life back. Heck. She just wished she could lay down somewhere and fall asleep for a day or two. This staying awake for twenty-four hours was nuts.

But she couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t relax her guard. Not until she had some answers. Not until she knew no one was going to attack her in her sleep.

With the knife on her lap, she steered her rental car down a street that led off the Coast Highway. Heat from the knife burned her thighs right through the fabric of her jeans. She was going the right way.

Huge old trees leaned across the street toward each other in a leafy arch that even the sun couldn’t penetrate. He was even closer now. She sensed his presence. Steering her car down the slope, she came to a small private road.

She drove slowly along the tree-lined street, reaching for the knife and keeping it tight in her left hand. The warmth of the ivory comforted her. Odd, but true. The shadowy road wound its way down a steep hill. People were out walking their dogs, washing their cars, enjoying the afternoon.

The houses she passed were amazing. Some were just cottages, probably had been there for fifty years. But others had blossomed and grown into mansions—of every different type. There were Tudors cuddled alongside Spanish style. There were brick homes and clapboard and even one with a conical tower that made Erin think wistfully of fairy tales.

She followed the curve of the road, going slowly, knowing she was close. She’d been so intent on getting here, she hadn’t really planned on what she’d say to the man once she was face-to-face with the mysterious Santos. Her stomach was jittery and the palms of her hands were damp. If he couldn’t help her, she didn’t know what she would do.

With a sudden sense of certainty, she parked her rental car across the street from the house she knew belonged to Santos. Number twelve.

“He will help,” she told herself, taking a quick look in the rearview mirror. She pinched her pale cheeks, fluffed her shoulder-length, dark red hair, and then sighed. She’d been awake and on the run for twenty-four hours. No way was a pinch and a fluff going to make her presentable.

“So stop stalling already.” She nodded. “Right.”

She tossed a quick glance at her goal. The house behind number twelve sat far back from the road, protected by more trees. There were several other houses here and lots of cars parked on the street. So she should be safe enough. Even if her stalker had followed her, he couldn’t have gotten here before her.

“Just do this, Erin. Go see the man. Tell him what’s going on. Make him help you.”

She grabbed her purse off the passenger seat, tossed the knife inside and stepped out of the car. With her gaze fixed on the house in front of her, she shut the car door and started across the street.

From a distance, she heard a car engine fire to life and shriek as the driver gunned it hard. Heart racing, she gulped in air, turned her head toward the sound and froze. A low-slung red car hurtled toward her. Tires squealing, engine roaring, it raced forward.

Erin tried to move. She really did. But it was as if she were hypnotized. Not just by the car. But by the latest in a series of attacks. How many more times could she survive? How much longer could she remain alert?

And how could she defend herself against an enemy that went unnamed?

“Look out!” A man’s voice. Close by.

She’d hardly registered his presence before he was charging into her. His momentum carried them both out of the path of the car as he wrapped both arms around her and pushed her to safety.

She hit the asphalt hard.

Her hip took most of it, but her shoulder, too, screamed with pain. The car raced by them, never slowing, never stopping.

“Thank you.” She turned her head on the street to face her rescuer. But he was gone. Twisting painfully, she caught a glimpse of him—a tall man with blond hair—running down the street and disappearing around a bend. “What the hell is going on?”

“That, madam,” another deep voice sounded out from above, “is what I would like to know.”

Chapter 3

Erin looked up.

Way up.

Her gaze traveled the length of long muscular legs, wearing black slacks with a knife edge crease. Up past a flat abdomen and a broad chest covered by an open-throated, long-sleeved white shirt. Up beyond a square, hard jaw, a proud nose that had been broken at least once and into flat, dark eyes that stared, unblinking, down at her.

“Santos.”

He frowned, glanced up and down the street, then shifted his gaze back to her. “You again. How do you know my name? Who are you? What are you doing here?”

Erin pushed herself into a sitting position, dusted the palms of her hands together to get rid of the gravel biting into her skin, then glared right back at him. “I’ve come a long way to find you.”

“That explains nothing.” He set fisted hands on his hips.

She was tired, dirty, sore and oh, yes, terrified. So she wasn’t exactly feeling polite when she said, “I’ll explain everything. Later. Right now, I’d like to recover from someone just trying to run me down in the street.”

