Page 39 of Dance With the Devil (Dark-Hunter 3)
Chapter 9
Tears fell down Astrid's cheeks as she felt the warm strength of his hand on hers; as she saw his long, tapered fingers twined with hers.
His hand was large, masculine and it enveloped hers with power.
Those hands had killed, but they had also protected. They had cared for her and pleasured her.
By this simple action, she knew she had finally made contact with him.
She had just reached the unreachable.
Then the contact was lost.
Zarek's face hardened as he jerked his hand away from hers. "I don't want to be changed. Not by you. Not by anyone."
Snarling in anger, he pushed past her and marched out the door.
Astrid did something she had never done before.
She cursed.
Damn him for not staying. Damn him for being so stupid.
"I told you, he's a hard-ass."
She turned to see M'Adoc standing behind her, staring out the door after Zarek who was trudging shirtless through the snow.
"How long have you been eavesdropping?" she asked the Oneroi.
"Not that long. I know when not to intrude on a dream."
She narrowed her eyes meaningfully at him. "You better."
Disregarding her and her unspoken threat, he moved to watch Zarek make his way across the snow.
"So what are you going to do now?" he asked.
"Beat him with a stick until he listens to reason."
"You wouldn't be the first one to try that," M'Adoc said dryly. "The thing is, he's immune to it."
She let out a long, weary breath. It was true.
"I don't know what to do," she confessed. "I feel so helpless where he's concerned."
Something sagelike flickered behind M'Adoc's pale glowing eyes. "You shouldn't have trapped him here or yourself for that matter. It's dangerous to stay in this realm too long."
"I know, but what else could I have done? He won't stay put and was determined to leave my cabin. You know I couldn't allow that." She paused and gave the Dream-Hunter a pleading look. "I need guidance, M'Adoc. I wish I could talk to Acheron. He's the only one I know who could tell me about Zarek."
"No. Zarek could tell you."
"But he won't."
He met her gaze. "So you're giving up, then?"
"Never."
He gave her a rare smile that let her know he was siphoning off her emotions. "I figured as much. Glad to know you're no longer daunted."
"But how do I reach him? I'm open to any and all ideas and suggestions at this point."
M'Adoc held his hand out and a small, dark blue book appeared in his palm. He gave it to her.
Astrid looked at the copy of The Little Prince in her hands.
"It's Zarek's favorite book, too," M'Adoc said.
No wonder Zarek had been able to quote it to her.
M'Adoc stepped back. "It's a book of heartbreak and survival. A book of magic, hope, and promise. Strange that it would speak to him, isn't it?"
M'Adoc flashed out of the dream then and left her flipping through the book. She saw that M'Adoc had marked certain passages and paragraphs.
Astrid closed the door and took it to the comfortable recliner that had suddenly appeared in the cabin.
She smiled. All the gods of sleep liked to speak in riddles and metaphors. They seldom said anything outright, but made people work for their answers.
M'Adoc, the head of the Oneroi, had left her clues in this book.
If this could give her any insight into Zarek at all, she would read what he had marked.
Maybe then she might have a hope of saving Zarek.
Jess ducked into the small convenience store and shook himself like a wet dog coming in from the rain. It was so damn cold up here that he couldn't stand it.
How had Zarek survived in Alaska before central heating? He had to give his friend credit. A man had to be hard and dangerous to make his home here without any help from friends or Squires.
Personally, he'd rather be pistol whipped and thrown naked into a nest of rattlers.
There was an elderly gentleman behind the counter who gave him a knowing smile as if he understood why Jess had cursed as soon as he entered. The man had a thick head of gray hair and a salt-and-pepper-colored beard. His old green sweater had snags, but it looked good and warm. "Can I help you?"
Jess lowered the muffler from his face and gave a curt, friendly nod to the man. Manners dictated he remove his black Stetson while indoors, but damned if he'd do that and let even an ounce of his body heat escape.
He needed ever bit of it.
"Howdy, sir," he drawled all polite like. "I'm searching for some black coffee or anything else you've got that's hot. Real hot."
The man laughed and pointed to a coffeepot in the back. "You must not be from around here."
Jess headed for the coffee. "No, sir, and thank God for that."
The old man laughed again. "Ahh, stay up here for a little while and your blood will thicken up enough to where you don't even notice it."
He doubted that. His blood would have to be petrified not to feel this cold.
He wanted to get his butt back to Reno before he became the first Dark-Hunter in history to freeze to death.
Jess poured an extra large Styrofoam cup full and headed for the counter. He set it down and dug through the five million layers of coat, flannel shirt, sweater, and long johns to pull his wallet out of his back pocket to pay. His gaze fell to a small glass case where someone had placed a hand-carved statue of a cowboy on a bucking bronco.
Jess frowned as he recognized the horse, then the man.
It was him.
He'd e-mailed a picture to Zarek last summer of him saddle-breaking his latest stallion. Damned if that wasn't an exact copy of the photo.
"Hey," the old gentleman said as he noticed it, too. "You look just like my statue."
"Yes, sir, I noticed that. Where did you get it?"
The man looked back and forth from him to the statue as he compared their likenesses. "The annual Christmas auction we had last November."
Jess scowled at that. "Christmas auction?"
"Every year the Polar Bear Club gets together to raise money for the poor and sick. We have an annual auction, and for the last, oh I don't know, twenty years or so, Santa has been leaving a couple of huge bags of these one-of-a-kind hand-carved statues and figurines that we sell. We figure he must be a local artist or something who doesn't want to let anyone know where he lives. Every month a big money order comes anonymously to our post office box, too. Most of us figure it's the same guy doing it all."
"Santa, as in Claus?"
The man nodded. "I know it's a stupid name, but we don't know what else to call him. It's just some guy who comes around in winter and does good deeds. The police have seen him a time or two carrying the bags up to our center, but they leave him alone. He shovels driveways for the elderly and carves a lot of those elaborate ice sculptures you've probably seen around town."
Jess felt his jaw go slack, then he quickly snapped it shut before he exposed his fangs to the gentleman. Yeah. He had seen those sculptures.
But Zarek?
It hardly seemed like something the ex-slave would do. His friend was crusty at best and downright ornery at worst.
But then, Zarek had never told him what he did up here to pass the time. Never said much of nothing to Jess really.
Jess paid for the coffee, then headed back out to the street.
He walked to the end of it, where one of the ice sculptures rested at an intersection. A rendition of a moose, it stood almost eight feet tall. The moonlight glistened off the surface that was so intricately carved that it looked like the moose was ready to break loose and run for home.
Zarek's work?
