Twilight Illusions

He scooped her up in his arms again and strode through the emergency room over the protests of the nurse, who kept talking about hospital regulations and wheelchairs. There was a part of Shannon that rebelled against the coddling. That little suspicious voice in her mind that insisted he must have a motive, whispered constant warnings in her ear: You don't need anyone to take care of you. You can take care of yourself-- you always have. Don't get used to this. It's not gonna last, and we both know it, don't we? It'll just make you weak. Yell at him. Tell him to put you down..



But she didn't. Because there was another part, a part that seemed to be growing bigger all the time, that liked the way it felt to be cradled in his strength. The hard arms that held her, the solid chest she leaned against, were feeling less like invaders of her independence and more like her own solid fortress, her refuge. It felt good to be held this way, dammit. And who the hell ever said she didn't have the right to feel good once in a while?



She put her arms around his neck, mentally thumbing her nose at that cynical voice. He stepped outside, into the hospital parking lot, and she thought there had never been an autumn night that tasted as crisp and clean as this one. There was a second, as he carried her toward the black Jag that crouched like the cat it was named for, when she wondered how he'd got the car here so fast. Someone, probably a cop or a fire fighter, must have brought it over. It didn't matter, really.



He settled her on the seat, pulled the safety belt around her, fastened it. Then he looked at her, just looked at her for a long time. She could see his eyes moving minutely, as if he had to see every part of her face. Their focus shifted, from her forehead to her nose to her jaw. Her lips, her eyes.



She lifted a hand, thinking she might still have soot smeared on her skin. But he caught it, stopping it, holding it in his. She met his ebony gaze. His lips moved just a little, the barest whisper of a smile. He stepped back and closed her door, still staring at her face. After a moment she offered a small smile in return. Finally, he dragged his gaze away, went to his side of the car and got in. And then he drove.



When they reached the house, he carried her again. "You'll want to shower. Your robe is still in the bedroom you used before. " This he said as they mounted the broad, curving staircase.



The cynic was getting louder. "Damien put me down. I'm not too helpless to walk up a flight of stairs."



"I'm not as sure of that as you are." He kept walking.



She didn't argue anymore, sensing it wouldn't do much good anyway. Besides, they were already heading up the second flight. He'd put her down soon. Now, why wasn't she as relieved by that thought as she'd expected to be? He held her crushingly tight, as if he were afraid he might drop her. She let her head rest on his shoulder, and then felt the oddest certainty that he'd bent his head to brush his lips over her hair.



Silly. Just her imagination overworking itself again.



He flung the bedroom door open, stepped through it and lowered her to the floor. His hand clasped her waist for longer than it had to, just to steady her. He looked so concerned that it made her uncomfortable, and she took a step away from him. "I think you're right. I want a shower. Get that damned smoky reek out of my hair before I choke on it."



He nodded, but didn't leave. He opened the closet and set the shopping bag he still carried on the top shelf, then turned to her again. "Can you manage by yourself?"



That made her smile a little. He really must think she was a wimp. "What are you gonna do, Damien, bathe me personally, just in case I'm not strong enough to lift a bar of soap?"



The worried expression in his black eyes changed. They darkened or intensified or something. For a long time, she couldn't look away. And when she finally did, she felt shaken, a little weak-kneed, and not from smoke inhalation.



"I'll be back to check on you in a few minutes." His voice wasn't even or calm, as it had been before. He turned and left her there, and she got the impression he was in a hurry.



When the door closed she stared at it, licked her lips. "Yeah," she whispered. "And then what?"



She scrubbed. She shampooed her hair again and again, and stood under the shower spray until she wondered if his supply of hot water was endless. As she lingered in the shower, she thought of Damien. The great magician. The man. What made him want to perform for a living? she wondered. And what had he done before? And... and was he thinking about her as often as she'd been thinking about him lately?



She shook her head and told herself to get a grip. When she thought she'd finally rid herself of that clinging smoky odor, she toweled dry and reached for the clothes he'd just bought for her, the ones she'd worn to leave the hospital. But she smelled the smoke again. Well, no wonder. She'd been coated in that scent when she'd put them on, and now the clothes were infected. It figured, didn't it?



