Alpha's Fire Read online

  Where am I? My brain is slow to come online. Why can’t I remember how I got here?

  The bed is huge. My bed back home is way smaller, and it’s not surrounded by a thick brocade curtain that cocoons the king-sized bed in shadow. The drapes hang from a four-poster frame and even cover the top. It’s a rich red and gold tapestry the likes of which I've seen in antique auctions that I frequent.

  Is that gold thread? I sit up to examine it and pull open the curtain to peek out. I’m in a massive stone room with more red and gold Turkish rugs. The thirty-foot-high ceiling has thick wooden rafters like some sort of medieval great hall.

  Did I hit my head? Am I in some sort of hotel, and I don't remember checking in?

  I was on a road trip headed to a jewelry show. I had a few antique auctions to stop at along the way.

  My head is muzzy like I took a sleeping pill. I rub my face. There's something I was supposed to do...

  I reach for my phone, but it’s gone. I’m wearing my peasant skirt and a loose white blouse, but my well-worn Birkenstocks are missing.

  My hair is down and in a smooth sheet. Not in my usual braid, but it’s unsnarled for once. I must have slept solidly, with no dreams or thrashing around.

  My heart starts to pick up speed when I can’t figure out how I got here. I mean, sometimes when I travel it takes me a minute to remember where I am, but this time it’s just not coming back.

  What happened to me?

  The last thing I remember, I was headed to a special estate sale in my pink VW bus. The directions took me to the middle of nowhere.

  The rest is all muzzy.

  I pull back the curtains in preparation to swing out of bed. My legs are wobbly and weak, so I give myself a second.

  On the far left wall is a bank of ancient-looking windows. I can’t see anything more than sky–the glass is old and warped and looks bounded by lead. Between me and the windows is a space that would fit my whole Taos home. Instead of bean bag chairs and lava lamps, there are antique chairs upholstered in red velvet and a massive stone fireplace decorated with snarling gargoyles.

  This hotel’s really going with the medieval gothic theme. All that's missing is a suit of armor in the corner.

  Everything is clean at least. And warm–there’s an actual fire in the fireplace. A bluish flame dances along modern-looking sculpture, but faint black scorch marks on the stone tell me this was used as a fireplace long before it was updated to a gas-fed fire.

  To the right of the bed is what looks to be a bathroom. I stumble into it on shaky legs. The bathroom is just as cavernous, and they kept the medieval castle theme with the exception of modern plumbing. The pool-sized bathtub is set into the stone floor. Even more tempting is the steam shower, a wonder of technology with so many buttons and nozzles I might need an engineering degree just to figure out how to turn it on.

  I settle for splashing water on my face. The towels are a dream, white and plushy. Four out of five stars. Minus one for the weird castle vibe.

  There’s a door off the bathroom. Soft overhead lights go on, revealing dresses, blouses, skirts, and jeans hanging in neat rows between floor-to-ceiling shelves holding pairs and pairs of gorgeous shoes. Whose?

  I finger the closest item, a knee-length silken caftan in teal, the color of Lake Como. There are no weird women’s business suits with shoulder pads or sensible black skirts. Or worse, tight club wear, the sort my mom thinks I should wear to land a hedge fund billionaire boyfriend. Everything in here is designer, but something I’d wear. It’s like a genie cataloged everything I’ve ever loved to wear and created the closet of my dreams.

  I grab a pair of Gucci jeans and hold them against my front. Yep, my size. So are the pairs of Sophia Webster and Valentino heels, and Frye and Zadig & Voltaire boots, all displayed in their own backlit cubbies, like they’re in a Milan storefront. I don’t wear high heels often, but for the whimsical butterfly design or rockstar studded leather, I’d make an exception.

  I clutch a red leather riding boot to my chest. I should put it back in its cubby, but I’m barefoot in a strange place. Maybe I can borrow some footwear. I don’t know whose room I ended up in, but she does have great taste.

  I find a pair of thin socks and tug on the boots. They fit perfectly.

  In a daze, I step out of the closet and stop short. The massive wooden and leather studded bedroom door is still closed, but I’m no longer alone.

