Esme burrowed her face into his chest and shook. He wrapped his arms around her and felt every ounce of his fight response seep away, replaced by a warm pulse, her pulse. It was only when he realized he’d synced to her heartbeat that he let her go. Her fingers were wound tightly in his cotton shirt, so he couldn’t go far.
“Please, Esme. Are you okay?”
Her wide brown eyes were not filled with tears, but her body still shook. “I just killed someone.”
“Technically, you just injured him really bad.”
A strand of her dark hair fell across her forehead and caught in her lashes. “But he’s dead. I did that.”
Valiance reached up and pushed the errant strand of hair behind her ear. He’d been wanting to do that all night.
Esme frowned slightly. “And I did it to protect you.”
He nodded. “You did. Thank you.”
Esme smiled, then her entire body shook.
“Where is your abuelita?”
“In the car with the bowie knife. She told me I needed to rescue you.”
“It seems you have.”
Esme closed her eyes and took in a long breath as she rested her head on his chest. Valiance’s eyes closed as he reveled in the heat of her, the pulse of her, so close and so unafraid of him. This was a quiet he could get used to.
Slowly, the shaking stopped. “It’s grass.”
“I was just rolling around in it.”
“No, the deeper smell. I thought it was just a cologne or something, but that’s the real you. The underneath you. A vampire that smells like fresh-cut grass.”
Valiance couldn’t stop smiling; his cheeks were beginning to ache with it. “I guess I don’t notice it.”
“What do I smell like? My deeper smell.”
He knew part of this was the trauma talking. He took the opportunity to run his arm around her shoulders and begin to nudge her slowly toward the front of the house.
“Wildflowers. Sun-warmed wildflowers.”
They cleared the backyard, and Esme’s fingers finally unfurled from his shirt.
“I guess for a fairy, smelling like flowers isn’t very original.” Esme pulled away from him and seemed steady enough to walk on her own.
“I can with all honesty say that I’ve never heard someone quote Emily Dickinson before delivering a deathblow.”
Esme stopped and put her face in her hands.
Valiance’s stomach tied up in knots. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly.
Esme started to softly chuckle. “No,” she said as she dropped her hands from her face and shrugged. “I guess that’s what I do in times of action. Something else I learned about myself today.”
“So what’s the grand total?”
They stopped by Esme’s car. Valiance gave a small wave to her grandmother, who sat in the front seat with the knife clearly displayed.
Esme counted the newly learned facts on her fingers. “I’m invisible to bad guys. I’m a fairy. I’m not a coward. And I quote poetry when I fight. What have you learned today?”
Valiance took in a deep breath. There was a dead body in the backyard that the Cleaners would need to dispose of, and he was pretty sure he should call their contact in the police force because an explosion would catch someone’s attention, even in this neighborhood. But none of that seemed to matter. “This was probably the worst best date ever. Or the best worst date ever.”
A blush spread across Esme’s cheeks, and her floral scent filled the air around him and seemed to seep into him. “It was a first date. I’ve been told all first dates are hell.”
Valiance found his hands shaking as he asked the question, so he jammed them in his pockets. “Is it too early to ask for a second?”
Esme looked down at her hands. He saw the blood crusted in her fingernails, the crimson spray across her shirt. The moonlight caught the white bandage at her wrist, and again, he felt his palms begin to itch with nerves.
But when she looked up, and those wide brown eyes caught his, the hope that he had spoken about earlier seemed to flutter through him.
“Sure beats folding towels on a Saturday night.”
Blood and Water
Kim Falconer
Chapter One
6:12 P.M.
Sunday, April 15, 1906
STELLAN SHOT TOWARD the ferry, his nak*d body gliding through the water just under the waves. He swam over sharks and knobble-backed sturgeons, while above, the setting sun turned everything to gold. Brilliant clouds were mirrored on the glassy surface. Beautiful . . . but worrisome. There would be dozens of passengers on the observation deck tonight. Dozens of deaths.
The more the merrier, Salila said, her voice rippling through his mind. She wasn’t too far behind him.
He swam harder. The ferry was heading southwest and coming up on Goat Island, a rock in the middle of the bay. Listen to me, Salila. You don’t have to do this!
