Stalker (The Hunt Book 3) Page 6

  Gripping her purse strap, she hurried down the alleyway and made a beeline for the awaiting vehicle. The giant black beast belonged to Alaric, but Severus used it to take her out each morning, switching the plates often and adding ridiculous bumper stickers when necessary. As she clambered into the passenger’s seat, a chill raced down her spine—he had the air-conditioning blasting already. Just as Moira turned it down, Severus slammed on the gas, the inertia forcing her back into her seat. Glowering, she buckled herself in, then settled in for the ride with a heavy sigh.

  If he could, Severus tried to take a different route each morning. Today, he had opted for the most direct path through the city—not a great sign. The pair sat in a tense silence until Moira turned on the radio, flipping through stations until she found one that she liked. By then, they were approaching the northwestern side of Farrow’s Hollow, cutting through family neighbourhoods that steadily devolved into FHU student-dominated suburbs. Within twenty minutes, he was pulling into the parking lot, and Moira was out before he even cut the engine.

  The towering FHU football stadium loomed before her, stretching at least a hundred feet high to accommodate all the seating. Despite the fact that the venue was separated from the FHU campus by several large neighbourhoods, students always trudged out, by foot or by bus, to watch all the local games—even with the school’s terrible ranking in the university football division. The edges of Moira’s mouth twitched up when she spied the team logo emblazoned across the exterior wall: Farrow’s Falcons—a grimly determined cartoon falcon wearing a football helmet and everything. The team might suck, but it was their team. Students still managed to fill the entire stadium on game nights.

  Now, however, it was desolate and quiet, the nighttime floodlights still on around the vacant parking lot. Moira flinched at the sound of Severus’s door slamming shut, and he emerged from behind the enormous vehicle moments later, a cigarette behind his ear and his sketchbook under his arm.

  Their eyes met briefly as he marched by, each footstep made louder by the crunch of gravel underfoot. Moira followed a few feet behind, her head down.

  While the main public entrance to the stadium was locked down tight, Severus had found a way in through one of the back doors weeks ago. All it took was a good jiggling and the lock sprang free, and thus far, no one had come by to fix it. He held the door open for Moira, waiting, and she strode by with a quick nod, taking the stairs two at a time.

  They emerged halfway up the stadium seating, and she inhaled deeply, filling her lungs as she basked in the predawn peace. Completely empty, the rectangular open-roof stadium was the most tranquil place in Farrow’s Hollow this time of day. City parks were out; Severus had nixed the idea early on, stating that demon drug dealers liked to visit the sprawling greenery to sell their wares. So, here they were. Totally alone—and yet, as Moira followed him up the metal stairs, wide and low, their footsteps echoing, she couldn’t help but feel as though they were somehow crowded today. Just the two of them—and the tension hanging between them.

  Three was most definitely a crowd.

  Nibbling her lower lip, Moira watched as Severus climbed the seats in the last row, then lifted himself up onto the five-foot back wall that fenced the spectators in. Once he was seated, Severus offered a hand to her, and even though they both knew she didn’t need the help, she grasped it anyway, allowing him to hoist her up. She settled in beside him, their thighs touching, and threaded her hands together on her lap. Feet dangling, she studied the horizon and estimated they had about fifteen minutes before sunrise, a gentle pink stretching over the far edges of Farrow’s Hollow.

  Severus had brought her here every morning. No matter how late he was out the night before, no matter what her mood after she woke from nightmare-plagued sleep. Every morning, just the two of them—together, watching the sunrise. He had promised that she wouldn’t feel caged this time, that she wouldn’t be a prisoner in her new home. After her ordeal with Diriel, she had no intention of sneaking out on her own again, but had these morning jaunts not existed, even with her daily routine, she’d be going stir-crazy by now.

  He had made sure that didn’t happen.

  Always looking after her—from the very beginning.

