Under His Wings Page 5

  As his ass hit the mattress, he’d snatched up the remote and adjusted the volume. The broadcast had been about a lone survivor of a plane crash from three years earlier. The woman, who could have been the twin of Nicolai’s dead mate, resided in a Massachusetts town called Grace Crossings. Immediately, the possibilities of how he could use her to torment Nicolai amassed in Evander’s head.

  Bastien’s death had torn Nicolai apart. This woman—Tamar Ridgeway’s death—would destroy him.

  And Evander’s hand would deal the final blow.

  * * * * *

  The hospital’s stringent smells of disinfectant, ammonia and floor wax singed Nicolai’s nostrils. He couldn’t decide which was worse—the industrial-strength cleaning fluid guaranteed to destroy everything from urine to flesh-eating bacteria or the stench of human grief and hopelessness.

  Both scents would remain with him long after he left the controlled chaos of this emergency wing.

  Yet standing over the bed of the unconscious woman who resembled the mate he’d lost five hundred years earlier, his mind acknowledged that she couldn’t be Pria. He was a being of magic, had witnessed things in his nine-hundred-year existence that defied reason, but reincarnation wasn’t one of them.

  Once the soul left the body it traveled to Eirene—a place of peace and eternal rest. To rip a spirit from that beautiful land was considered deygma, an abomination. Not that it hadn’t been done. Out of grief, greed or evil, souls had been called back from Eirene and forced into the world of living. But that was reanimation, not reincarnation. And the beings—for they were no longer free-willed, free-thinking people—didn’t resemble in appearance or soul the individuals they’d once been. They came back empty-eyed, mindless…hungry.

  No, this woman with Pria’s bright coloring wasn’t one of those vapid creatures.

  Besides, Pria had been more than his mate—she’d been his bondmate. While hippogryphs could take another mate if their chosen partner died, they had only one bondmate. And his had been Pria.

  And therein lay the difference. Mates were chosen. Bondmates were fated. A hippogryph could take a partner and enjoy a life filled with love, children and happiness. But for those rare males and females who found the other half of their soul—the one who shared their heart and gift—the bond went much deeper than the union that resembled human marriage. The bonded pair experienced an enduring love, a passion and desire that intensified as the centuries passed.

  They were true equals in spirit…and form.

  For only the love of a bonded pair triggered the female hippogryph’s latent ability to access her beast.

  Pria had been ripped from him so soon after their mating they’d missed experiencing this miracle and physical manifestation of their bond. Another regret that stained his soul and conscience.

  Nicolai reached out to touch the sleeping female’s smooth golden cheek, but at the last second his fingers curled in on themselves. The skin over his knuckles blanched white as his fist tightened then fell back to his side. The uncanny likeness sent chills skating over his skin.

  This must be the woman Evander had taunted him about the previous night. The image he’d forced into Nico’s mind.

  Curls the color of wet gold haloed her head, scattered like ropes of sunshine across the white pillow slip. Though pale from her ordeal, her skin gleamed like the sweetest caramel under the harsh fluorescent track lighting. He’d been fascinated by his bondmate’s skin. It reminded him of the fields of wheat stalks that danced in the breeze of their Greek homeland. Sorrow that had been dulled by the passing of time traversed the years and settled in his gut.

  This time when he reached out, he didn’t pull back.

  He traced the impudent slope of her nose, the lush curves of her mouth and, finally, the shallow indent in her chin. His touch lingered there even as he stared at her closed eyes.Would they be the same hue of precious amber?

  Her lashes fluttered…then lifted. And he had his answer.

  Tawny eyes clouded with drugs and pain stared up at him.

  “Nico,” she murmured.

  His hand dropped away and he reeled back, the low whisper of his name—the name only those closest to him used—was an electric bolt that crackled and spit over his skin.

  “This way, detectives. She’s in trauma one,” a firm, feminine voice echoed from the other side of the drawn privacy curtain. “But I have to warn you. The patient has suffered a head injury. She may not be responsive at this time.”

  “Will she be okay?” a solemn voice rumbled.