  A tall man stands by the fireplace, his head bowed as he regards the fire. He turns as if sensing my presence. He's in a dark suit--Brioni by the look of it–and there's something familiar about him. The close-cropped beard lining the strong line of his jaw, the dark hair falling across his forehead. He’s wearing a pair of oversized sunglasses that hide the middle half of his face. The lenses are totally black.

  “You are awake, my treasure,” he says in accented English.

  My treasure? Uh…do I know you?

  His accent rolls around in my head. Where have I heard it before? I take a step forward. “Where am I? Who are you? What is happening?”

  He waits until I fall silent. “Patience, Tabitha. In time, I will answer every question you have.”

  The unease I’d been trying to keep at bay filters into my bloodstream. This is getting weirder by the second. “You know my name.”

  “I know everything about you.”

  Goosebumps race down my arms. That’s not creepy at all. I should run for the door, but something keeps my feet rooted to the spot. The man seems relaxed and in charge. There’s nothing menacing about him, and for some reason, I’m fascinated by him rather than frightened. “Are you the hotel manager?”

  The corner of his perfect lips twitches. “No.”

  “What is this place?”

  “You're in my home.”

  His home.

  What?

  “And how did I get here?” I wrack my brain for memories of the night before, but I still don’t remember anything beyond driving in the middle of nowhere in my VW bus.

  “I had you brought here after you passed out.”

  “I passed out?” My yelp echoes off the stone walls.

  “I had a doctor examine you. He found you perfectly healthy, other than some minor fatigue and dehydration.”

  I press a hand over my heart. I’ve never passed out, even when living off green smoothies and a handful of raw almonds on the modeling circuit. “No. I don’t pass out. That doesn’t make sense.”

  “Be at ease, Tabitha,” he says in that deep rolling voice of his. It’s strangely soothing. I’m sensitive to people’s bad vibes, but I’m at ease with him. Memory tugs at me. Do I recognize him from somewhere?

  A tiny fork of lightning appears around his head, thin as spider web. Like a floating golden thread. It disappears instantly, leaving nothing where the man’s aura should be.

  I was young when I realized not everyone could see colors around people the way I could. I was in the park and kept pointing to peoples’ heads, babbling to my mom about the blue, yellow, or red colors around them. She smacked my hand and told me to be quiet.

  Now I don’t talk about my visions with anyone, ever. Not even my friends. I learned early on that they make people uncomfortable. So I keep silent and use my gifts to navigate the world.

  This guy has no aura. I can’t sense him psychically. It’s relaxing. Like putting on noise-canceling headphones during a Schoenberg concert. Blissfully quiet.

  And something about him seems so familiar…

  The stranger speaks again. “If you like, I can summon the doctor again.”

  “No, that’s okay. I feel fine now.” I don’t like that a doctor examined me, and I didn’t even wake up. Something is off here. Way off.

  “I had the room designed for you.” The man blatantly changes the subject.

  “For me?” I narrow my eyes. “How do you know me, exactly?”

  For a moment, I wonder if this is some kind of blind date my mom cooked up, and he’s some uber-ric
h guy she’s sold on marrying me.

  But that still doesn’t add up. She’d be here, too.

  He doesn’t answer. Instead, he offers a question of his own. “Do you not like it?”

  I shrug. “It would make an interesting Airbnb. A little gothic for my tastes.”

  “My castle has stood for seven hundred years. I've fully modernized it.” He tilts his head to the gargoyles mounted around the fireplace. “But my favorite fixtures remain.”

  Now that I look closer, the gargoyles look like dragon heads. “Those guys? Do they have names?” I’m being cheeky but this conversation is too surreal.

  I don’t expect him to answer seriously, but he does, pronouncing two words in a rich, rolling language I don’t understand. “Tragesh and Tradell. Roughly translates to Fire Breath and Fire Tongue.”

  “What language is that?” I ask, fascinated despite myself. “I don't recognize it, but I feel like I’ve heard it before.”