He nodded and shot a look in the direction the car had disappeared. “I saw it. I couldn’t reach you in time—”

“Someone did,” she pointed out.

“I saw that, as well.”

“You had quite the view, then.”

“Who are you?”

“Erin Brady,” she said and held one hand out toward him.

He looked at it for a long moment before grabbing it and yanking her to her feet in one smooth motion. “And I am Ricardo Esteban Amadeo Santos.”

“Wow.” She’d known the Santos part, but his whole name was magical and musical and…back on track, Erin.

“You have told me your name, woman. Not who you are.”

But Erin hardly heard him. At the first touch of his hand on hers, her mind had erupted with images. Visions rushed through her brain and she held her breath as she experienced them all in a heartbeat of time.

She and Santos. In bed. Limbs tangled on ivory sheets. His mouth on hers. His hands caressing. She felt the need swell within and heat filled her center, making her knees weak and her breath catch in her throat.

She tried to pull free, but his fingers tightened on hers. And in the space of a breath, the sultry, sexual images faded. Terrifying images swamped her. Darkness. Shifting shadows. Glittering knives. A palace of black stone that shone like obsidian under the light of an orange moon. Memory? One of his memories? They didn’t feel like memories though, and that scared her.

Erin swayed with the power rocketing through her.

“Woman?”

She couldn’t hear him.

Couldn’t hear anything but the screams rising up from the shadows in her mind.

Santos watched the woman’s eyes roll back in her head. Moving quickly, he caught her before she smacked down hard against the street. He heard each wrenching breath torn from her lungs and knew he couldn’t ignore her. Though truth be told, he would not have left her on the street anyway. Not until he discovered just who the hell she was and how she had come to haunt him, not only now but five hundred years before.

He looked down into her face and felt the strength of the connection that had been forged long ago. On the night of his death. When she had appeared to him on the heaving deck of the Niña, he’d thought at first she was an angel. A portent of death. And since he had died only moments after seeing her, that seemed a reasonable assumption.

Her features had danced through his dreams for centuries. Taunting, teasing, smiling at him in a way a woman does when desire takes her.

Santos swept the woman into his arms and simply held on to her for a long moment. His heartbeat hammered in his chest. His breath rushed in and out of his lungs. The woman from his dreams. Impossible to believe she was here. Warm and real and in his arms. The woman he’d seen the night he died. The woman who only yesterday had appeared before him on a city street.

He held her closer and narrowed his gaze. Instinct had him searching the area with a slow, thorough scan. But there was nothing out of the ordinary. The man who had saved her from the speeding car had disappeared as quickly as the threat.

He sniffed the air, but found no trace of a demon nearby. Finally, he shifted his gaze back to the woman lying unconscious in his grasp. She was short and curvy and her breasts rose and fell with her even breathing. He wanted her to wake up. Wanted to look into those emerald-green eyes again.

Wanted to know who the devil she was.

“Soon,” he whispered and bent to scoop her purse off the asphalt. Then he stalked to the drive, holding his own personal phantom close.

The magical wards set up around the perimeter of the property strained as he passed through them. Strong enough to keep out any demon that might try to invade the Guardian’s home, the protection spell allowed passage to all but the demon realm. Now, he thought that perhaps he should arrange for stronger wards. To keep out all but he and those who worked for him.

Moments ago, he’d been standing on the balcony of the great house hidden in the trees. He had seen the woman start across the street. Seen the car burst into life and charge at her—aiming directly at her. Seen the man come out of nowhere to push her to safety. All in a matter of seconds. He had been too far away to reach her and in that heartbeat of time, he’d felt more helpless—more powerless than ever before in his life. A man used to action, to protecting mortals, he had been forced to watch as a young woman faced her death. Only to see her survive.

At the memory, his arms tightened around her, pressing her body closer to his. He’d had no idea then that she was the woman he had dreamt of for centuries. No idea that she was somehow even more than that.

From the first instant he touched her, he’d felt it. A rush of…expectation. Of destiny. He wanted to shake it off, but that bone-deep realization would not fade. It was the sure and steady sense that nothing in his life would ever be the same again after today. That this woman was going to bring chaos and wonder into a world that had become commonplace.

But there was a part of him that resented her very presence. His life was as he had made it. As he wanted it. Introducing a woman—even this woman—into it was only asking for trouble.