  “She should be,” the woman Nicolai assumed was a doctor assured the detective. “We’ve run a few tests. CT and x-rays are negative so far, but we’re holding her overnight for observation due to lack of consciousness when they brought her in.”

  Nicolai moved back from the gurney, his feet soundless over the waxed floor of the small bay. His gaze remained pinned to the bed and the female whose lashes had lowered once more. As the curtain swung to one side, revealing a plump dark-skinned physician in light-blue scrubs flanked by two men in dark suits, Nicolai cast his invisibility net.

  The doctor tugged the heavy material back in place, strode to the head of the bed and checked the confusing machines that blinked and beeped. The taller of the men stood next to her and the other stationed himself across from his partner. An almost inaudible moan sounded from Tamar and Nicolai stiffened. He gritted his teeth and clenched his fists, his body vibrating with the force it required not to bolt across the floor and place himself between her and the men.

  The beast inside him roared in outrage, demanded he cover and protect. The primal urge to rip the detectives away from her churned and whipped like the destructive tail of a tornado. The stinging pain in his palms jerked his attention down to his hands. Or claws. The tips of his fingers had elongated and curved into black-tipped talons that had punctured his skin. Blood seeped from the deep pricks.

  He hadn’t experienced fear in a long, long time—not since he’d lost Pria. But he recognized the dark emotion immediately as it twisted and coiled inside his heart and the pounding organ pumped it into his blood stream.

  “Ma’am,” the shorter, older detective said softly.

  The woman who wore his dead bondmate’s face and drew such an overwhelming visceral reaction from his soul emitted another moan of pain. After a moment, she opened her eyes, blinked and regarded the people around her bed with a confused frown.

  Nicolai backed farther into the corner, away from the gripping need to go to her. He didn’t understand this…this intuitive, fierce compulsion to defend. He was the Dimios—it was his job to protect his people, their laws, the secrecy of their existence. Yet that didn’t explain this longing to be by her side, to be a shield between her and the world.

  “Ms. Ridgeway,” the physician said, her voice a soothing cadence, “my name is Dr. Brenda Conway. You’re at Grace Crossings Memorial.”

  “Nico,” she whispered, turning her head to the side as if searching for him behind the detective. Her frown transformed into a wince at the movement and his beast snapped and snarled at the leash Nicolai had used to tether it. Panic flickered across her wan features before she returned her attention to the nurse and cops standing over her bed.

  “Nico?” the same detective asked, tone sharp. “Ms. Ridgeway, was someone here?”

  “I must’ve been dreaming.” She closed her eyes. “I’m sorry.” The hitch in her throat tugged on his heart as if an unseen chord connected them.

  Then her words slammed into him with the force of a sledgehammer.

  Dreaming?

  Impossible…she couldn’t mean… He sucked in a breath. The last few months—the hot dreams—dreams that had made him eager to fall asleep at night. Eager to be in the arms of the woman who offered her body up to him with total selflessness. Allowing him to be rough and dirty when the hunger rode him hard, or tender and gentle when he just needed to touch and be touched.

  Memories of the evening before
swamped him.

  She’d comforted him, kissing the wound he’d received, murmuring soft words of concern. Need had driven him and Nicolai had dragged her close, lifted her over his thighs and impaled her sweet, tight-as-a-wet-glove pussy with his cock. He didn’t fear hurting her with his passion. Never had she shied away from the fierce eroticism of his nature. So he’d fucked her hard, riding out his frustration and anger at his failure to capture Evander and exact revenge. Pounding away the grief that seemed a permanent lodestone in his chest for Bastien. And she’d accepted it all, her slender arms circling his shoulders and holding on. Holding him.

  Until this moment he’d assumed those fantasies had been his alone, yet this woman’s words implied differently. How had she known his name? Was she his mystery dream woman? Nicolai shook his head, his brain rejecting the thought. The idea he could have been dream-sharing with this woman defied every law that had been passed down from millennium to millennium.

  Each hippogryph, along with its innate magic and power, was born with certain gifts. Lukas could conjure shields like the one he’d materialized the night before to save Nicolai’s life. Evander had been born with the power of telekinesis—the ability to move objects with his thoughts. Bastien had been a master healer.

