Nevermore

He kissed her.

It was the surest way he knew to shut her up fast. His mouth came down on hers and what began as a simple thing to solve an immediate problem quickly became something else entirely.

Her mouth beneath his was pliant, soft, tempting. At first, she tried to pull free, but Santos gave her no room to back away. Every cell in his body demanded that he hold her closer, tighter. He felt the pull of her and knew that there was more at work here than simple need. Simple attraction for a beautiful woman.

He had to taste her. Had to have more of her. Somthing stirred within, hungry, demanding, urging him to claim her. To take her.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Maureen Child is a California native who loves to travel. She and her husband take off for research trips every chance they get. The author of more than sixty books, Maureen loves a happy ending and still swears that she has the best job in the world. She lives in Southern California with her husband, two children and a golden retriever with delusions of grandeur.

Dear Reader,

Writing for the Intrigue Nocturne line is just a magical experience. Being able to turn your imagination loose and explore all of the worlds your daydreams continually visit is a treat for a writer.

In Nevermore you'll meet Santos, an Immortal Guardian, who was once the lover of Queen Isabella of Spain. For those of you who read my first Nocturne story, Eternally, you'll remember Santos and, hopefully, be glad to see him with his own book.

Of course, nothing goes smoothly for an Immortal whose duty it is to protect humanity from the demon worlds populating dimensions sometimes far too close to our own.

And when Santos meets Erin Brady, a psychic running from the demon who has promised to kill her on her birthday, nothing will ever be the same again.

Maureen

Nevermore

MAUREEN CHILD

MILLS & BOON

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To Diana Ventimiglia, Thanks Diana, for keeping me on my toes and never forgetting when everything is due!

Chapter 1

Her stalker was back.

Heart pounding, breath strangling in her chest, Erin Brady darted through the crowd of tourists on the wharf in Shadow Cove, Maine.

She felt him.

“Where?” she whispered through clenched teeth, her gaze sweeping the blur of faces as she ran. It could be anyone. The teenager leaning against the fence. The old man squinting into the sun. The harried housewife trying to corral a small child.

“God, where do I go?” she muttered, not expecting an answer. All she could do was run.

The air was cold with the bite of fall. The sun was setting, spreading sheets of gold and crimson across the surface of the ocean that stretched out behind her and lapped eagerly at the pylons below the boardwalk. The sun-faded boards beneath her feet groaned and creaked with the ocean’s movement, and sounded like ghosts, keening a warning.

No warning necessary, Erin thought wildly, the heels of her boots clacking against the wood planks as she ran. She knew she was being followed. Again. She felt the power of someone’s stare burrowing into her back even as she bolted for the safety she knew she wouldn’t find.

A fisherman eased back on his pole and took a step backward that had Erin clipping into his shoulder as she ran. He shouted after her, but she could only lift one hand in apology and yell, “I’m sorry. Sorry.” No time. No time to be polite. No time to worry about pissing off the locals. No time for anything but finding somewhere to hide. To get out of sight.

The bucolic fishing village was packed with tourists there to see the autumn foliage. Quaintly decorated shop fronts strived to look as they might have two hundred years ago. Cobblestones paved the main street and every door was propped open, the better to induce spontaneous shopping.

Erin had been in town for a week, looking for a place to escape the crowded, suddenly terrifying streets of New York. Raised in California, she’d lived in Manhattan for years. Erin was more at home with the big-city vibe, but over the last few weeks things had changed.

Let’s face it, she thought, things had changed five years ago. On her twenty-fifth birthday, she’d received a letter from the birth mother she’d never known, warning Erin that on her thirtieth birthday, her biological father was going to find her, steal her psychic abilities and then kill her.

Now, with only three weeks left before she turned the big three-O, life was getting scary. Especially since the day someone had shoved her off a curb in Brooklyn and into the path of an oncoming bus. Erin had survived that, thanks to a quick-moving good Samaritan. But since that day, she’d felt eyes watching her. Following her every movement.

She’d thought she would be safe tucked away in a tiny village just a half hour from the Canadian border.

Clearly, she had been wrong.

She slapped her right hand onto a light post and used it to swing herself around the corner in her blind run. The instant her hand touched the cold, black metal though, her mind filled with the images of everyone who had touched it before her.

Visions raced through her mind so quickly, she could barely separate one from the other. Old men, young women, boys carving their initials into the black paint, drunks leaning into the pole, a young couple nestled against it, lips locked in a hungry kiss—she saw them all in a rapid progression despite trying to close them all out.

Not now, she thought wildly, doing her best to close down the psychic images flooding her mind. Normally, she could deal with the burst of visions erupting in her mind at the simplest touch of an object. She’d learned to pause, let the pictures rise up and fade away in their own time. Today, she couldn’t afford to be distracted. Not even for an instant.