  At the sound of his lighter flickering, she glanced at the flame as Severus carried it to his mouth, held it there to light the end of the cigarette dangling between his lips, then snuffed it out when the cap snapped sharply into place. Openly staring now, Moira watched him tuck it away, then take the first few drags, fingers pinching the long white stick. Smoke soon rushed from his nostrils in two thick streams, and Moira caught his wrist before he could take another drag.

  “Can I…?”

  “Sure.” He held the cigarette out for her, and she latched onto it, her eyes fixed to his, blue to black, then inhaled. Ordinarily she couldn’t stand the stink of cigarette smoke, but Severus bought a brand made in Hell—and somehow it was sweet. Citric. Sharp, yet woodsy too. Pleasant. She had loved sitting in the smoke, breathing it in, but today was the first morning she dared ask for a puff.

  It burned down her throat, making her eyes water—but not in an entirely unpleasant way. She sat back, holding the blend of flavors and scents in her mouth, before less than gracefully coughing it all out.

  “Lemon?” she asked, her hand in front of her mouth as she continued to cough. “And mint?”

  “More or less,” Severus remarked. He watched her with the first real grin she had seen that morning, a warm affection in his eyes. “The herbs aren’t called that down below, but that’s roughly the equivalent.”

  She swallowed hard, the last of her hacking subsided. “I kind of like it.”

  “Here.” Severus shifted about, digging the pack out of his pocket and holding it open for her. Tentatively, Moira plucked one long, white stick for herself, then popped it between her lips. Even unlit, the cigarette’s fragrances danced across her taste buds, and she leaned in when Severus produced a flame. The demon cupped a hand around the end of her cigarette, keeping the gentle breeze from stealing her fire. Once again, Moira watched him the entire time: the downcast of his eyes, the thickness of his lashes, the supple lines of his lips.

  “Now, my little cigarette virgin,” he said, the snap of the lighter closing jarring her back to the moment, “when you inhale, don’t hold it in until it chokes you. Just breathe. It’s a cigarette, not a joint.”

  She shot him a look, one of the don’t patronize me looks that she had perfected since meeting Severus. He merely smirked back, his cigarette still burning in his other hand. Mirroring the way he held it, she took her first real drag, allowing the lemon, the mint, the woodsy green aftertaste to linger on her tongue, down her throat, for just a moment before blowing it out.

  “Better?”

  “We’ll make a smoker out of you yet,” he mused.

  “Only here.” Only with you. “Only at sunrise.”

  Severus’s head bobbed. “Agreed.”

  They sat side by side in an easier silence now, watching as the sun crept above the horizon. It was her favourite time of day, the great glow painting the darkness away with broad sweeps of oranges, pinks, and reds. Moira felt most at ease then, especially right now, nursing the Hell-made cigarette, her leg against Severus’s—basking in the sunrise of a new day. The shimmering orb rose, ever-present and beautiful, just as it always did. For some reason, Moira found that comforting—the familiarity of it all.

  It was only sometime later, as the sun continued its climb across the great wide blue, that she heard the scrape of charcoal on paper. Blinking the flashes of sunlight from her eyes, she looked down—and found Severus halfway through this morning’s sketch. Her profile. He was adding detail to her eyelashes now, his face pinched in concentration.

  He’d bought a new sketchbook just for this—drawing her. Every morning, Moira would find a new work of art awaiting her. It was always her face. Sometimes just her eyes. In the beginning, Severus had told her to give it time�
�that in a few weeks, she would see the difference in herself. The bags under her eyes would disappear. The sorrow too. He wanted to track it—to show just how far she had come.

  She cocked her head to the side after flicking the cigarette butt over the edge of the stadium wall, studying the profile portrait. She knew he felt her watching, but he carried on as he always did, never missing a beat—going, going, going, until finally he would snap the book closed and pack everything away, never saying a word about it, not since his first explanation.

  He really was a talented artist. Fluid with the charcoal. The shading, the lines, the minute details—Moira only wished he had found a more interesting subject to chronicle.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about your father?” Severus asked, bathed in sunlight, his eyes hooded as he worked. “That you knew he’d hired Diriel?”