She wrapped up in a towel and went in search of the robe she'd left here. She found it in the closet, pulled it on. But as she did, she glanced up at that shopping bag on the top shelf. It still bulged. He had said he'd bought the stuff for her, hadn't he? She wondered if there was anything more substantial in there to put on. She stretched out an arm, but the shelf was too high to reach that way.



Biting her lip and glancing around, she spotted a chair and quickly pulled it over to the closet. She climbed up, and the bedroom door opened, and Damien stood there, arms crossed, looking at her the way he might look at a little girl hanging upside down from a set of monkey bars.



He'd showered, changed. He wore a pair of black jeans that fit him way too well and a wine-colored button-down shirt, with the sleeves rolled up to just below his elbows, so her eyes were instantly drawn to the fine dark mist of hair on his forearms. When she met his gaze again, he was smiling.



She ignored his amused expression and reached for the bag.



"Watch out!"



His yell came just as she felt the chair slide sideways and begin to tilt. She toppled. The bag flew out of her hands as she plummeted. She groped for a hold. The next thing she knew, she was slamming into his chest so hard his back smacked into the wall. Her arms automatically clung to his neck as he held her upright against him with her feet dangling a few inches above the floor. His arms were right around her waist, crossed at the small of her back. Her face was above his, and only a fraction of an inch away. She caught her breath. He didn't let her go. He was staring. She didn't know what part of her so fascinated him, because her own gaze was fixed to his mouth.



It wasn't the first time she'd caught herself looking at those full lips of his and wondering what kind of a kisser he was. Would he be gentle, well mannered, neat? Or hard and hot and messy? Probably the latter, she figured, narrowing her eyes as she thought about it. Yes. Definitely the latter.



He closed his eyes and thumped the back of his head to the wall, as though trying to clear it or something. His arms loosened on her waist so she could slide down, but as her body moved over his, she felt the rigid arousal behind his zipper, and she knew her heart skipped a beat.



She turned him on? Good grief, she hadn't realized that. Well, all right, she'd suspected it once or twice, but...



Her toes touched the floor. She unlaced her arms from around his neck and lowered her heels until her feet were flat. He opened his eyes. She hadn't noticed before how thick and glossy his lashes were, or how the irises themselves were smooth as black satin. She took a step away from him, but her eyes remained mated to his.



His big hands rested just above her hips now, and she felt his fingers knead her flesh there, but she wasn't sure if it was a voluntary movement or something he did unconsciously. She thought about the magic in those hands, the ease with which he moved them on stage, the way things would appear in them as if from thin air, the way the very elements seemed to respond to their commands, to obey their every wave or even a snap of those long fingers. What kind of magic could hands like that work on a woman? And she thought about the hard length of him, stirred to life just by the touch of her body against his. And for just a second, she wondered what it would be like to let a man like this one make love to her. Probably beyond anything she could imagine.



He pushed her away, and he turned abruptly, as if he'd pound the front of his head against the wall this time. He didn't, but his magic hands were clenched into trembling fists at his sides and his shoulders were stiff and the muscled cords in his neck stood out.



Oh, come on. He couldn't possibly want her that much. Maybe, if she were some swimsuit model or cover girl, but not her. So what was this?



"I, uh, didn't hurt you, did I?"



His head fell until she figured his chin was touching his chest. He made a sound that was half snort, half laugh. His voice was very soft and kind of raspy when he said, "No, Shannon. You didn't hurt me."



She shrugged. "I didn't think so." She turned away from him, just in case he should look at her. She didn't want him to see how much he confused her. Sheesh, if he was that hot for her, why didn't he just say so? He couldn't possibly be afraid she'd turn him down. It wasn't as if a guy like this one probably got turned down often. Maybe not ever. He wanted her. So why didn't he do something about it?



She bit her lips hard, and waited.



"You ought to eat something," he said, and she wanted to scream in frustration. "Come downstairs."



* * * * *



In the circular room that was his favorite, a roaring fire awaited them. He wanted to be sure Shannon was really all right before he rested at dawn. She'd nearly died. He still couldn't quite believe she hadn't.



But she was alive, more alive than anyone he'd ever known. He watched her spoon down the chicken soup he'd warmed for her. He hadn't dared to try anything more complicated. It had been a long time since he'd worried about food, though there was always plenty in the kitchen. Netty had to eat while she was here, and bare cupboards might have made her wonder.