She shook her head, stumbled, waved her arms to steady herself and then raced down the cobblestone street. Erin darted in and out of the crowds as she passed one shop after another. Which one? Where should she go? Where would she be safe?

Then one shop seemed to stand out from all the others. Soft blue paint, gray shutters and a gleaming front window with gold-leaf paint proclaiming The Ancient Sea. Her boots slid, then grabbed the cobblestones as she ducked inside. Her instincts had prompted her to choose this shop above all the others and she was in no shape to argue with them. Besides, all that mattered was that she get off the street, out of sight, before whoever had been watching her on the wharf could find her again.

A bell over the door pealed as she stepped on the welcome mat and the old woman behind the counter gave her a blank stare and a brief nod of greeting. Erin couldn’t blame the woman for not being delighted to see her. She must look half crazed. God knew that’s how she felt. Breathless, terrified, lost.

Where the hell could she go?

What was she supposed to do?

“Welcome,” the woman said, but the single word didn’t hold much warmth. “If I can help you find something, please ask.”

Sure, Erin thought frantically, tossing one glance over her shoulder at the wide window overlooking the street, help me find the reason someone’s suddenly out to get me.

Swallowing hard, she wandered blindly down the cluttered aisle and let her gaze slide over the shelves and display cases of antiques. There was a nautical theme to every item in the store—hence, she thought, the name of the shop. Careful not to touch anything, lest she plunge herself into another series of psychic visions, Erin wandered to the back of the store, keeping her head down and her shoulders slumped in a vain attempt to disappear.

Normally, she tended to avoid antique shops. With her kind of “gift,” antiques were overwhelming. Too many memories. Too many energy imprints left behind by sometimes generations of previous owners. But today, for some reason, she’d chosen this store out of all the others to hide in.

The air in the shop smelled of lavender and chicken soup. An odd combination, but somehow comforting. Steadying her heartbeat took a minute or two of concentration, but she forced herself to breathe deeply, slowly. Panic, her closest companion these days, crouched in the pit of her stomach and snarled, but Erin wouldn’t give into it. Wouldn’t fall apart. Not here. Not now. She couldn’t afford to. She had to think. Had to figure out a way to handle the sudden upheaval that had become her life.

Only three weeks ago, she’d been the head chef in DelVeccio’s, a small, but trendy restaurant in the Village. She’d built her reputation on creativity and excellence and the restaurant was just beginning to get noticed. Then one day, it all went to hell.

The bell over the shop door rang again and Erin stopped dead, half-hidden behind a display case filled with scrimshaw carvings and colorful glass balls that had once festooned fishing nets. She peeked around the edge of a bust of the Ancient Mariner, carved from driftwood and polished to a high gleam and released a breath when she saw two elderly women, chattering brightly, enter the shop.

Okay, whoever was following her, she was pretty sure it wasn’t those two. No way could they have kept up with her. Not the way she’d been sprinting down Main Street. Since no one else came into the shop after the women, maybe she’d lost her stalker.

But if she had, it wouldn’t be for long. Not in a town this size. “Idiot,” Erin muttered, turning to the far shelf at the back of the store. “If you couldn’t stay lost in Manhattan, what made you think you could do it here?”

“I beg your pardon,” the shopkeeper asked, appearing beside her, “were you speaking to me?”

“No, sorry,” Erin said and forced a smile she was fairly sure looked as ghastly as she felt. “Just thinking out loud.”

“I see.” The woman, in her seventies, was dressed in a long, flowing red caftan over black slacks and her snow-white hair was done up in an elaborate French twist at the back of her head. Her blue eyes studied Erin for a long moment, then she asked, “I noticed you were looking at the scrimshaw. Is there something I can show you?”

“Um, no, thanks. I’m really just browsing.” And hiding from whoever was outside that door. It probably wasn’t safe to stay in one place too long, either, but she couldn’t seem to make herself walk through that front door. She had to stay here. But for how long?

“Fine. But please be careful around the antiquities,” she said and quietly moved away to offer assistance to the two elderly women arguing over a teak tea chest.

Erin sighed and glanced around at the shelves full of merchandise. She wondered if the woman would mind if she just stayed here in the shop, hidden away for a month or two. But as soon as she thought it, Erin knew hiding wasn’t the answer. Whoever was following her would find her again. And if she stayed in this shop, she’d be trapped.

But wasn’t she trapped already? She hadn’t been safe at home and running hadn’t helped the situation any. What she needed were some answers. Answers that made sense. Answers about the birth mother who’d reached out from who knew where to set into motion dangers Erin had no idea how to fight.

She stepped away from the wide front window and moved deeper into the shadows toward the back of the shop. Up near the cash register, the three women were chattering, their voices a steady stream of noise that both comforted and annoyed.

