Kerrelyn Sparks: Vampire Mine

He had the look of a warrior, but not a God Warrior. There was nothing angelic about him. Whether from heaven or hell, both angels and demons tended to assume a flawless human form with spotless, rich apparel.

This man had to be human. A Scotsman, perhaps, since he was wearing a plaid kilt. His shirt was torn and stained, his kilt old and faded. Dirt and mud coated his knee socks and shoes. He was large with a raw and rugged edginess to him as if he’d just done battle. Earthy. His long hair was a tangled mess, blown by the wind, a beautiful fiery red. His eyes, they still watched her, the grayish-blue irises reminding her of the sky just before a storm unleashed its raging winds. Earth, fire, and wind—three elements fused together in one gloriously fierce creation.

Her gaze shifted to his dagger. Did he mean to harm her or protect her?

“Och.” He reversed the dagger with a fluid movement. “I dinna mean to frighten you. I thought ye were in danger.”

His voice . It was his voice she’d heard while slipping in and out of consciousness. The lilting accent reminded her of the music she was accustomed to hearing in her mind.

She watched closely as he leaned over to slide the dagger into a sheath beneath a knee sock. Apparently, he’d rushed into the room, ready to do battle in her defense. God might not have answered her prayer, but He’d provided her with a protector. Thank you , Lord .

With a sigh of grateful relief, she lowered her hands and the sheet to her lap. “May I ask your name?”

He glanced up at her, then straightened with a jerk. “Holy Christ Almighty.”

She frowned. “No, I don’t believe you are.”

“I dinna mean—” He shifted his gaze to a spot behind her and whispered, “Oh, Christ.”

“Is He here?” A surge of hope swelled inside her. She twisted to look, but pain ripped across her back. She cried out, doubling over to grip her knees.

“Och, lass.” He moved toward her. “ ’Tis sorry I am for yer suffering. Is there anything I can do?”

She moaned, willing the pain to subside. The cushion she sat upon jiggled, and it took a moment for her to realize he’d taken a seat next to her on the brown leather couch.

“No.” She straightened, wincing at the pain. “You must keep your distance from me. I . . . I could be dangerous.” Her wings were gone, her psychic connection to the Heavenly Host was gone, but she couldn’t be sure that all her angelic powers were gone. If this man touched her, he might die.

His gaze dropped to her bare chest, then jerked away. “We have to do something about yer brea— I mean, yer wounds. On yer back. Ye probably need stitches.”

Sew up her wing joints? “No!” She pressed a hand to her chest. Beneath her palm, her heart beat wildly.

He glanced at her hand, then looked away. “We canna leave the wounds open. I—” He grimaced, squeezing his eyes shut. “Lass, I canna talk to you like this.”

He looked like he was in pain. She wished she could comfort him, but she didn’t dare touch him. “Is something ailing you?”

He opened his eyes, shooting her a fierce look. “Ye doona know?”

The rough edge to his voice made her skin prickle. His eyes darkened with a reddish tint. Her heart stuttered. She’d never seen human eyes do that. Demon eyes could, but she could have sworn this man was human.

“For God’s sake, lass, cover yerself.”

She was so stunned by the changing color of his eyes that she didn’t realize that he’d grabbed the edge of the sheet till she saw him lifting it up to her chest.

She gasped. “Don’t touch me!” She squirmed back on the couch, kicking at him from under the safe barrier of the sheet. Her frantic actions ripped the sheet from his grip and caused them both to lose their balance.

She fell back, gasping when her back hit the cushioned arm of the couch just as he fell on top of her, his outstretched hands landing firmly on her breasts. She froze, terrified that she might have killed him.

With their faces only inches apart, their eyes met. The red sparks in his irises faded until only the smoky blue color remained. Seconds stretched into an eternity as she caught her first glimpse into his soul. A human soul. On the surface: honor, courage, strength. Beneath: loneliness, regret. And there was more. He was hiding something dark, something that caused him great pain.

He blinked, and she realized he’d been staring into her eyes with the same intensity. He exhaled, his breath soft against her cheek. He was still alive.

“You’re touching me,” she whispered.

He reeled back, lunging to the other end of the couch. “Forgive me. I—”

“And yet, you still live.”

“Aye, I should be struck down.” He closed his eyes and rubbed his brow. “God help me, I just groped an angel.”

“You know who I am?”

“Aye.” He collapsed against the back sofa cushion. “I dinna mean to . . . assault you.”

“You did nothing wrong.” She sat up, wincing at the pain. “You simply fell and caught yourself.”

He snorted. “Aye, and I have verra good aim.”

She glanced down at her breasts. With the warmth of his hands gone, the nipples had reacted by turning tight and pebbly. “How . . . interesting.”

With a moan, he dragged his hands down his face. “Just kill me now.”

“I mean you no harm.”

“Then cover yerself before my eyes explode.”

She recalled how Adam and Eve had covered themselves in shame. “I’m so sorry.” She dragged the sheet up to her chin. “I didn’t realize I was . . . offending you.”

He made an odd noise, somewhere between a snort and a groan.

“I’m not accustomed to looking like this. We do occasionally take human form when we need to interact with mortals, but it’s merely an illusion. This body is different, though. It feels . . . real.”

“That it does,” he muttered.

“The pain is certainly real.” She sighed. “I fear I was given this body so I could fully experience pain.”

He turned his head toward her. “Ye’ve never had a body before?”

“No.” She peeked underneath the sheet at the breasts he’d found so offensive. They looked fairly normal to her.

Her eyes widened at the thatch of hair at the apex of her thighs. “Good heavens!” She clutched the sheet against her chest. She’d never looked like that before.

He sat up. “What’s wrong?”

“I—I appear to be more human than I thought.”

His gaze drifted down to her lap, then slowly back up.

She realized, then, that he knew exactly what she was referring to. Her cheeks flooded with heat, a sudden and odd sensation, and she pressed a hand against her face. “I believe I’m running a fever.”

His eyes twinkled with amusement. “ ’Tis called a blush, lass.”

“Oh.” A dozen different emotions swirled inside her. Embarrassment, confusion, curiosity, pain, remorse, a terrifying fear that she’d never make it back to heaven, another fear that she was venturing into a dangerous unknown world of human sensation and emotion, and in the midst of it all, she felt a overwhelming urge to touch this man. It had been so long since she could touch a human without causing death.

“You—you never told me your name,” she whispered.

The amusement faded in his eyes. “I’m Connor. Connor Buchanan.”

“You found me in the woods. You saved me.”

He shrugged. “Anyone would have—” He froze when she touched his cheek.

“I remember hearing your voice. It was soft and lilting and gave me comfort.” She brushed her fingers along his jaw, marveling over the prickle of his whiskers against her fingertips. Angels never needed to shave. When they assumed human form, their skin was always smooth and perfect.