She stirred as he crossed the meticulously kept lawn. Her amazing eyes opened and fixed on him. And for one brief moment, Santos indulged himself by looking into the depths of those eyes.

Then she spoke and the spell was shattered.

“Where are we going?”

His jaw tightened and his spine stiffened. He was a Guardian. No man to be waylaid by the promise of deep green eyes and a lush body. “My home.”

“Oh,” she said on a grateful sigh, “good.”

One eyebrow lifted. As much as he felt a connection to her, he was not ready to dismiss centuries of suspicion. “Do not think yourself a guest quite yet, woman. There are questions that must be answered.”

“That’s okay.” She cuddled in trustingly close to him, making his body fire with a need he couldn’t quash. “I can do that. All I need is a little sleep. Then I’ll be good to go. Really…”

Her eyes closed again before he reached the front door and anything he might have said died unuttered. Santos stopped dead in the middle of the yard. A cold, damp sea breeze swept past him, lifting her hair into a swirl of dark red flame about her head. He shouldn’t take her into the house, he knew. She wasn’t a demon. He knew that much, as there was no wash of trace energy clinging to her. But she might be in league with a demon. She could be the Trojan horse, sent to invade his sanctuary—seduce him into compliance so that—

As soon as the thought rushed through his mind, Santos threw back his head and laughed. Yes, he wanted her. Yes, his body already hungered for hers, as if every cell of his being had suddenly wakened to a ferocious need. But the idea that Ricardo Esteban Amadeo Santos could be turned from his duty by the beauty of a woman was absurd. Shaking his head, his laughter faded slowly as he studied her.

“If it is your plan to trap me with desire, woman,” he whispered, “be warned. I’m not a man to be led by his cock. I will have answers from you or—dream woman or not—you will find yourself back in the street where I found you.”

He headed for the house again with long, sure strides. Santos kicked one of the oak panels and waited impatiently until it swung open. A tall, dark-haired man with pale blue eyes, wearing jeans and a gray sweater looked at him, shocked. “Is she injured?”

Thomas Hawthorn and his wife Amy had arrived only three weeks before from England. They and their families had worked for Guardians most of their lives. They knew exactly who and what Santos was and did all they could to assist him.

“She will not remain awake long enough for me to determine that,” Santos admitted. He carried her easily down the marble hall to the wide staircase. As he started up, he glanced back at the man still watching him. “Please ask Amy to make some tea. If I can wake her up, I’m sure she will appreciate it.”

“Yes, sir.”

Santos barely heard him. He took the carpeted stairs two at a time, his footsteps muffled in the stillness of the vast mansion. This opulent palace by a cold sea would never feel like home to him, though even Santos could concede that it was more than adequate. Pale ivory walls were dotted by framed works of art. A thick, dark red carpet runner stretched along the long hall, covering the gleaming oak floorboards and lending richness to the surroundings.

But Santos paid none of it any attention. He hit the second-floor landing, turned left and walked directly to the master bedroom.

He could have used one of the guest rooms, but until he knew who and what this woman was, he planned on keeping her close. Even if that meant in his own bed.

Weak afternoon sunlight washed through the sheer white curtains drawn across the French doors leading to a stone patio that overlooked the back garden and the ocean beyond. A massive dark oak bed was pushed against one wall and opposite it was a huge stone fireplace with two plush armchairs pulled up before the now cold hearth.

Santos walked directly to the bed and laid her out on top of the pale blue silk duvet. He reached down to pull off her tennis shoes, then moved back to the head of the bed. She moaned, whispered something he didn’t catch and turned onto her side, facing him.

Her long, dark red hair lay in tumbled curls around her shoulders and across her face. In sharp contrast, her fair skin seemed even paler than it should have. There were bruised shadows beneath her eyes and the soft sigh that escaped her told him just how tired she was.

Something inside him stirred again and he didn’t look too closely at the sensation. If it was pity, so be it. But he would remain in control of this situation. He would not allow a woman—no matter how beautiful—to turn him from the duty that was first and foremost in his life.

“Sleep then.” He couldn’t resist reaching out to lift her hair away from her face. And if his fingers rubbed the silky strands, who would know? When he straightened, he said, “But when you wake, I will be expecting those answers you promised me.”

Erin woke with a jolt.

She sat straight up and looked around wildly, half expecting some new threat to come flying at her from the corners of the room. That’s when her gaze landed on the man she’d come so far to find.

