Spirit Song Page 16

  Although, Bastian would be happy if he discovered he’d done some damage to the prick. He wanted his anger, needed that fire to blanket him and to hide him from the dangerous truth behind Pieter’s smirked words. Had things gone differently that long ago night on the piazza, he might have become exactly what the bastard called him.

  He was born to be a Rogue Warrior. All of his training, all of his moral ambiguities and most importantly, his blatant disregard for any life save his own pointed him down that dark path. Snippets from conversations in a distant past crept into his anger-induced fury.

  What do you mean you don’t care, Sebastiani? You must care about something.

  His mother asked that question of him when he was only a child. The second query came from his first lover and the last person who asked was currently wobbling in front of him, his arms raised in a loose guard, one eye swollen shut over a weeping gash.

  Until this moment, the answer had always been the same. He cared about nothing save himself.

  But as he rocked drunkenly on his feet, a terrifying truth crashed around him. Now, he did care about something. Here, in this present, he cared more about the life of a beautiful angelic songstress than he ever cared about his own life.

  There must have been something in his face that telegraphed his shattering realization because Viktor dropped his arms, rising gingerly to his full height. He heaved a heavy sigh as he ambled over, placing his hand on Bastian’s shoulder.

  “And this is why Pieter is wrong, lillebror. You never would’ve become one of them.”

  Bastian gritted his teeth against the rebuke on the tip of his tongue. No, this time, he would not let the lie fall from his lips. Even as an assassin, he only killed to protect those weaker than himself.

  He was a Guardian Warrior, through and through.

  Standing up straight, he met the eyes of his truest friend. A simple nod was the only answer either of them needed. It said everything he was too stubborn to voice. It was “I’m sorry” and “Thank you” wrapped into one neat gesture.

  Viktor clasped his shoulder and led him toward their waiting vehicles. “If we hurry, we can be sure to catch her final set. Well, after making a pit stop to clean up.” He offered up a cheesy grin. “You look like shit, lillebror. I wouldn’t want to kiss you.”

  Bastian narrowed his eyes, growling as he shoved at his joking friend and fished his keys out of his pocket. “You are one sick fuck, you know that?”

  Viktor’s laughter vanished as he slammed his car door shut. As Bastian slipped the key into the ignition, he spied the blood splattered and drying on his hands. A glance in the rear view mirror painted an even more grisly picture. A large, purple, fist-sized bruise blossomed on his jaw and a cut still leaked above his left eyebrow, adding another fork in the thick line disappearing into his hair. The white shirt he’d put on this morning was a total loss, between the crimson and rust stains and the lovely acrid stench of sizzling ozone and sulfur burned permanently into the natural fabric. He’d sacrificed more shirts to the damned Void that he cared to count.

  He definitely needed to change before seeing his Miranda again.

  The engine roared to life and he jammed the car into gear, racing down the road after Viktor. He let his thoughts wander to the sky blue eyes and deep auburn hair. He caressed her silken skin in his mind, aching to see that dazzling smile of hers.

  Yet instead of warmth, sorrow and heartbreak were his only responses.

  “Tesorina? What is wrong?”

  He hadn’t had time to explain their connection, but she had answered in her own way. It was timid, uncertain but encouraging. This, however, was neither of those things.

  He stepped on the gas, urging his car to push all limits as he rocketed past Viktor in a frenzy. His phone vibrated, the ringtone swallowed up by the engine’s roar.

  “Bastian?”

  “Something’s wrong, Vik. Something’s very wrong.” He dodged the slow-moving obstacles, weaving his way back toward his Lincoln Park address.

  “All right, all right. Don’t splatter yourself on the pavement in your rush to get there. Let me call Leslie and see if she knows anything.”

  He ended the call and eased off the accelerator a fraction of an inch. The blurred scenery in the growing night regained their solid outlines and recognizable shapes. With the company of the whirring machinery and his spinning thoughts, he was miles away, torn in different directions as he waited for that damned phone of his to ring.