Moving beyond the reach of sunlight, Erin stepped into the shadowy corner where the less impressive antiques were shelved haphazardly. Cracking leather tobacco pouches were crowded alongside mortar and pestles. Wooden cups and bowls were stacked in uneven towers and a pewter platter lay gleaming dully in the dim, overhead light.

There was nothing there to intrigue anyone. Nothing to dazzle the imagination or fire curiosity. And yet, Erin was drawn to the back shelf, her gaze landing on the butt end of a lone ivory knife, partially hidden behind the platter. Her fingers itched to touch the knife even while her mind pulled back from the thought. One touch and she knew she would see the memories locked into that weapon. She would see the person who had held it, used it, worn it on his hip.

And yet…she moved in closer, holding her breath as her gaze locked on that knife. There was something about it. Something that called to her.

The ivory handle of the knife was intricately carved, though its edges were worn with time. Erin leaned in, heart racing. She picked out the designs in the yellowed ivory and recognized them as dolphins cresting the tops of waves.

“A seaman, then,” she whispered, her voice hardly more than a breath. The edges of the knife seemed to glow as she watched it, as if it had been lying here in the shadows of this shop forever, just waiting for her to arrive and find it.

That thought brought her up short for a second or two. Was this the reason she’d chosen this particular shop to hide in? Was her psychometry getting stronger? Was she developing deeper psychic abilities? Was it just another piece of the puzzle surrounding the last few weeks?

“Oh, God. I don’t know how much more of this I can take, you know?” She could deal with the “touch and see” gift she already had. But she so didn’t want any extra psychic prizes. Still, she couldn’t ignore the urge to touch that knife. Whether it was fate she’d landed in this store or pure chance, that knife meant something. So, she took another shaky breath and closed her hand around the ivory handle, pulling it from the darkness into the light.

The cool, carved bone warmed in her hand. Erin tightened her grip, pulled in a deep breath of air and held it, trying to prepare for what was to come. But nothing could have prepared her.

Instantly, Erin’s world shifted, shattered and rebuilt itself again. She was used to this, having experienced these vivid visions all of her life. But this time, she thought, as she felt the wind in her hair and the sea spray on her face, it was different.

More vivid.

More immediate.

The cluttered antique shop dissolved into mist and Erin gasped as she tumbled into her vision.

Men shouted all around her, their voices clamoring to be heard over the roar of the wind and the crash of the waves pounding against the wooden hull of the ship she rode.

The moonless night seemed as black as the inside of a bag. Yet, there were pinpoints of light, too. Lanterns, flying crazily in the wind, tossing shadows across the boat and the faces of the men who worked frantically to save the ship from the storm.

She turned in a slow circle, a part of the scene and yet separate from it. On either side of the sailing ship, another ship fought the same raging storm and the shouts of their crews floated like phantoms on the wind. Erin experienced a wild surge of emotion as the fear from the past filled her. Rationally, she knew that this world and all the men now screaming and fighting the storm for their very survival had faded into the mists of time centuries before.

But now, Erin stood on the heaving deck of the ship and was bathed in icy sea spray. Caught in the memories trapped within the ivory-handled knife, she felt the wind tearing at her hair with cold, tenacious fingers. She experienced the twist of terror gripping the long-dead men.

Helplessness choked her as she was forced to admit once again that there was nothing she could do to alter the vision flooding her. No way she could help these men, ease their fears. Inhaling deeply, she tipped her head back to see men climbing the rigging, hurrying to furl the sails before they could be shredded. She watched others slide and skid across the wet deck, screaming for help and shouting to God.

Then he stepped into her line of vision. Tall, with shoulders broad enough to land an airplane on, he wore brown leather pants, a long-sleeved white shirt and knee-high black boots. His dark brown hair was tied at the nape of his neck and hung to the middle of his back. His dark eyes swept the deck and he shouted orders as he moved with sure steps toward the railing. He leaned into the wind, squinting into the fury of the storm, as if trying to gauge the danger they faced.

There was no fear in his expression, just a nerveless acceptance. She didn’t need to see the ivory-handled knife strapped to his hip to know that he was the owner of the knife she still held with a grip that made her fingers ache. Yet there it was, gleaming new and bright in the darkness. Existing both in the past and the present where Erin stood in an antique store in Maine.

“¡Manolo,” he shouted into the wind, grabbed a length of rope off the railing and glared at a smaller man sliding across the deck, “venido aquí!”

The man rushed toward him.

“Lleve la cuerda el arco de la nave.”

“Sí, sí, Señor Santos,” the short man shouted, then took the rope from Santos and ran with it down the length of the ship.

Santos. His name was Santos, Erin thought, completely caught up in the man and his world as they all fought together to stave off death. His energy was so strongly imprinted on the knife, it was as if it was charged with his very soul, giving her a clearer glimpse of the past than she’d ever experienced before.