Sitting in a chair at the far side of the bed, his arms were folded across his broad chest and his legs were crossed, one booted foot resting on a knee. His dark eyes were fixed on her and his features were hard. Expressionless.

If she had been hoping for comfort, she wasn’t going to find it here.

But that was all right. She didn’t need her hand held. What she needed was help in finding out what was happening before it was too late.

“When I was asleep, I dreamed I met you,” she said and her voice was almost lost in the cavernous room.

“This was no dream.”

“No,” she said as aches and pains began to make themselves known. This was all too real. Her hip throbbed from where she’d landed on it in the street and the palms of her hands were scraped red and raw. Plus, her stomach was rumbling, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten in hours. Or was it days?

Beyond him, curtains were pushed back to show that night had fallen. An icy wind swept through the opened French doors and in the sky, stars shone down with cold indifference.

“How long have I been asleep?”

“Hours.” One word. Clipped.

“I was tired.” Exhausted would be a better word, but he didn’t need to know that she hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in weeks. Shoving one hand through her hair, she pushed it back from her face and let her gaze slide from his. He was too intense. Too…focused on her. Her body stirred under his direct stare and she didn’t want to think about that at the moment.

Instead, she took another look at the room where he’d brought her. A fire burned in a stone hearth and before the fire rested a small table in front of a pair of bloodred wingback chairs. On the table rested a covered dish and her stomach growled again, this time loud enough for him to hear it.

From the side of the bed, Santos sighed and she whipped her head around to look at him. “You are hungry?”

“Starving,” she admitted. What was the point of denying it?

“There are cold sandwiches,” he said, lifting one shoulder in a careless shrug. “The tea is no doubt long cold, but I will arrange for more.”

“Thanks, but more tea is not necessary.” She scooted off the bed on the opposite side from him. He wasn’t looking any too friendly and she needed something to eat before delving into the reasons why she was here.

Heading for the table, she lifted the silver cover off the plate and almost groaned upon seeing the thick, roast beef sandwiches. Grabbing up a half of one, she took a big bite, then turned abruptly as she sensed him directly behind her.

She almost bumped right into him. In her defense, he took up a lot of room. Up close, his shoulders and chest were even broader than she remembered from her first glimpse of him. His eyes burned with a dark fire that seemed to singe every nerve ending in her body.

Erin swallowed hard, took a breath and said, “God, you move quiet.”

“So I have been told.”

“Could you back up a little? You’re making me nervous.” Not completely true, she thought. He was making her a lot more than nervous. She hadn’t expected this. Hadn’t been prepared for the rise of desire so thick it nearly choked her. She hadn’t anticipated the incredible want building inside her. And she wasn’t entirely sure what to do with it. She needed his help. She didn’t need him in her bed.

Keep that in mind, Erin. She took another bite of the truly excellent roast beef, chewed and swallowed, stalling for time.

“I can wait. Take as long as you like to eat and drink, to regain your senses. But you will not leave this room until I know why you are here. And how you come to appear before me at odd moments with no warning.”

God, that voice. Soft and dark and compelling. He spoke with an Old World sort of formality, which tugged at something inside her. Plus, there was the accent. A hint of Spanish flavored his words and made him all the more hard to resist. He could probably have been a very successful hypnotist or something. Send women into hormone-driven comas just by speaking.

“Do you hear me?”

“Yeah. I hear you.” All too well. That voice of his was a weapon, designed to bring women to their knees. And boy, did it work well.

She took a breath and tightened her hold on the sandwich. Get a grip on yourself, Erin. She couldn’t afford to be distracted by the lush swell of sexual attraction—though God, it wasn’t easy to ignore. Still, he was right. Stalling was pointless. After all, she’d come a long way to talk to this man. In her vision, she had felt unerringly that he was the one person who would be able to help her.

Forcing herself to look up into his eyes, she fought to not lose herself in those dark depths swirling with impatience and suspicion. Because strength was also there. Strength she needed.

So much had happened over the last few weeks. She had felt herself surrendering to fear that seemed to color every breath she took. And now, when she had finally found the one man she was sure could keep her alive, she had to throw caution to the wind. She had to take a firm stand. Tell him who she was and what she needed. Then she would tell him that she knew he would help her.

Because he had a secret he protected.

And thanks to her visions, she knew what that secret was.

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