  His finger reached the Bluetooth sync just as Viktor called.

  “OK, there is something up. Leslie says she’s there, but things have not been normal during her show.”

  Tension returned to his lead foot as his off-ramp appeared, tires squealing as they clung to the wide turn. He zipped around corners until at last he swung into his driveway.

  “Like what? Help me out here, brother.” He cut the engine and grabbed his phone. Senses on high alert, he stepped out of the car and was immediately bombarded with a wave of crazy unlike he had ever known.

  Veronica.

  Holy shit, what did she do?

  A shattered bouquet of red roses littered the front door, shards of broken glass creating tiny mirrored pools in the street light. He knelt down and picked up one wilted flower. As the images flooded into his mind, his heart dropped into his churning gut. His jaw hung agape as the true weight of his former housekeeper’s childish action sunk in.

  A tentative tap on his shoulder yanked him out of his spell. Concern radiated in Viktor’s eyes as he stared in awe at the mess.

  “She talked to Sal.” His rough voice rumbled above a whisper.

  Viktor blinked rapidly, confusion knitting his eyebrows together. “Wait, who?”

  Bastian leveled his lethal gaze. “Veronica. She told Sal about me and…” Anger once again began to simmer beneath his skin. “And she told Miranda about our…relationship.” He spat out the last word. He jammed the key into the door and yanked it open, disgust and panic twisting low in his gut as he took the stairs two at a time. The duster landed somewhere in his journey to the shower while the ruined shirt ended up in the trash. The pants could be salvaged, but that was for another time. Stepping into the pounding stream without bothering to check the temp ranked up with the top bad decisions of the day. Ice pelted his skin but the shock spurned him to wrap the task up quickly. As the lather slithered down the drain in brownish streaks, he focused wave after wave of passion and love to his beautiful songstress.

  Tesorina, there is only room in my heart for you.

  Lullabies and poetry, even prayers, poured through the airwaves, buoyed aloft by hope and the true depth of his emotions. His body craved her and only her, his mind and heart eagerly following suit. So many times in the past, he had dismissed the possibility of ever finding his spiritmate. He believed his soul was steeped so deeply in blood no female would be able to redeem him.

  Then he heard the voice of an angel and stared into those sapphire pools.

  My redemption is in your hands, Miranda.

  He shut off the water and hurriedly toweled dry, dressing as quickly as his damp skin and hammer-worthy erection would allow. No blood was drawn as he slid the zipper pull up on a fresh pair of leathers. He jammed his arms into a thick, black and gray cashmere sweater and stepped into the hallway as Viktor rounded the corner, buttoning up his borrowed wardrobe.

  “Any luck getting her attention?”

  Bastian gritted his teeth with a frustrated growl and ignored the question, opting on silence as answer. He scooped the discarded duster on the trip down the stairs but dumped the gore-speckled leather back down. Viktor tossed him the keys, and he caught the bundle, unhooking the peacoat off the slender rack by the front door with the other hand, and both of them were out the door.

  For the first time in the many years he’d lived on the outskirts of civilization, he actually wished his house was in the center to the city. The trip passed in focused silence, Viktor texting his contact w
ithin the club and giving him half-heard updates. He nodded during the appropriate pauses while his gaze flickered from the dash to the inky night outside.

  Grateful his late night trip went unnoticed by the local law enforcement, he parked in the closest available spot near Francciolli’s front door. Viktor was standing outside his door as he stepped from the car. He leveled his gaze, locking eyes with the man he had called friend for more than five centuries. He couldn’t remember a time when he had ever told Viktor how thankful he was for his guidance, his level head, and most importantly, for his friendship. He’d stood by his side when Bastian first woke into his new life and never let the darkness completely devour his soul.

  Viktor must have picked out his grateful thoughts with the ease of a true Channeler. The corners of a pair of mischievous blue eyes across from him crinkled and a shit-eating grin broke across his face.

