Stroke of Midnight (Nightcreature #1.5)(55)

He brought the earth close to her neck, trying not to spill too much on her already dirty dress. He could feel the heat from her skin as his hands neared it. She was breathing in shallow sips of air, her petite breasts rising and falling ever so slightly, and it twisted his mind when he touched her and she shuddered.

That's when it really became difficult for him to catch his breath. Lavender and her light scent fused with earth and burning fire and open grassland. She was so damned soft… he had to fight to keep from leaning in to kiss her, or allowing his palms to run down her shoulders. But she wasn't that way, wasn't that type of woman. And for some very strange reason, he didn't want to offend or push her away.

Bits of dirt fell down her dress, and he followed it with his eyes. Blue calico had just become his favorite color. Flashy blondes a thing of the past. He had to stop touching her, and he did so abruptly. She slowly brought her head up, opened her eyes, and smiled. The look in her eyes drew him.

"Nobody ever told me I had a good heart before. Probably 'cause I don't," he said quietly. "And I've definitely never been called anybody's guardian." He forced a self-conscious chuckle and he rubbed his hands down his jeans.

"You're too hard on yourself."

"Madame Seer, you have got to stop messing with my head tonight. I've already had it blown, thank you very much."

"You really don't know the legend, do you?"

"No, but why do I have the funny feeling you're about to tell me?" He had to stop looking into her eyes and at that perfect smile of hers. He reached for his bottle and took out his cigarettes. "I know this ain't your thing, but I have to confess to being pretty messed up right now. So if you're gonna tell ghost stories around the campfire, after what we've just seen, indulge me."

She didn't agree, but didn't give him grief. He could deal with that. He leaned back on his elbows, took a healthy swig, set the bottle down hard, and brought a cigarette to his lips and struck a match. "All right. Shoot," he said, dragging as hard on the butt as he'd wanted to kiss her.

"What's your name?"

He stared at her for a second, and then laughed. "Oh, yeah. Jack Rider."

"Jack?" She frowned. "No. That's not right. It's really Jake… Jacob. A biblical name."

He sat up slowly, bottle in one hand, cigarette in the other. Nooobody knew that.

"You're scaring me again, lady. Honest to God."

She began drawing in the dirt with a twig. "There's a being coming that my people call the Great Huntress. She comes from a part of the Great Spirit's soul and is made of love and hope and faith. She's also known as the Neteru, they say. And from all walks of life, she'll draw people with special talents. Great warriors." She looked up. "A tracker is among them, a man with a good heart, named Jake."

"Aw, that's a buncha malarkey," he said, forcing himself to feel relieved. "A tracker. That's me, huh?"

"Yes. That's why you have the Nose."

He laughed and took a hard drag on his cigarette, making the end of it glow, then chased the exhale with a swig of Jack Daniel's. "I do have a huge schnoz, and snore like a buzz saw. All right. Say, for the sake of argument, that I go with this mystical legend. Then what?"

"They'll be seven around her, a sacred number. They'll come from all walks of life. Musicians… because music is a universal language that breaks barriers. It's also an art, but sound, like thunder, is something that comes from the sky, Heaven. Music can be felt, words are important, the sound takes harbor in the heart. You play guitar, right? You'll need it."

He relaxed and leaned back on his elbows, flicking his half-smoked butt into the fire. If she could understand that about music, then maybe she wasn't all that crazy, just a little touched. He could deal with that. He'd been around crazy people all his life—had been raised by them.

"Yeah, I play," he admitted. "Just mess around, from time to time. Won't ever make a living at it, most likely, but as they say, music soothes the savage beast."

She stared at him for a moment, suddenly understanding why musicians would be a part of the prophecy… to soothe the savage beast. She tried her best not to allow her gaze to rake over his lanky form, but lost the battle. He was a guardian. He had saved her from sure living death. And he was lying prone before her, relaxed, his warm voice coating her like a protective blanket and stirring something inside her that had never fully blossomed naturally on its own.

"You have a gift," she said. "Whatever people told you about it being less than that, ignore them. Follow your dream."

Her stare was so intense that he could barely hold it. He found himself swallowing hard. His mouth suddenly went dry. For a moment he couldn't respond. No one had ever looked at him with such utter confidence. No one had ever seen something in him beyond his dirty, grease-monkey hands that could fix an engine, or beyond his roughrider biker fa?ade. And no one had ever told him to follow his dreams, not having heard him play a lick on his axe.

"Your guitar will get you in. It will also be your weapon."

Her voice caressed him and made his pulse race.

When he nodded, agreeing without understanding, she stopped breathing. Hope dangled by a thread. If he could understand, could read between the lines without thinking she was insane… and if he'd just kiss her, just once, before she couldn't even do that without risking his life… That's all she wanted—to experience the full range of human emotion, the depths of love, before it was too late. What had happened, before, was preternatural. It was a trick, an evil seduction. This was as right as sunlight, and had also been forecasted. And as she felt herself warm under his tender gaze, there were a hundred things she wished she could have done differently… anything to have waited for this unlikely knight on a black and silver charger.