  He tilts his dark head. “Don't you remember, Tabitha? I spoke it to you when we first met.”

  So I have met this guy. That explains the deja vu, but not why I don’t remember him. I would remember being this attracted to someone. “When was that?” I take a few more steps into the room towards him. “Was it in a past life? Because I’m getting a really intense vibe here.” I point my finger back and forth between us. My mom would say it’s rude to point. She’d also despair about me bringing up any mention of my psychic gifts to a handsome man in a ten thousand dollar suit.

  “Perhaps.” He doesn’t look weirded out. He seems to be considering my question carefully. “Do you believe in past lives?”

  I shrug. I don’t want to get into my mystical beliefs right now.

  “Regardless, the meeting of which I speak happened some years ago,” he says. “Ten years ago to be exact.”

  Ten years ago, I was a model getting ready for fashion week. He’s probably some douchebag dude-bro I met at a party, either a model or a designer, or one of the wealthy patrons.

  So much for a magical connection. This isn’t fate. It’s probably kidnapping. This guy is a wannabe James Bond villain and has pulled me into his crazy fantasies.

  I need to see his face, his full face. “Do you wear your sunglasses at night?” I ask in a snide tone and regret it when he says, “They are a precaution. But I will remove them when the time is right.”

  Gah, I should’ve thought before I spoke. He might have eye issues or photosensitivity. “That was rude. It’s none of my business.”

  “You’re wrong, Tabitha. Everything about me is your business. As you are mine.”

  And now we’re right back to creepy stalker territory.

  I’ve walked fully into the bedroom. The door to the hall is a few feet to my right. As much as I want to figure this guy out, my best bet is to get out of here. Get to safety. Run in the red boots and leave the rest of the gorgeous clothes in the closet behind.

  To cover up my fluster and my decision, I keep up with the small talk. I point to the bed. “Where did you get that tapestry? I’ve never seen anything so beautiful. Is it vintage or a remake?”

  His head turns. Before he starts talking, I scramble out the door.

  A long stone hall greets me. There’s a suit of armor. “There goes your four-star rating,” I mutter, racing past it. I tug on its arm as I pass. It would be great if it could fall into the middle of the hall and block the way, but it’s secured somehow. I can’t bring myself to rip down the tapestries lining the rest of the hall. If they are original, they have to be over a hundred years old.

  I skid around a corner. More long stone hallway, studded with a few heavy wooden doors. I’m in the bedroom wing of this castle. Must find a staircase. Another hall, another row of doors. In desperation, I try a few of the latches, but they’re locked. The windows lining the hall are the same old, thickened glass and banded with lead. Even if I could get one open or break one, there’s nothing but sky and a long drop down a sheer stone wall to greet me. This place really is a castle out of a horror movie.

  “Negative ten stars. Do not recommend.” I leave the bank of windows and rush on. The boots are heavy to be running in. They clomp over the carpet. I should’ve grabbed a pair of sneakers.

  I finally find a staircase leading down … to a heavy wooden door that’s locked. I pound on it, but these doors are a foot thick. I’d need to go all Leatherface on it with a chainsaw.

  “Looking for this?” The man stands on top of the stone stairs. He slowly descends, holding up a huge iron key.

  It’s the point in the horror movie where the heroine screams and dies horribly. But instead of freaking out, I get this intense sense of deja vu.

  My heartbeat slows, my heaving lungs calm.

  There’s just something about this guy. Maybe it's the fact he has no aura or energy infringing on mine. Maybe it's his cologne, a spicy, earthy blend with a touch of smoke. He’s close enough that my head tilts back, so I can look up at his face.

  “I’m leaving,” I say.

  He prowls closer. Now I’m surrounded by his spicy, drugging scent. “Don’t you want to know who I am? Why I brought you here?” His voice thickens. “Why there’s such an affinity between us?”

  Actually, I do. “Maybe.” I narrow my eyes at him. “But I don’t trust you.”

  “That is wise. You don’t know me.”

  I’m searching the air around his head, looking for his aura. Even I have an aura–I don’t see it, but I can sense it. It’s typically dark purple.