  Moira drew in a soft, sharp breath. She’d known that would come back to bite her. Looking to the rising sun, she used it, its unrelenting brightness, to hide the sudden rush of tears.

  She hadn’t told him because she was afraid.

  I was afraid you’d leave.

  Angels frightened Severus too, and if he knew that her dad had been behind everything—well, what if he’d washed his hands clean of her? She wouldn’t have been able to survive the last few weeks without him.

  Moira didn’t want him to leave. Her dad didn’t get to steal yet another piece of her.

  “I…” She shook her head, blinking back the tears. Her bright blues faltered under the sunlight, aching, but she continued to stare at it, knowing she could take it. “I needed time to process it.”

  He hummed in acknowledgement, his charcoal scratching harder across the paper. Another blink had the tears streaking down her face, but she brushed them away with a sniff, the movement as nonchalant as she could make it.

  “I didn’t keep it from you to…to…I don’t know, keep it from you,” she managed, grimacing. This wasn’t the conversation she had hoped to sort out this morning; it felt like a waste of a sunrise. Still, he had brought it up—clearly it was important to him, and if Moira wanted him to hear what was important to her, she needed to do the same. Swallowing thickly, she shifted about, lifting a folded leg up onto the cement wall so she could face him properly. “Severus, I didn’t do it to lie to you. I just needed some time. I’m sorry. I know it could have been crucial information… I’ve just been a bit all over the place after—”

  “It’s fine.” His lips barely moved as he said it, but she caught the way the bulge in his throat bobbed afterward. The charcoal pencil stilled, and he shot her a sidelong glance. “I understand.”

  “You know,” she plucked the pencil from his fingers, tapping it against her lips when he straightened, “if I hadn’t known that my dad was behind everything, the way you seemed ready to just blurt out this hurtful, heartbreaking, potentially devastating information yesterday… I mean, yeah, you said Diriel was working for an angel, not my dad, but who else could it be? You know I would have asked for more information. You know I would have…”

  Now it was his turn to grimace. Moira nodded knowingly, then handed the pencil back, noting how the charcoal had stained the side of his hand.

  “Yeah, if I hadn’t known, kind of a shitty way to break the news—mid-argument,” she finished, arching an eyebrow at him, fighting a smile when his cheeks flushed ever so slightly.

  “Not my finest moment,” Severus said with a sigh. He tossed his head from side to side, cracking his neck, and then looked to the horizon. “I apologize. Yesterday’s conversation was…heated. I should have handled myself better.”

  She nibbled her lower lip, sensing an in to the conversation she actually wanted to address. Still, if it had gotten him heated yesterday, it would very likely do the same again today.

  “Severus.” Moira gently grasped his forearm, holding it as he flicked what was left of his cigarette onto the row of bright yellow seating below. “I need to go to Hell with you.”

  He stiffened, jaw clenched and muscles rippling along it. She shuffled closer, adding her other hand to his arm and searching out his gaze, but he refused to let her meet it.

  “This is my problem,” she continued, forcing the fight out of her words so that he wouldn’t feel attacked. “It’s my dad, my issue. I was the one who was tortured. Mutilated—”

  The demon turned away from her, but she caught the flash of rage in his eyes, the subtle snarl of his mouth.

  “You can’t do this without me.” She gave his arm a little squeeze, hoping it felt more affectionate than insistent. “I know you can, theoretically. I don’t bring much to the table. I can’t control my light yet, and I know nothing about Hell, but I deserve to be involved. You’re doing this all for me, and I can’t in good conscience let you keep throwing yourself to the wolves while I sit on the sidelines and watch—”

  He shrugged out of her grasp, then set his sketchbook aside, closed, and hopped off the wall. While the rest of the stadium had fold-out seats, the very top row was nothing more than a bench, the wall she was sitting on used for back support. If you were unlucky enough to be seated this far up, there was a good chance you were standing, anyway.

  Scowling, Severus stood there for a moment, his hands in tight fists, before he shook his head and strode away from her, back toward the stairs. He moved with one foot in front of the other, oddly graceful, as he balanced himself along the bench seating.

