Immortal Redeemed. Linda Thomas-Sundstrom

possible. Too much contact, too much exposure to another beating heart’s welcoming warmth, and a Knight’s blood oath might be called into question.

      This woman’s fingers were cold, proving that she should have known better than to walk around with wet hair. Yet he sensed heat radiating off her, beneath her coat, and he wondered how long it would take before his desire to possess this mortal got the better of him, despite what she’d just said about having a partner to call. Another person in the picture could muddy things up quite a bit.

      He detected something else. Silver. She carried a pocketknife. The folded blade produced an additional buzz on the periphery of his senses.

      “Are you ill?” he asked, releasing her hand.

      Only then did she look at her fingers. “Tired,” she replied. “Too damn tired.”

      “Okay. I’ll wait for you to use that phone. Go ahead and dial.”

      She raised the cell phone, pushed several tiny buttons and held the phone to her right ear. “Officer Randall...” she started to say, then paused to clear her throat. “Ex-officer Randall on the line for Detective Miller.”

      As she listened to the response on the line, Kellan filed that information away. She had mentioned being a cop in the past, and had mistakenly used that old title now. Possibly her training was the reason she had spoken to him in the first place. The cop in her might assume at first glance that a guy on a tricked-out bike could potentially mean trouble, whether or not she was in any condition or position right now to address that kind of trouble.

      Then again, maybe she had responded to his call.

      Was she a doctor? Nurse?

      “I see,” she said to the phone. “No. Don’t patch me through. I have Miller’s cell number, and this isn’t important. I’ll get back to him later. Thanks.”

      Her arm dropped. Kellan caught the phone before it hit the ground, lamenting that there would be no lusty night ahead with warm sheets and warmer bodies, given this woman’s current condition. If she wasn’t sick, she was close to it.

      She needed help. More than she knew. The damn werewolf was fifty feet away and closing in, drawn to weakness like a moth to a flame and unaware of what kind of fate awaited if it attempted anything monstrous here tonight. Blood Knights weren’t known for mercy when it came to dealing with predators.

      Since he couldn’t tackle that problem at the moment, however, and in public, Kellan had to handle things another way. He’d see this woman safely off the street. Even if his hopes were dashed and she proved not to house a special spirit, the pretty blonde would be another in a long line of people he’d protected.

      “No one else coming to the rescue?” he asked.

      She didn’t reply.

      “All right. I guess that leaves me.”

      Kellan peeled her from the post and pulled her into his arms before any remark she might care to make was possible. The momentum of his action caused her head to rest against his chest. Her body molded to his from her shoulders to her hips.

      Whips of fire licked at Kellan’s bones, sending good-size shudders through him. These sensations were new. They were unique. But were they enough?

      Her next words were muffled. Her hand closed on the knife in her pocket. “That was not an invitation, and if you don’t back off, I’m going to scream.”

      “You asked for help,” he reminded her with his mouth edging her damp hair.

      “Not that kind of help.”

      “I’m not sure there’s another kind at the moment. Can you walk?”

      “Let me help you.”

      Her reply took some time. “Not far.”

      “Ten feet, to the curb? Should I actually carry you there, ignoring your protests?”

      “Don’t you dare,” she said. “I’m not a child. I can...”

      Kellan didn’t wait for her to finish the argument. It was obvious to both of them that her legs wouldn’t hold her up for much longer. It was far less obvious to anyone but him that if the werewolf came any closer with thoughts of pushing its luck, Kellan would be forced to deal with the beast for safety’s sake, no matter who might be looking.

      To avoid all that, there was only one thing to do—push his influence over her a little bit more.

      “You must let me help you. Trust me to do that.”

      He waited until she blinked. Then he swung the blue-eyed enigma into his arms and headed for the bike instead of the garage. He set her gently on the Harley’s seat and climbed on in front of her.

      “Put your arms around me,” he directed.

      She did as she was told.

      Although she shivered, her body heat penetrated his leather jacket, reaching his skin as easily as if no barrier stood in the way. Kellan closed his eyes to absorb the impact.

      Women didn’t have a place in the oaths he’d taken. He’d known a few of them more than casually over the centuries, but had loved only once, long ago.

      He was supposed to have turned out angelic. History painted him that way. Poets sang of his life. Some said he was a saint. He was one-seventh of a brotherhood designed to protect one of the world’s most treasured holy relics. The Grail. Christ’s chalice. But in truth, he had always been a rebel, and the gift of immortality hadn’t changed that.

      He might have desired this woman if they’d met in any century. He liked the mixture of strength and vulnerability she showed. He admired her looks, and had been mesmerized by those large blue eyes that somehow seemed so familiar.

      Kellan ignored the soft click of his fangs extending in honor of his passenger. The razor-sharp canines rarely presented themselves and were a throwback to drinking the blood of his Maker in order to execute their plans. The outlandish teeth weren’t for biting or hurting. He had never used them on anyone, for any reason, and never would, since he considered them an abomination.

      Those fangs extending now were a complete surprise. They were also proof positive that though he was a monster hunter, by physical definition he was also one of those monsters.

      Smiling sadly, Kellan kicked the bike to life. “Now,” he called over his shoulder, ignoring the sparks of protest shooting from one of his shoulder blades to the other. “Where am I taking you?”

Chapter 3

      Kellan maneuvered his way through the steady stream of traffic, drawing double takes from people in passing cars. He got more attention from pedestrians, who alternately viewed him as a threat or with envy while eyeing the shiny black bike.

      He’d never been to Seattle. The streets had an uncomfortable look, as if the modern and older architectural styles were at war with each other. This, Kellan supposed, was another kind of metaphor for the dichotomy of the types of beings existing here. Humans versus their older, genetically modified nightmares. Werewolves. Vampires. And a whole host of other things.

      Traffic, even at ten thirty, was thick. Horns sounded. Music reached him from the doorways of restaurants and clubs. Voices called to other voices, and a helmeted guy on a Suzuki gave him a thumbs-up.

      Centered within all that chaos, Kellan’s feelings morphed into something much more raw and anxious. If the woman behind him was the shut-off valve to his overextended existence, and he chose to activate that valve, his soul could be set free. At long last, he would be able to close his eyes and rest.

      He had wanted this for more years than he could count.

      “Turn here,” his passenger directed.

      Kellan did as she instructed, wanting to see where this beauty would take him. Having