Oh, but I do!
The paddle wheel churned through the waves. It rose over the hum of the steam engine and the distant siren sounds of whales traveling slowly along the coast. Stellan was tempted to break the surface when he reached the Bay City ferry, but the sun, and better judgment, kept him beneath the waves. He dove, skimmed the hull, and came up on the port side, sticking to the shadows. In a leap, Stellan grabbed the lifesaver netting and climbed until he could see the main deck.
People were chatting in small groups, gazing at the horizon, taking in the last rays of the sun. Stellan counted them, sweeping his eye across the deck, up to the wheelhouse, and down the other side before stopping short. The fine hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.
A woman walked toward the starboard railing, her breathtaking figure radiant in the light. The wind danced in her floor-length skirt, revealing the outline of long, slender legs. Fine lace pulled tight across her lower back, accentuating the curve from h*ps to br**sts. Stellan felt a pounding in his chest. Impossible, he thought. Everything else was falling away, his vision a vignette with only the center, only her, in bright clarity. She was like living fire, or was that the sunset? Magnificent! What are you playing with, my lady? She seemed inordinately preoccupied with a small wooden box mounted on stilts. He watched, fascinated. Ah, a camera . . .
Isn’t she lovely? Salila cut into his mind.
He growled deep and twisted around, his dark hair trailing over his shoulders and down his broad back as he tried to spot the Mar woman in the water. This has to stop!
That’s not what Teern says. She surfaced and disappeared again. Taunting.
Stellan’s eyes went back to the deck. The object of his attention was sliding a glass plate into the camera. Quickly, she ducked under a black hood, and the whole thing flashed like a shooting star. A photographer! The thought would have made him smile if he weren’t so busy working out how to save her life.
The sun dropped into the sea, and the belated fog began to rise. A Mar fog. It was Salila’s shroud against detection. Stellan tore his eyes away from the woman long enough to dive back in and swim to the prow. The ferry chugged on, but the sound of the whales vanished. They tended toward silence when the Mar were hunting. The waves beat against his back as he clung directly underneath the main deck. He couldn’t see her anymore, but he could hear.
“There’s enough light for one more shot.”
She’s optimistic.
“Put your cape on and come inside, Miss Ralston! It’s gone quite cold and will be pitch-dark before we dock. You’ll catch your death . . .”
He hoped she would heed the warning. It would be the death of all those left chatting under the stars if Salila and the others had their way.
“Angelina Ralston!” The well-dressed matron beside her continued. “You’re not listening.”
Angelina . . . Stellan licked salt water off his lips. An angel . . . Her hair was auburn red and reminded him of autumn trees along the Atlantic Coast. Her eyes were dark like Egyptian onyx, and her lips full, inviting. She wore a long-sleeved ivory dress with pearl buttons that ran from her slender waist, between her round br**sts to her high, lace collar. On her head was a matching hat, cocked up on one side. Stellan’s throat went completely dry when she spoke.
“Mrs. Blackwell, I am comforted by your concern.” She donned a forest green cape that hung to her black leather boots. “I assure you, though, I’m not the slightest bit cold.” She lowered her sweet voice. “The sea is mesmerizing, and the vista like warm embers. Look how the pale evening light dances across the rising mist. It’s so beautiful. If only I had a camera that could make sense of these subtleties . . . this other world.”
“VERY POETIC, I’M sure . . .” Mrs. Blackwell huffed.
“Ah, but light is poetry,” Angelina said to herself. Then louder, over the chatter of the other passengers, “There’s too much to experience on deck, Mrs. Blackwell. I can’t bear to walk away from the sensations.”
“Miss Ralston! Now I must insist you retreat to the safety of the cabin. Your father wouldn’t have you lingering in ‘sensations’ of any kind, I am sure.”
“Fortunately, Father is not here,” Angelina whispered.
“What did you say?”
She cleared her throat. “I’m a hunter of light, Mrs. Blackwell. I put my consciousness upon its reflection, watching, waiting to capture what I can.”
Stellan’s eyes widened as he listened.
“Life isn’t all about photographs, Miss Ralston.”