  Along with the strength that came with the position of Dimios—supernatural even for a hippogryph—Nicolai was a dream-walker. He possessed the ability to cross from this world to the realm of sleep and enter another’s dreams, visions and fantasies.

  Bondmates shared gifts. Every hippogryph had a fated mate—at inception the Fates parted them and only a rare and blessed few reunited with their predestined half. Bonded pairs represented a unit, equal in might, magic and spirit. A human could not match a hippogryph in might—their bodies were much more fragile and weak—and up until ten seconds ago, Nicolai believed they didn’t wield magic.

  His head swam with the questions that mobbed his mind.

  “It’s okay.” Dr. Conway’s gentle assurance penetrated the whirlwind in his brain, one that made a tsunami look like a mild spring rain. “These detectives just want to speak with you about tonight if you’re up to it.” The grim frown she aimed at the two men belied the calming tone she used on her patient. “Only if you’re up to it.”

  Taking his cue from the doctor, the taller of the two cops softened his voice. “Ms. Ridgeway, I’m Detective Scott and this is my partner, Detective Roland.” He indicated the shorter, older man across from him with a dip of his chin. “May we call you Tamar?”

  “Tamar.” She corrected the pronunciation as if she did it often. Tuh-mar. Nicolai shaped the name on a soundless whisper. Sexy. Strong. Like her. “And yes, please do.” Her gaze shifted back and forth between the men. “Resa? Is she…” Tears thickened the question, dampened her eyes.

  A hesitation, then Detective Roland stretched forward and patted her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Tamar,” he said, regret heavy in the words. “She…didn’t make it.”

  Fury blazed inside Nicolai, flaring from a seething ember to a consuming flame. After the damage Evander had inflicted on Tamar’s friend, “didn’t make it” was a vast understatement.

  Tamar choked out a sob, tears falling silently down her face. “I knew that. I guess I hoped I’d imagined—” Another racking sob tore from her and Nicolai turned and braced his palms flat on the wall. His head hung low as he fought not to reveal his presence and go to her. Her sorrow and pain called out to him, clawed at his already shredded control.

  “Did you see the person who murdered Ms. Hanson?” Detective Scott questioned, slipping a small spiral pad and pen from his breast pocket. He flipped to a page, his blue gaze settling on her tear-stained face, and awaited her answer.

  So did Nicolai. With bated breath.

  “Yes,” she replied and the tension in the small cordoned-off area ratcheted up several decimals. “He was tall, maybe six-four or six-five. Dark hair and eyes. Handsome. He wore a black shirt and pants.”

  “Any distinguishing marks? Scar? Tattoo?” Roland pressed, though still gently under Dr. Conway’s watchful eye.

  Tamar started to shake her head, but grimaced and obviously reconsidered the action. “Not that I could see.”

  “If you didn’t recognize him, do you know of anyone who would want to hurt you?” the same detective asked.

  She parted her lips, shut them. Then finally said, “No, I can’t think of anyone.”

  Nicolai smelled the lie from across the room.

  “Can you tell us what happened?” Scott urged, scribbling in his pad.

  Again a pause, and then in a halting voice the story of the confrontation with Evander spilled out of her. Nicolai listened, as rapt and entranced by the narration as the police and doctor.

  “He stared at me like he knew me. Said my likeness was uncanny, that he gave him a chance. I’m not sure what he meant by that. He added he would save me for last. Then…” She faltered, her lashes lowering before lifting, dread and horror darkening the amber so her eyes almost appeared black. “Then he changed.” She swallowed hard and Nicolai’s breath froze in his lungs. Fear of her next words seized him, shook him like a rag doll in its unrelenting grasp. “He changed into this…this thing.”

  Both detectives frowned, shared a confused glance over her bed, then arrowed their attention back to her. “A thing?” Scott asked.

  “Yes,” Tamar said, her murmur so low the two men leaned forward to catch her next words. “A monster,” she rasped. “A horrible monster with an eagle’s head, wings and a horse’s back and legs. He leaped on Resa, tore her apart. I couldn’t see it, but the sound…” She gagged and the doctor rushed to scoot a small pink pan underneath her chin. After a moment, Tamar recovered and weakly pushed it away. “Then it turned to me, but another one crashed into it and I guess I fell, hit my head. That’s all I remember.”