  Moira watched him go, her hands clasped tightly, fighting the urge to jump down and follow—because she knew he wouldn’t leave her up here by herself.

  And sure enough, he stopped, just at the end of the bench, then whirled around to glare at her. Sunlight dappled his handsome face, soaking him in the early-morning glow.

  “Hell is… Hell is hell, Moira. You speak of throwing me to the wolves, but I can assure you that the real wolves are down below. Why are you so eager to go there?”

  “I’m not,” she argued, fighting the urge to roll her eyes. He was latching on to the insignificant issues here—not the one that actually mattered to her. “Severus, please don’t mistake my need to be involved with some twisted interest in taking a tour of Hell. That’s not what’s happening here.”

  He stepped off the bench, moving farther and farther away with each passing moment—nearly out of reach. “Yes, well—”

  “I just need answers,” Moira argued, “and I’m not going to let you go find them by yourself.”

  As he started down the stairs, hands shoved in his pockets and expression hard, Moira hopped off the wall and hurried after him. She stopped at the top step, the feel of him slipping out of her grasp more painful than she cared to admit.

  “Severus, we’re partners.” The word snagged in her throat, and her eyes prickled once more with tears. “Partners. We shook on it. Just you and me, doing this together.”

  He finally stopped, his entire being rigid, his back still to her.

  “Please,” she said, knowing she was on the verge of begging him—begging a demon to take her to Hell. “You can tell me everything. Give me the worst. Make sure I’m prepared, that I’m going in with my eyes open. But, Severus,” she swallowed hard, her vision blurring until she blinked, “if you’re going, I’m going. Because we’re partners. We agreed. Me and you—that’s all I want.”

  She dragged in a shaky breath, then brushed the hot streams from her cheeks again. The emotions were unexpected—all Moira had wanted was a civilized discussion, and here she was bawling. Again.

  Severus stayed right where he was, roughly eight steps between them. Before, she had been so confident that he wouldn’t leave her behind, but now she wasn’t so sure anymore.

  An eternity later, he faced her, and she let out a long sigh of relief as he started to make his way back up. Her lower lip quivered, but she fought the emotion this time, reining it back in until she was sure the floodgates were sealed.

  He stopped one step below her, bringing them to roughly equal standing. Her eyebrow
s lifted slightly, an unspoken question floating between them, and she slowly closed her eyes when he cupped her face. Two large hands held her, cradled her head between them. Moira never felt safer than when Severus touched her, and she hoped he saw it in her eyes when she opened them again, their gazes locking.

  The demon stared back, black and full, and an array of feeling danced across his face as he studied her. Raw hurt—anger even, his fingertips biting into her. She clutched at his wrists, taking the twinge of pain because she knew she could. Then, with his gentle sigh, the pressure eased and the pain vanished, as did the anger, the hurt. Still raw, Severus blinked and the demon was gone; in its place, a resignation that made her heart race and her stomach knot.

  “Fine,” he croaked, stroking her cheeks with his thumbs. “Fine. You’ll come with me. We’ll stay with my family,” his lips lifted in a snarl at the word, “and we’ll find Diriel, and together we’ll get your answers.”

  “Okay,” she whispered. His gaze dipped to her lips, lingering there, and she let them part ever so slightly with her soft inhale. Not only had sex been off the table for the last three weeks, but Severus hadn’t kissed her—really kissed her—in that time either. Her hands slid down his taut forearms

  “If we go, I call every shot,” he murmured, still watching her lips—his gaze aching. “Do you understand that? Me. No matter what you might think, I will make every decision.”

  Moira’s first instinct was to rebel—to argue that she had a right to decide what was best for her. But she knew that would be pushing her luck, that when it came to Hell, she didn’t know a damn thing. Besides, Severus would act with her best interests in mind. She had to think that—she had to trust him.

  She did trust him.

  “Deal,” Moira said softly, nodding when his gaze finally lifted to hers. “Promise. No unnecessary risks. You make the game plan. I throw the first punch when we get Diriel.”