The crystals in the office magnified his bond to Fala a hundredfold, and a mental image of her channeled directly into his mind. This was reality unfolding and he was right in the middle of it. Not a bad place to be at the moment.
His chest thrummed at the sight of her, total traffic-stopping gorgeous. Tight jeans curved along her long, thin legs. A royal-blue sweater fell down and hugged her thighs. The way it clung to her shapely breasts, she could definitely turn male heads. And that straight black hair, bound by a braid as thick as his wrist. It hung down to her waist. Several dark strands had been left to drape her face, the glass beads in them shimmering ivory, silver and blue in the moonlight. Her skin radiated a gorgeous burnt sienna. She should have been cited as a menace to mankind.
He felt the blood rush to his groin, heard the seashell roar of his pulse in his ears. He bounced his leg nervously. Up and down. Up and down. He rubbed the stubble on his chin until his skin felt raw, trying to control this purely carnal response. He might as well try not to breathe.
He couldn’t stop his growing erection, nor could he manage the images of her burned into his psyche: her sexy body in the shower, every inch of her soapy skin wet and glistening; the hue of her long hair as it turned coal black beneath the water. Her high-peaked nipples hardening into little nubs when she was cold and stepped out of the shower. The ritualistic way she secured the towel around her, carefully stuffing it into the hollow of her cleavage. How she cocked her wrist downward when she brushed her teeth and the goofy faces she made at the mirror. The slow agony of watching her dress every morning, and the bittersweet torture of watching her undress at night. Day and night, the torment never let up.
He knew how she took tiny bites and chewed her food. The torturous way she let chocolate linger in her mouth, sucking on it until it dissolved. He’d watched the exact way she slept, curled into a fetal ball. Since he’d come under the binding spell, her life was an open book for him, and he’d paid the ultimate price for reading it. Just this morning he’d dreamed about her, and he awakened aroused and wet, and had to take a cold shower. He hated that his weak human side couldn’t control this desire for her. Somehow he had to get a handle on it. Feelings of any kind were dangerous when tracking a target.
A frown tugged at his lips as he forced his attention back on Fala in present time. Fala, whose lithe coltish strides hurried down the heavily wooded path. He watched her long, slender legs in action, her stiff spine and bearing that of a proud warrior queen. He listened to her breath moving over her lips, heard the soft tread of her booted feet on frozen leaves. She was leaving Patomani sacred ground, alone, and…unmarried. Better and better.
Now for her thoughts. The moment he entered her mind, he slammed into what felt like a brick wall. What had happened on the sacred mound? His kinetic power hadn’t been able to penetrate the holy ground of Whitemags—underworld slang for practitioners of white magic. He’d had to wait until the ceremony concluded. Had the old shifter, Meikoda, cast a protection spell for her granddaughter? He could still see Fala but couldn’t read her thoughts. He cursed his luck.
Up until tonight, before the old Guardian had interfered, Fala had been a perfect subject for autosuggestion. He’d used her own disinclination for her chosen mate and added a few mental prods. It had been easy to give her suggestions that she couldn’t marry the guy, and she’d diligently responded to them with very little mental resistance. It had pleased him that she wasn’t in love with this Akando character. It would make his task easier.
He had to give her credit. Her instincts when it came to choosing a mate were better than that of the bringers of her white magic. At least she knew Akando was all wrong for her. Her life force gave off a white, flaming aura. Akando’s essence hardly made a blip on the male radar. She’d incinerate him and blow away the dust. Was there any man on Earth up to the task of marrying the next Guardian? For a moment he envisioned holding her hand. She wore a ceremonial wedding robe, the same one she’d worn to the hallowed mound, and Stephen was also wearing one—not in this life.
His fingers clenched into fists, and he felt his hands tremble as he forced the vision out of his head. The soothing sound of Billie’s voice washed over him before another unbidden memory surfaced. When he had dipped into Fala Rainwater’s psyche, he’d felt the love she held for her grandmother, sisters and her people. It was like nothing he’d ever experienced. Fala Rainwater didn’t just love on the surface. Her passion went soul deep, consumed her very essence, burned in her core. It had staggered him and sadly reminded him of his own brothers. He hadn’t wanted to ever connect with her on such an emotional level. Too late, the damage was done.
He forced the memory into the darker shadows of his mind. What was love anyway but a burden to be carried through eternity?
Nothing mattered to him at this moment but getting close to Fala Rainwater. Now the dynamics had changed. If he couldn’t read and control her thoughts, it would make his plan harder. Yet not impossible. He welcomed thwarting the old Guardian’s attempt to save her granddaughter. The old Whitemag was on her way out anyway. She weakened by the hour.
He’d discover the source of the magic that was blocking Fala’s mind from his control, then he’d destroy Fala Rainwater.
Chapter 2
When Fala reached the entrance to Rock Creek Park, she checked her watch. Close to three in the morning. Exactly two hours from the reservation in Manquin, Virginia, to downtown D.C. She’d taken Route 17 to Route 1, a shortcut that avoided Interstate I-95.
She stopped long enough to flash her gold shield at the uniformed officer blocking the entrance.
He waved her through.
She turned onto the service road that would take her deep into the park. Moonlight reflected in the car mirrors and hit her eyes. That oppressive moon had followed her all the way into downtown D.C., riding her rear window like a gray, shifting phantom, blocking out the stars and the sky, almost blinding in its intensity. There was a menacing, almost tactile feeling to it, as if she couldn’t escape it anywhere she went. Usually she loved to gaze at the moon. Tonight was different. The pull was so strong, she felt it tugging at her insides.
She squinted at the narrow service road ahead of her. The park lights cast a sickly, yellowish glow over the pavement, spraying dim yellow diamonds over the black tarmac. Thick trees lined the road and the path that ran beside it. Their heavy boughs touched the eerie gray shadows cast by the moon. Up ahead, she spotted the lights and a long line of police cars and vans.
Nothing like an active crime scene to jumpstart her adrenaline. She grimaced as she pulled in behind a cruiser and got out, coffee in hand. The metallic scent of blood made her fingers tighten on the cardboard tray. The dry, frigid night amplified the smell, fouling the atmosphere, the odor sticking in her nose like glue. Sometimes having heightened senses wasn’t all that fun.
The dead of winter usually brought a drop in outdoor homicides. Frosty air somehow cooled the cravings of the deranged. But from working homicide for two years, Fala knew that violence increased during full moons. A killer had waited in this park and stalked a victim. She glanced up at the moon, spreading across the sky like a huge dirigible, the intensity and coldness of its silver glow almost annihilating in all its alluring beauty. Had this moon drawn the killer outside, heedless of the weather?
A tiny shiver hummed through her as she strode down the jogging trail, frozen leaves and mulch crunching beneath her soft kid boots. Several dog handlers combed the woods around the trail, but the Labs refused to cooperate. They cowered and pulled at the leads as if they wanted to get away. Far away. The handlers tried to scold the animals into control but with no success. What was wrong with them?
She stepped over the yellow tape that sagged around the scene. Joe was bent over, looking at something on the ground, running a hand through his thick, short-cropped dark hair. Wrinkled jeans rippled his thickset legs, and the shirttail of a flannel shirt poked out beneath an Army-issue parka. She’d never seen Joe without a suit, his “uniform,” as he called