Rapture's Edge

secrets and strange comings and goings without even a question. She didn’t try and fool herself that it was because Gregor’s building was closer, though it undoubtedly was. Once she found a main road that led away from the house she’d escaped from in the suburbs and had her bearings, she just ran straight here, though only a few miles more and she’d have been home.

Home, she thought with a sharp pang in her chest. Would she ever really have a home again?

She glanced up to find Gregor considering her carefully, his eyes warm but very shrewd.

“Those feet need looking after.” His gaze dropped to her bare feet, resting gingerly on a tufted stool. The soles were cut and torn from running so far, something she never did in human form. They hurt like hell, but she’d suffered worse, and said so.

“Worse than shredded feet?” he mused, brows lifted.

Try a shredded heart, she thought, then slammed that thought back into the little dungeon in her mind where she kept errant demons. She was calmer than when she first arrived, more clear- headed, but still in a state of shock, and if she let herself think…

Demetrius. The Bellatorum. Her father. Edoard and the German. Silas. Caesar. It all swirled around in one howling, teeth-gnashing twister inside her brain, pulling her down, down—

“How do you know who to trust, Gregor? You’re a businessman, a man of the world. You’ve seen and done almost everything, I’ll bet. How do you decide when it’s time to give someone your trust?”

He gave her a knowing little half smile. “Someone?”

Her heart banged against her ribcage. “You,” she finally said, bluntly. “How do I know I can trust you?”

“You don’t, princess,” he replied softly, holding her gaze. “You just close your eyes and let yourself fall, and see if I’m there to catch you. That’s why it’s called trust. It’s a little like faith, only you don’t have to wait until you’re dead to see if it’s real.”

She didn’t smile at his joke. “There are too many lives at stake for me to indulge in a luxury like trust without some kind of guarantee it won’t be broken.”

He huffed a breath through his nose. “There are no guarantees in life. Without risk, there’s no reward, and trust is a big risk, I’ll grant you that.” His voice gentled. “But you already know I’d do anything for you, don’t you? You already have your proof. You’re just gettin’ the feel of the wind on your face before you jump off the roof.”

Eliana furrowed her brow at him. “Is that a Scotsman’s version of a pep talk? Because it’s awful. By the way, I could really use a drink. Whiskey if you’ve got it.”

He gave her a look. “Alcohol doesn’t solve any problems.”

“Yes, Mother, but neither does milk.”

Gregor gazed at her for a beat, then rose from his chair and crossed to a sideboard laden with bottles of whiskey, port, vodka, and gin. He poured a stiff measure of amber liquid into two glasses and handed her one, then quaffed his in one long swallow. He settled himself back in the chair while she gazed down at the glass in her hand.

After a moment of silence he said, “Why don’t you just tell me a story, Eliana.”

Wary, she glanced up at him. “A story?”

He slowly nodded, his warm hazel eyes trapping hers. In the fireplace, the wood snapped and settled with a muffled thunk into the grate, sending a spray of orange ash floating up into the chimney. “A story. It doesn’t have to necessarily be true, you see, we can just be two friends sharing a story over a fine glass of single malt. Something unbelievable and fantastic, you know, like, ‘Once upon a time, there was a mysterious woman who could appear out of thin air, and just as quickly, disappear. Just like the Cheshire cat from Alice in Wonderland, she flitted in and out of locked buildings like a ghost…” His voice turned gently ironic. “A ghost who needed semiautomatic weapons and land mines and showed up soaking wet and terrified in the middle of the night after being sprung from jail by a gang of ninja munitions experts.”

She passed a hand over her face and pinched the bridge of her nose between two fingers. “My story is a very boring one, Gregor. There’s really not much to tell.”

He leaned forward in his chair and propped his elbows on his massive thighs, looking at her with clear-eyed intensity. Barrel-chested and ginger-haired, with a three-day growth of beard and a piratical smile, he claimed to be a direct descendant of the Scottish outlaw Rob Roy. She believed it, too; it was easy to imagine him leading a charge of ten thousand screaming, kilt-wearing, sword-wielding warriors. Very quietly, he said, “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, luv. I’ll bet your story is fucking priceless.”

She stiffened. The hand she had clutched around the cashmere throw went white-knuckled. Gregor saw the change in her, and his face softened.

“No. Don’t go there, princess. Whatever’s happened to you, you’re safe now. You’re with a friend who isn’t going to judge you or hurt you. I’ll do anything in my power to help you, always, you know that. You should know that. Whoever else might be against you, I’m on your side.” He hesitated and his expression grew serious. “You promised me you would come to me if you were ever in trouble, and you did. And now I need to know exactly what kind of trouble you’re in so I can help you.”

“No one can help me. Especially no one like…no one like…”

“Me?” said Gregor, guessing correctly. All the softness went out of his face. “No one like me, you mean?”

She nodded, and his eyes went flat. “Gregor, no,” she said softly, seeing his misunderstanding. “Not because you’re you, because of what you do.” She gestured at the room, the mirrored bed, the chest of playthings beside it.

“Then what?” His voice had gone as cold as his eyes.

He didn’t believe her. And she’d hurt him. He’d helped her and she’d hurt him. By withholding, she’d hurt one of the only people she might actually be able to trust.

Just close your eyes and let yourself fall.

Would she? Could she? Eliana inhaled a long, slow breath, debating.

Her heartbeat picked up. Gregor stared at her, angry, intent. Every aspect of the room grew sharper, the muttering fire grew louder, the light grew almost unbearably bright.

Then, with the sensation of stepping off a very high cliff and dropping down into a pit of permanent blackness, she said, “Because you’re human, Gregor. And I’m not.”

After a silent moment so long and painfully tense she felt as if her body were a wire pulled close to breaking in two, Gregor made a noise in his throat, low and contemplative. He leaned back in his chair. He rubbed a finger over his lips and let his gaze drift over her face, her body, her bare legs and torn feet. His jaw worked. Then in a very quiet, rough voice, he said, “When I was a wee lad, my grandmother used to tell me stories of the aos si. Heard of them?”

Dumfounded by his reaction—or lack thereof—Eliana slowly shook her head.

“They were the spirits of nature, she said, gods and goddesses that exist in an invisible world that coexists with the world of humans.” His gaze, piercing now, traveled back to her face and pinned her with its raw, intelligent power. “They were stunningly beautiful and equally fierce, gifted in ways we humans could never understand. The bean sidhe announced a coming death by wailing, the bean nighe washed the clothing of a person doomed to die, the leanan sidhe was a fairy lover or muse who sought the love of mortals…and the cat sidhe could transform into a cat and steal your soul.”

He stared at her, and Eliana, wide-eyed and breathless, felt a rash of goose bumps rise on her arms.

“My grandmother was a crazy old woman, princess. She was from the oldest part of an old country, steeped in folklore and the ways of ancient magic. I was a city boy, never believed a word she said.” His voice dropped an octave. “Until I met you. Until, maybe, right now. So I’ll say it again, princess, and I hope you’ll indulge an old friend. Tell me a story.”

Eliana’s lips parted. Everything inside of her burned and trembled. She felt electrocuted. She felt terrified. She felt alive.

She’d told someone. A human.

He knew.

He believed.