  A heavy shocked silence descended in the small cubicle. Nicolai scrutinized the police detectives’ bewildered expressions, noted the moment their surprise changed to tired resignation. Scott flipped his notebook closed.

  Tamar sighed. “I realize how it must sound—”

  “Don’t worry,” Brenda said briskly. She flicked a glance at the two men. “It must be the pain medication she’s been given. I warned you she may not be coherent.”

  Roland acknowledged the admonishment with a nod though disappointment creased his brow, turned down the thin line of his mouth. ”Tamar, is it okay if we come by your home tomorrow after you’ve been released?” He paused as if searching for a phrase that wouldn’t offend her…or accuse her of being crazier than a shithouse rat. “We’d like to go over your statement again just to clarify a few points.”

  Tamar seemed as resigned as the two detectives. “Yes,” she murmured and closed her eyes.

  The men, followed by the physician, exited the bay. Once their hushed voices faded, she raised her lashes and turned her head in his direction.

  Nicolai dropped his arms and pivoted to the bed. For an instant that stretched like an eon, he imagined her amber stare pierced his magic and she spied him standing across the floor. But then Dr. Conway barged back in and Nicolai exhaled a harsh breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

  The implications of what Tamar had witnessed left him reeling.

  His race’s existence depended on their ability to remain invisible to the human world. It was Nicolai’s purpose, his mission to defend that mantle of secrecy.

  Not only did he have to hunt the rogue who threatened it, but now he had to protect his people from a human female who’d seen too much.

  Chapter Three

  Tamar closed the front door behind Detectives Scott and Roland with a weary sigh. True to their word, they’d called on her a couple of hours after she’d been released from the hospital. She’d recounted her statement of the attack the previous evening, prudently omitting the part about her and Resa’s assailant shifting to a horrifying monster. Even jacked up on pain killers last night, she’d noticed thei
r disbelief. She’d been granted a pass because of her ordeal but damn, if Tamar had been the cop listening to an accounting of a vicious eagle-horse beast, she’d have outfitted the person for a new white jacket and the eighth floor of Grace Crossings Memorial would have had a new resident…after administering a test for hallucinogens. Maybe she’d cracked her head on the sidewalk before the attack…

  Another reason why she hadn’t mentioned the troubling sensation of being followed these past weeks. She could imagine how that conversation would have gone.

  Ms. Ridgeway, did you see anybody?

  No, sir. I just had this feeling.

  Has anything happened to make you believe you were being followed?

  Um, no. Like I said, I just had this feeling.

  Well, Ms. Ridgeway, maybe it was the Easter Bunny as well as that half-eagle, half-horse monster you told us about. Get a bag of fairy dust and you’ll be okay.

  Tamar snorted. In the hospital when they’d asked her about anyone who would want to hurt her, she hadn’t confessed to her suspicions regarding being watched or how the identity of the maybe-stalker could be Kyle. Her wariness sounded a bit outlandish without proof. As for the other reason she remained silent… If Tamar named Kyle as the person who might possibly be following her, then she’d have to admit why. She’d harbored her shameful and embarrassing secret of abuse for years and she wasn’t about to reveal it. Especially since she doubted the attack had anything to do with her ex.

  Rubbing a hand across her forehead, she headed back into the living room and eased onto the couch, afraid to make any sudden movements. Gingerly, she touched the wound at the back of her head. The doctor had assured her that though she had suffered a concussion, her skull was intact and in a few days she would be fine, even free of headaches. In other words, the claim her mother had thrown at Tamar since childhood was true—she had a hard-ass head.

  Melancholy swooped in like a scavenger just waiting for the opportunity to feast on the carrion of her self-pity. God, what she wouldn’t give to have her mother here with her. Ever since her father had abandoned them when Tamar was a toddler, it had been her and Jessie Ridgeway. Then her mother had died from a fast and aggressive bout of pneumonia. Within a week, Tamar had been alone and scared at twenty years old. At twenty-four she’d been vulnerable, easy pickins for Kyle.