“It is this evening. Father’s instructed me to record the seascape.”
“Yes, for the bridge . . .”
“Bridges.” Angelina emphasized the plural. “One along this ferry route, from Oakland Mole to Market Street Landing, and the other . . .”
“Across the Golden Gate, I know!” Mrs. Blackwell sighed. “The esteemed Mr. Ralston, and my son, your fiancé”—she exaggerated each syllable of that last word—“speak of nothing else.”
“Then perhaps you’ll appreciate . . .”
“I appreciate nothing in this damp, cold fog and endless sloshing of water all around. It’s unnatural.”
“Not to me.” Her voice was wistful.
“Yes, I’ve heard about your proclivity toward swimming.” The older woman fussed with her coat buttons, doing them up to her chin. “I’m going inside, and you are to follow directly. Gather your things. I’ll not have you out here unattended.”
“Of course, Mrs. Blackwell.” Angelina kept her eyes on the sea, making no move to leave.
The matron turned to a man who stood a small distance away with his hands clasped behind his back. “Assist her, Gerald.”
“I can manage myself, thank you,” Angelina said. She turned to the man. “Could you please see Mrs. Blackwell safely inside.”
“What will my son think if I allow his fiancée to catch a chill?” Mrs. Blackwell said over her shoulder while being escorted to the doors.
“I’m sure he will think nothing unkind of you, Mrs. Blackwell.”
The woman snorted at that and disappeared into the cabin.
Stellan struggled with conflicting desires as he watched Angelina lean against the railing. There were other people still on the deck. He had to be ready. Salila would act soon.
You should be helping us!
I think you do fine without me.
We are Mar, Stellan. Have your forgotten your own nature in all these centuries?
No! He frowned. But your way is. . .
That of the Ancients!
We don’t even know who they were! A master race from the sunken continent? Remnants of children sacrificed to the sea? We’ve lost our history, Salila.
But not our traditions! Her voice stung. We need human blood to rise from the tombs. We need it to walk on land.
We don’t need so much that they die! I’ve found. . .
A better way? So I’ve heard. What’s Teern think of your big idea?
Stellan didn’t have an answer for that. He’d yet to discuss it with their leader.
You might want to move away from the bow, brother. Salila’s warning shot into his mind. There’s going to be a little spill.
The Bay City ferry had two ballast tanks with a thirty-ton capacity each. If one malfunctioned, the nose of the vessel would momentarily dip, and any passengers on deck would slip right down into the sea. Salila was very good at making things malfunction.
Don’t do it!
Too late.
The ferry lurched, and Mar began to tear up the side of the vessel, splintering the hull in their race to the top. The prow smashed nose first into the swell, and the main deck, moments ago a stately, horizontal surface, upended. People lost their footing, all but Angelina. She gripped the railing with both hands and held fast. Salila made to jump at her, but Stellan caught the Mar woman by the ankle, a bone-crushing hold.
She spun and snarled. What’s wrong with you! With a disgusted look, she kicked free and dove, hitting the water, where people were splashing and waving.
Angelina screamed, her grip nearly gone. Stellan threw himself into motion, ripping apart the railing in his vertical ascent. As he launched toward her, the bow of the ferry bounced back up, tossing passengers into the sky, Angelina among them. Stellan’s collision course ended with a resounding thud, his chest slamming into the woman as his arms encircled her.
Thousands of sparkling water drops sprayed out from their impact. Streams arced from his long hair, reaching toward her face. The sounds of the paddle wheel and engine, the screams of drowning humans, and the clang of bells faded into the background. But suddenly there was only this young woman, this angel, in his arms. The scent of her filled his nostrils, her warmth turning his head light as air. Angelina’s heart pounded hard against his bare chest as she clung to him. Her eyes were shut tight, and she was still screaming as they began to fall.
“Angelina!” he shouted.
Her lids flew open, and she stared straight at him.
Stellan couldn’t breathe. Seeing her, holding her . . . it felt like sunshine, open fields, and a fullness of heart he’d never known. She pierced him with her beautiful, dark gaze, a weapon more potent than anything imaginable. They held each other tight, speechless, until, like a stone, they plunged into the sea.