Shannon had finished her soup. Now she meandered around the room, examining things with the fierce curiosity of a child. She picked up the shiny black box that made things disappear on stage. She opened it, examined the mirrors inside, closed it again, turned it over. He watched her, seeing the life, the rampant vitality of her, her spirit. She'd nearly died. He couldn't get rid of that thought.



The robe was too short, and he really should have insisted she find something more to wear. There were other things in the shopping bag, but they both seemed to forget about that after she'd fallen into his arms. He'd forgotten everything for a few minutes. How to breathe. How to think. She'd wanted him to kiss her. He knew it with a certainty that made his head spin.



Yes, he really ought to go back upstairs for that shopping bag right now. Her legs were too shapely, too smooth-skinned and firm. It was too easy to envision them wrapped around him.



Why in hell had he brought her here? Was he completely insane? Did he really think he could keep her here with him, spend every waking moment this close to her, alone with her, and not lose control, not reveal himself? Maybe he was insane. How many centuries could sanity last, anyway? Was it immortal, as well? Hell, maybe he'd never been sane in the first place.



She approached the huge marble fireplace, whiskey-colored eyes catching its glow. Her gaze moved over the framed charcoal drawings of the ancient world. One depicted the Euphrates, cutting a path through the desert. She glanced at the artifacts in their clear glass cubes. Frowning, she bent closer to the marble figurine under the glass.



"What is it?"



"An ancient goddess of love and fertility. The Sumerians called her Inanna, the Babylonians, Ishtar. Queen of Heaven."



"She's beautiful. It looks old."



"Almost five thousand years old."



Her amber eyes widened, and she lifted the glass cube that covered the piece, then glanced at him. "May I?"



He nodded, watching as she held the small sculpture, ran her fingers delicately over it. "I can't believe I'm touching something that people thousands of years ago might have touched, something this old."



He wanted her to touch him that way. He was that old. Older.



She shook her head in wonder and replaced the glass. Then pointed to the piece beside it. "And this one? What is it, a goat?"



"Yes. It's newer, made around 2600 B.C. The blue in the horns and beard is lapis lazuli. The rest is gold."



"You collect this stuff?"



He nodded, watching her gaze move over his face as if its shape fascinated her. Then she turned to the last piece on the mantel. "This one's kind of ugly."



"It's not art."



"What is it?"



"A piece of a story." He moved forward to stand beside her. She squinted at the carvings that covered every inch of the stone's face.



"This is writing?"



"Man's earliest form of writing. Cuneiform script. This piece was done around 4000 B.C., in Sumer."



She studied it more closely, as if trying to absorb its meaning. "Does anyone know what it says?"



Damien nodded. "It's part of the story of Gilgamesh."



She looked up quickly, and he saw regret in her eyes.



"Gilgamesh. Oh, God, Damien, your book... the fire--"



"It's all right."



"But I--"



"Shannon, it's just a book. The latest translation. I have dozens of others with the same story in them. You've seen them yourself--"



"But it's precious to you."



It was. They all were. But how could she know that? "I can get another one."



"I'll get you another one. And a copy for myself while I'm at it." She sighed, her hand resting feather-light on the glass. "It was a wonderful, terrible story. I'm glad I read it before the book burned."



He frowned at her, trying not to see that in the firelight her skin resembled fine silk, trying not to hear the sincerity in her voice. "You did?"



She nodded absently, her gaze going back to the uneven chunk of stone. "Tell me what it says."



He closed his eyes. "You don't really want to hear-- "



"I do. That story touched me, Damien. I think I understand the pain that drove Gilgamesh into the desert. I lost a best friend, too, you know."



"I know." And he did. "This is a recounting of Enkidu's death. Gilgamesh was at his side, clutching his hand. Enkidu looked at Gilgamesh and spoke to him. This is what he said."



Damien turned his eyes to the stone. "'You will be left alone, unable to understand in a world where nothing lives anymore...'" He tried not to feel the pain of that horrible day again. It had changed over the centuries, even altered its form, but never dulled. He still felt it like a freshly whetted blade slicing his soul. His voice thickened as he read on.