  I’ve relied on auras for so long to tell me about a person. This guy has none. It makes me want to rip the glasses off his face, so I can look into his eyes.

  “Have dinner with me,” he challenges softly.

  My stomach growls. The sound is so shocking, I slam my hand over my midriff.

  The man’s lips compress like he’s suppressing a smile. “My butler sets a wonderful table. You can have anything your heart desires.”

  “Will you answer my questions?”

  “Everything you wish to know.”

  My stomach growls again.

  Now there’s no trace of a smile on his face. “Tabitha, I cannot bear to see you hungry, tired or hurt. Allow me to be a good host.”

  We’re standing closer now, face to face. His dark shades reflect my curious expression. “Take off your glasses,” I say.

  “I do not wish to scare you.” His tone holds regret.

  “Just for a moment. I want to see your face.”

  Instead of removing the glasses himself, he bows his head. Our breath mingles as I reach up and slide his shades off.

  A pair of amber eyes greet me. Familiar amber eyes. Add a few more months of out-of-control growth to his beard and remove the fine suit and...

  “It's you.'' I jerk back so hard I would have hit my head against the wooden door if the man's large hand hadn’t cradled it.

  “Careful, my treasure.” He shifts his body, pinning mine against the door.

  There’s no mistaking him. This is the man from the mountain. The man I met years ago when I was just eighteen and hiking in the mountains of Northern Italy.

  It all comes rushing back: the weird earthquake shaking the ground as he came towards me, speaking in his foreign tongue. I had dismissed the experience as a hallucination or a dream. Either I didn’t eat enough that morning, or my biscotti were spiked with ‘shrooms.

  But here he is, in the flesh. Solid, real.

  Prickles run up my back. “How is this possible?”

  He runs his hand down my hair and grips a lock in his fist as if he can’t believe I’m real. “I've been searching for a long time.”

  I inhale more of his incense-like scent. “What’s your name?”

  “Gabriel.” He lifts the lock of my hair to his face and rubs it across his cheek.

  “Gabriel,” I repeat.

  For a moment a gold light flares in his eyes. His pupil seems to become more narrow and slitted. I blink, and his eyes are
back to normal.

  Gabriel looks like he’s going to say more, but a cold restraint settles over his features instead.

  “Come now, there's much for you to see.” He steps away and fits the key into the lock, turning it until it clicks. The door swings open to a larger, brighter hallway. A rich red carpet lines the stone. He offers his arm. “Shall we?”

  2

  Gabriel

  Too fast. I’m going too fast.

  I don’t want to frighten my bride.

  The truth is, I have no practice in this art. The last time I claimed my mate, I simply arranged the union with her parents. I made my case, proved I was worthy, and, essentially, bought her.

  Although she has a mother, Tabitha doesn’t seem to be bound by parental oversight. I’ve learned that in this century, women have free will to roam and travel alone, which is how she, as an off-continent dweller, came to pass over the cave where I slept and woke me ten years ago.

  Courtship in this century cannot be that different, though. Her body still responds to mine. I can tell by the way she inhales my scent, the curiosity in her lovely jade gaze.

  I would have used the wolf pack she ran with to influence her into marriage, to show her shifters are not to be feared, but as they were my adversaries, I couldn’t use that avenue.

  Thank fate, I am the sort of creature who enjoys toying with his enemies before he kills them, or I never would have found her on that landmass across the sea. Now, of course, I will not kill the wolf pack. I would never injure those who have given their friendship and cared for my mate.

  I lead Tabitha down the red carpet in the window-lined hall. I don’t scent fear in her spring rain aroma. Though she’s human, I know she senses what I am to her on some level. Her curiosity outweighs her caution, her distrust, with me.

  Her gaze keeps drifting up and down my frame, as if she finds it pleasing, but then she averts her gaze when I catch her at it. It feels like she’s looking for something she can’t find, can’t see. We head toward the large, round tower of the castle. Below us is a courtyard surrounded by sheer stone walls as is customary for a medieval fortress.

  “Where is this place?” she asks.