Rising Darkness (Game of Shadows #1)(68)

The package of strawberries remained on the table, as of yet still untouched. It was too early in the year for local, seasonal strawberries, and the price on the packet was exorbitant. She carried it to the sink to clean and slice the fruit into plain bowls.

“Your ally in the Secret Service,” she said, watching the knife in her hands. She was good with a knife, and confident. “The one that was killed yesterday morning. How did he die?”

“He didn’t tell me the details,” Michael replied quietly.

She lowered her hands, resting them on the edge of the kitchen sink. “Excuse me?”

He poured the beaten contents of the bowl into the warm skillet, and the fragrant smell of cooking eggs filled the room. “His ghost came to tell me that he had been killed. That’s all I know.”

Well, hell. She rubbed her face with the back of one damp hand, surprised that she was still capable of surprise. After all, she did live in a world with hawk allies, talking wolves and dragons, wind spirits and possibly a Virgin Mary.

Gretchen had mentioned the spirit of the girl that had died in Mary’s ER, but if Mary had thought about it at all, she had imagined BabyMama Two like the popular, modern view of ghosts. All mystery and woo-woo, but not a lot of practical sense or communication.

She muttered, “I didn’t know ghosts could carry on a conversation. Actually, I guess before yesterday, I didn’t know there was such a thing as ghosts.”

“Most ghosts are not very coherent,” he said. He added the mushrooms and asparagus to the skillet, along with a sprinkle of cheddar cheese. “In fact, most people aren’t ghosts at all. It takes an especially strong-minded, passionate individual to become a ghost, let alone one as . . . complete as Nicholas.”

“That’s your friend’s name, Nicholas?”

“Yes. He was strong in a lot of things. Not only was he a good warrior, but he was also an adept in spiritual matters and the psychic realm. He was a unique human being, and his death was a serious blow.” He shook his head. “For him to have become a target, he had to have given himself away somehow. Maybe he reacted to one of the Deceiver’s creatures, when a normal human wouldn’t have sensed anything. I only hope that the Deceiver doesn’t target his family because of it.”

Sadness swept through her. So many people lost in just a few days.

Then a chill followed on that thought: at least, those were the deaths that she knew about.

She said softly, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

He picked up the skillet and flipped the omelet, then stood frowning down at the contents. Sounding almost surprised, he said, “I’m sorry too.”

They fell silent for a while, as they served up the simple meal. Michael cleared his weapons and tools from the table, and she found the silverware. Then they sat and ate. The food was delicious. The earthy mushrooms and asparagus contrasted nicely with the sharp tang of cheddar cheese, and the rich butter complemented the browned, golden egg. The dish was offset with the sweet tartness of the strawberries. She didn’t truly take another deep breath until after she had cleaned her plate.

In the fireplace, the fire had taken hold and blazed bright and hot, chasing the last of the chill away until she was so warm, she had to pull off the sweatshirt. She hung it on the back of her chair.

Outside, she realized, the sun had set and full night blanketed the scene. Quiet surrounded the cabin, but she didn’t find the silence desolate or too isolated. Rather, it was replete with a sense of green plant life that was burgeoning with the return of warmth and sunlight. In full summer, the place would be aggressively lavish with weeds and vines.

Her thoughts turned whimsical. Michael could trim back all the foliage and keep the clearing mown, and she could plant a small garden in the back. Some tomato plants, and zucchini, maybe some green beans, lettuce and green onions. The Wolf Lake country store seemed like the kind of place that stocked a little of everything. It would probably sell packets of garden seeds in the spring.

Michael could go fishing. They could eat rainbow trout or perhaps bluegill for supper, along with the garden vegetables. She could sit in the sun and let the light wash her clean and new, as she explored the internal halls of her treasure chamber and relearned its secrets.

As quickly as the fantasy bloomed, it died again.

They wouldn’t be here past tomorrow, let alone for an entire summer.

“What are you thinking?” Michael asked. He had also finished his meal and sat with his plate pushed back, elbows on the table as he angled his head toward her.

She just shook her head.

“Tell me,” he insisted.

He took her hand and squeezed her fingers, and she could still see him with both her psychic and physical eyes, that royal, midnight mantle cloaking his all too human figure, and he was neither and both all at once, and yet the sum of him had become much more than each creature alone. And instead of feeling proud, enriched and replete with the sure knowledge that he was her mate, she was filled with the sharp, anguished spike of wanting, wanting.

She gave him a small twisted smile. “I’m just still trying to figure out how I can learn to milk a cow, I guess.”

He lifted her hand and, head bowed, pressed his lips to it. His eyes closed, he held her fingers against his mouth. She sat still, watching him, and felt pierced to the core.

When his grip loosened, she pulled away and stacked their supper dishes together at random. Pushing her chair back, she carried the dishes to the sink. The air in the cabin felt thick and intimate on her overly sensitized skin, and her body seemed too heavy to hold upright. Hardly aware of what she did, she leaned against the sink, squirted soap over the dishes and turned the faucet on.