"'You'll be alone and wander, looking for that life that's gone, or some eternal life you have to find. Your eyes have changed. You are crying. You never cried before. It's not like you. Why am I to die, you to wander alone? Is that the way it is with friends?' Gilgamesh sat hushed as his friend's eyes stilled. In his silence he reached out to touch the friend whom he had lost."



Damien stopped with one hand braced against the mantel and stared into the flames. He only brought himself up out of the well of pain when he heard her sniff. He lifted his head, glanced at her, and saw tears in her amber eyes.



"It's so sad. And you read it with such emotion." She sniffed once more and ran the back of one hand over her eyes. "You should have been an actor."



"I am."



She nodded, biting her lip, turning toward him again. "You told me that you'd lost a friend, too. That's why you feel so strongly about this epic, isn't it?" He nodded, not trusting his voice just then to speak. "You've read so much about Gilgamesh. Was there more?"



"More?"



"To the story." She looked at him with so much hope in her eyes. "It's so sad to believe that's all there was. There ought to be more. Did he ever find the secret? Did he manage to bring his friend back?"



Damien sighed, shifting his gaze back to the stone. "He found immortality, but it didn't make him a god, the way he'd thought it would. It didn't give him the power to bring Enkidu back. It made him a demon. The people who'd adored him hated him and called him a monster. They didn't even believe he was Gilgamesh anymore, but some evil imposter. Their king was dead. His foolish search for eternal life condemned him to an endless existence, where he was forced to witness over and over again the triumph of the one enemy he'd hoped to defeat. Death."



She turned again to the stone. "It says all that?"



"No, Shannon. That part of the story hasn't been uncovered yet. It's just my own theory."



She stared at him for a moment, her jaw slack. Then she blinked her shock away and lightly punched his shoulder. "Cheerful SOB. Aren't you? Couldn't you come up with a better theory? Something with a 'happily ever after' at the end?"



"I wish I could."



She smiled, but her lips trembled just a little. She reached down to the stack of logs, picked one up and tossed it into the fireplace. A shower of sparks rained out, and Damien jumped out of the way. He thought his heart skipped a beat. But none made contact, and he hastily replaced the glass screen in front of the flames.



Shannon didn't seem to notice. She was settling down on the floor, amid the pillows on the Turkish rug. She crossed her legs and patted a spot beside her. "I could discuss Gilgamesh all night. He fascinates me, but I'm hereby tabling the creation of a happy ending for him until another time. There's something a little more immediate we need to talk about."



"Like what?"



"Like how we're going to catch Tawny's killer. We haven't made a hell of a lot of progress so far, in case you haven't noticed."



He lifted his eyebrows. "Does that mean you've finally decided I didn't do it?"



"Do you think I'd be here if I hadn't?"



It wasn't really an answer. Actually, he thought she just might be here either way. She had a little too much courage sometimes. "You have an idea where to begin? Because I certainly don't." He crossed his legs and sat down beside her.



"As a matter of fact, I do."



His head came up quick at the tone in her voice. Why did the way she said those words, that slight lifting of her chin and that hint of stubbornness in her eyes, send a chill up the back of his neck?



"Tell me, then."



She tilted her head to one side, eyes sparkling again. "You're not going to like it."



"Why am I not surprised?"



She smiled, and he knew he'd made a mistake by sitting down here with her. She was too close, and her scent twined into his mind, tying it up in knots. His gaze moved over her face, such an exquisite face, high cheekbones, mouth like a plump bow, small turned-up nose. He'd like to see that face twisted in an ecstasy so sweet it was painful. He could give her that.



Problem was, he was afraid he might kill her in the process.



Her brows drew together, her hand lifted to touch his face. "You all right?"



Her touch on his skin was agony. He turned away, and her hand fell. "Fine. What's this idea I'm not going to like?"



She seemed a little hurt by his action, but she went on anyway. "The killer is only striking the women who've volunteered to assist you. At least, that's the way it looks so far. I thought he might try for me when I became your latest volunteer, but he didn't. So we have to rebait the trap. I'll be your one-and-only, full-time, exclusive assistant from now on."



"Absolutely--"



"Starting tomorrow night."



"Not."



"I knew you wouldn't like it." She held his gaze, and in the bright challenge shining from her eyes he could almost see her daring him to dish up his best arguments.



"You'd be risking your life."