  “You like me. You really like me.” The overacted Sally Field impersonation reminded Bastian why he’d never voiced his appreciation before now. He shook his head, letting out a rumbled groan of feigned amusement and he stepped through the front door.

  Bastian recalled the velvet voice that greeted his ears the first time he walked through the doors those long nights ago. This time, the sounds were laced with grief and unbearable heartache, lyrics of loss filling the air. He swallowed past the lump of self-loathing and shoved his shame deep into his chest. Her pain was on his head.

  Now it was time for him to set things right.

  He took two steps toward the main room when a hand on his shoulder yanked him to a halt.

  “Boss don’t want you here, so—”

  Bland confidence melted into a healthy dose of fear as Bastian leveled his focused stare, his intensity locking the man’s tongue. With a quick shift of his gaze, he signaled Viktor then turned his gaze to the hand still gripping his jacket. He blinked languidly, his mind roaring at the waste of time standing around while the WWE reject played big, bad bouncer.

  Viktor stepped in behind the no-neck muscle and wrapped his fingers around the man’s wrist. “I think you want to let him go and to let us in, yeah?” The man’s eyes glazed over as his hand slipped from Bastian’s shoulder. He nodded his thanks, knowing the unique telepathic skills of his friend would remove any knowledge of their arrival.

  He could even ask him to manipulate the memory of Miranda and take away her pain. But that wouldn’t make things right. He needed to face her, to hold her close and convince her of the love he was only beginning to believe himself.

  Sidestepping the vacant-eyed bouncer, he hustled past the threshold of the smoky room, the haunting lyrics of “I’ve Got it Bad and That Ain’t Good” bringing a tear to his eye. His gaze landed on the spot-lit dais, drawn to the black satin-draped angel who seemed to pull strength from the mic stand to which she clung. No amount of expensive make-up could return the lost warmth to her cheeks, her once bright blue eyes downcast as she forced the strained notes into the darkness.

  This mess might not be his doing, but he did have the power to unfuck it as best as he could. He caught the attention of the wandering flower girl and snatched the only white rose from the basket. Peace offering firmly in hand, he strode into the room and found a small café table just off the stage. The tears in her voice spilled out into the audience, affecting the few scattered patrons as waitresses dashed from table to table with more alcohol to numb their sympathetic pain.

  But that wasn’t his concern. Not today. He was done worrying about the good of the masses. Tonight, it was all about one person. It was all about her.

  He waited patiently, sending waves of compassionate warmth to his sad angel. He poured nothing but love and truth into his thoughts. Seconds ticked by as the band filled the silence until she lifted her gaze, those full red lips quivering as she sung the last refrain. Her voice caught on the last word and one single tear slipped down her cheek.

  Tesorina, you are the only one in my heart.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Miranda froze, torn between the drive to rush from the stage to cower in her dressing room and the more powerful desire to run into his arms. Her mind was a flurry of frantic and scattered thoughts, and through the chaos, a gravelly voice whispered softly. Words of promise and tender affection were a balm on her tempest torn soul.

  Her entire night was one near breakdown followed by the next. Song lyrics played chase in her memory, and she relied heavily on her band to salvage more and more numbers in her set. She wanted nothing more than to disappear even for just an hour and sob until all the pain became bearable.

  Instead, she sang, the music hollow and empty.

  Now, he was once again in her club. His whiskey eyes bore straight into her broken heart. Protocol overrode panic and she droned through her standard speech ending her set. The overhead spot blinked out, leaving her in her comforting darkness. She stayed in the quiet cool of the stage, her eyes fixed on the floor. She didn’t need to look up. She could feel his eyes on her.

  Swallowing back another threatening bout of tears, she stepped away from the shelter of her mic stand.

  “Miranda?”