Erin wished suddenly that she could speak Spanish. That she could understand what everyone—okay, mostly Santos—was saying. But as her vision swirled around her and the men on the boats dropped to their knees to pray to a God who clearly wasn’t listening, she knew it wouldn’t matter. Whatever Santos had been—his time was gone.

And knowing that this really amazing-looking man was no more than a memory tore at Erin in a way she hadn’t expected. She felt as though she should be mourning him—though he stood not a foot away from her, alive and strong and magnificent.

He turned then and seemed to look right at her. His dark eyes flickered with shock and he took a step toward her. “¿Qué?”

“No,” Erin whispered and swallowed hard. “That’s impossible. You can’t see me. The visions only work one way.”

“¿Cuales son usted?” he asked, still staring at her as though she’d dropped from heaven and she supposed that’s what it must have looked like to him.

But how could it look like anything to him? How was he seeing her? How was a connection bridged through the centuries? And what the hell was he saying to her?

“This can’t be happening,” she said and took a step back, shaking her head as though the action alone would convince her that none of this was taking place.

“¿Cómo usted consiguió aquí?” he demanded and the strength of his voice carried over the fury of the storm. He was a man used to giving orders and seeing them obeyed.

She couldn’t give him what he wanted. She had no idea what he was saying. And just for a moment, Erin felt a punch of disappointment and grief so fierce, it shook her to her soul.

He was real. Alive. More alive than any other vision she’d known. And yet, in her time, his bones had gone to dust long before she was even born, and that knowledge filled her with a sense of emptiness that threatened to swallow her as surely as the ocean was trying to swallow the ship of the past.

“You really can see me.”

His dark eyes narrowed on her. “¿Está usted un ángel?”

God, why hadn’t she taken Spanish instead of French in high school?

The ship bucked and rolled with a wave that crashed into the side of the hull, sending icy cold water spraying over the deck. “¿Qué usted desean?”

Weird. And shocking.

Almost as shocking as seeing another man come up behind him and pull the bone-handled knife from Santos’s belt.

“Santos, look out!” She shouted it, but it was already too late.

Distracted, he had no time to prevent the other man from stabbing the bone-handled knife up and into his back. Santos howled in fury and pain—glaring at Erin as if this were all her fault.

She could do nothing for him, even as the attacker, clutching the bloodied knife, backed away, shouting, “¡Para el honor de mi reina!”

Erin reached for Santos, though she knew it was useless and while she stood, a helpless observer, locked in the past, a rogue wave swept up over the side of the ship, plucked Santos from the deck and dragged him down beneath the surface of the black, churning water.

Erin dragged air into her lungs and fought the threat of tears that shuddered through her along with a profound sense of loss.

But before she could drop the knife, another vision erupted in her mind, sending her on a roller-coaster ride of blurred colors, blaring sounds and jolting emotions.

Santos again. His hair was shorter, though still clubbed at the back of his neck, his ponytail only reaching his shoulders now. He wore black pants, scuffed black boots and a long black coat that spun around his long legs as he moved with the grace of a stalking panther.

She stared hard at the scene unfolding before her as the man she’d watch die moments ago fought an opponent like a master swordsman. His long blade slashing at a smaller, quicker man with flames in his eyes, Santos laughed, throwing his head back, enjoying this fight, thrilling to the challenge, the danger.

She felt his joy in the battle, and his complete confidence in his abilities and wanted to laugh with him. But what was happening? What were her visions showing her? They’d never been this disjointed before. Never showed her a man dying only to show him alive and well and…she looked around and caught sight of a small green and white sign…in San Diego?

Erin stood on a modern city street and tried to make sense of what she was seeing. It couldn’t be true. He’d died centuries before. Yet here he was now, in this time. Her time. Healthy. Alive.

His dark eyes were the same. His features were harsher, sterner, but still, it was him. The man she’d seen on the sailing ship. The man who had reached across a chasm of centuries to connect with her at the moment of his death.

The man she’d seen stabbed and drowned.

“Another day, Guardian!” The small man screamed in rage, and then the sword fight ended in a blurring shift of color and light and then Santos was alone under the hazy yellow glow of a streetlamp.

“Cowardly demon,” Santos muttered, sliding his sword into the scabbard he wore beneath his long black coat. “Shifting to escape a battle. Does no one have honor anymore?”

“Demon?” Erin whispered, wondering what the hell he was talking about.

Santos whirled around, instinctively pulling a knife from his belt and dropping into a crouch as his long black coat swirled out around him. He scowled, narrowed his gaze and stared directly into Erin’s eyes, as he had before during the storm on the ship.

Impossible, but again he seemed to be staring right at her.

“You?” This time, he spoke English. Rising slowly, he kept his knife at his side in a tight fist and took a step toward her. “Who the hell are you? Where did you come from?”