"Moot point. I might already be on his hit list."



"And you might not."



"You can't keep using audience volunteers, Damien. It isn't fair to make them targets--"



He stood, paced away and turned to face her again. "I won't use them anymore."



"Then he's liable to start preying on your paid assistants." She rose, too, and came toward him. "At least with me, it's an informed decision. Those other women have no idea what they're letting themselves in for."



He pushed one hand through his hair, hating that she made sense. "I'd rather close the show, cancel the rest of the performances."



"You'd be sued."



"I don't care."



She lifted her chin, standing close to him and practically on tiptoe, trying to look him levelly in the eye. "We'll never catch him unless he tries again. This is important to me, Damien. The risk is nothing. I've got nothing to lose. All I care about right now is catching this bastard and making sure he pays for what he did to Tawny."



"Shannon--"



"And I'm willing to make a concession." He waited. "I'll stay here with you, make it easier for you to continue in this role you've taken on as my protector, much as I don't need one. If you say no, then I'm out the door, right now, tonight."



"Where would you go?"



"I still have my office. I could bunk on the couch there."



Stubborn, beautiful witch. "I could camp on your doorstep and watch over you anyway."



"But I'm safer here. This place is like a fort."



He lowered his eyes, knowing defeat when it was staring up at him from a pair of honey golden eyes. "All right. All right, I give up. You win."



Her arms snaked around his neck, and she squeezed him hard. "Thank you, Damien. You won't regret this."



Oh, but he already did.



It was nearly dawn when she finally noticed the time and said good-night. And while he hated using mind control on her, he did invade her psyche just a little, instructing her to sleep the day through. He couldn't have her snooping around the mansion during the day, or taking off on her own and getting into trouble when he couldn't help her. She was just spirited enough to do either. Probably both. He was endlessly thankful that fire at her place had occurred at night. Otherwise, she'd be gone already.



Gone. The thought put a lump in his throat. He tried not to let it keep occurring to him over and over again after she'd gone up to bed, but it persisted anyway. He swallowed hard, and walked up the stairs to peer in at her. Some stupid need to see her once more, just to confirm that she really was alive and here with him.



He cracked the bedroom door. Naked longing, hunger, bloodlust welled up within him when he did. She lay there, amid the pile of covers she'd kicked away. Sound asleep. Her robe was a small soft puddle on the floor. If he were an artist, he'd paint her, just like this. Naked, relaxed, alive. Beautiful. One corner of the sheet clutched in her fist, held between her breasts. With everything in him he wanted to go to her, touch her, run his trembling hands over her flesh, explore her moist recesses with his fingers, his lips, his painfully erect arousal.



He pulled her door closed, pressed his back to the wall and drew a tormented, open mouthed breath, expanding his lungs until he thought they'd burst.



The thirst raged. The need. The hunger. And if she was going to be safe in this house, he had to find a way to assuage it. He knew, too well, that if he resisted, if he denied his savage nature too long, the craving would build and build until he was out of control. Until it took over.



That was the way it had been with the two dead women. He'd thought it would be all right. It had always been before. He'd only taken what they'd offered, sating his endless thirst in the process, feeding at their tender throats, quieting the monster within that demanded sustenance.



And for a few insane seconds in their arms, he might have taken leave of his senses. It was possible. Maybe he only regained his grip on sanity when he was home again, lying still, feeling their warm blood rushing through his veins.



No, dammit! He was certain he'd left them alive. He'd only sipped. He'd never be the instrument of a living being's death. Never. Anyone, a Newborn baby, would be more likely to commit murder than Damien.



He tore himself away from the wall and stalked through the wide hallway, down the winding staircase. Now the hunger called again. This time, he wouldn't be stupid enough to deny its power over him. He wouldn't try to fight it or put it off. He couldn't let it grow until it reached the point of madness. Not again. Not with Shannon in the house. So near. So sweet.



She'd be succulent.



"No!"



Damien stopped in the center of the foyer, closed his eyes and focused on her mind, her soul. It took only a second to be sure she was still asleep. Before he left, he armed the security system. What he had in mind would take just a few minutes. No one could get to her in that amount of time. She'd be safe.



Damien slipped out into the night, whirled until he became only a gray blur to human eyes. And then he flew, a dark streak across the sky.