  Her name fell from his lips, and she couldn’t contain the waterworks. She sped up her pace, needing to get out of the public view before the teetering walls finally came tumbling down. His fingertips brushed along her bare arm, sending shivers along her skin but she dare not stop. Her heels clicked a rapid tattoo as she practically ran toward her closet of a dressing room, her silent shadow never more than a step behind her.

  “Miranda, please? Tesorina?”

  Her feet skidded to a halt just outside her flimsy door with the rumbled voice uttering that exotically sensual word. If she dared to look into those devilishly heartbreaking eyes of his, she was sunk. She dropped her head, looking for solace in the dingy tiles beneath her shoes.

  A single white rose sneaked into her field of vision, the tight silky petals sheltering the fragile bud from her deep sadness. Her arms locked even as she reached her fingers toward the innocent bloom.

  “I cannot be the other woman, Bastian. I promised myself I would never destroy the happiness of—”

  His lips stopped the rest of her brave speech, the kiss such a tender surprise, and her brain searched for the memory of movement. She clutched onto his hands as he cradled her face, her eyes squeezing shut to hold back her tears. Her knees buckled, dumping her against his chest, and he held her with delicate care. He broke the seal of their lips and pressed his forehead against hers.

  “Tesorina, there is no one else in my heart, save you.”

  Her lashes fluttered open and she stared up into his smoky amber eyes. She looked deep, searching for some trace of guile or guilt but found neither. A jagged red slash cut across his eyebrow, and the skin beneath the sensual stubble on his jaw appeared discolored, as if he had been in some kind of fight. His chiseled face was intent on her, as if anticipating a tantrum or some other scorned woman display. If she was honest with herself, the haunted look in his eyes was threatening to shatter her resolve. Her chin quivered as she slid her gaze back to the floor.

  “But that wo—”

  Another light pressure on her lips, this time from the fragrant flower bud was enough to draw a timid smile from her. The soft petals drifted across her mouth and followed the ruddy blush stroke along her cheek line.

  “I don’t want you to think of her again. I am just sorry that you had to deal with her at all. She was a mistake from the past who doesn’t understand the meaning of over.” He trailed his rough knuckles along her jaw, his touch coaxing her eyes to climb back up his body. The tension eased around his eyes and a tempting warmth grew in the intoxicating depths. Her heart raced as thick emotions clogged her throat.

  Memories flooded her senses and she was transported back to her room. She remembered the caress of his hand on her bare back and the touch of his lips on her skin. Her breathing turned shallow the longer she gazed into his eyes.

  She was falling
in love with him, and she wouldn’t get him killed.

  She forced out the words she hated to say. “I’m sorry.” Tears blurred her vision, and she dropped her gaze. “I can’t…I can’t let you—” She swallowed hard, struggling to be heard over the sound of her heart shattering. “Please.”

  His arms encircled her, and she let herself borrow from his tender strength. She pressed her ear against his chest, lulled by the steady beat. It spoke of long, passionate nights. It promised protection. It spoke to her and told her she didn’t need to live in fear any longer. She wiggled her arms between them, curling her fingers around the thick woolen knit of his sweater as she curled her shoulders down. She wanted to hide here, in this moment with him forever. Wanted it so bad she could taste it.

  She had to send him away. If that woman spoke to Sal, both of them would pay, and she dare not sell what was left of her soul. Her arms trembled as her body refused to push away the much-needed comfort. Safe in the shelter of his embrace, she wept, her heart breaking at the cruelty of it all.

  He simply held her as she unraveled, steady arms holding her up as she broke down. His hand cradled the back of her wigged head, careful not to tug and yank at the offending hairpiece. Soft kissed brushed against her forehead and he rested his cheek on the top of her head.

  “I know you are afraid, but I am not willing to lose you. Not now. Not ever.”

  The surety in his voice gave her strength, but she knew the truth of the man who held contract on life.

  “I don’t want to see you get hurt, Bastian.” She dare not add the real reason. Through the hell that had become her life, he was her anchor, and she was terrified to think about losing him.