Sharon Ashwood - Possessed by an Immortal

“First, let me take your coat,” he said, remembering he had once possessed a gentleman’s manners. He was fine with patients, but now the conversation felt painfully stilted. He never had guests, much less mortal ones. Vampires differed little from humans on the surface, but there were a thousand ways he might betray himself. For instance, it was a sustained effort to remember to breathe when he wasn’t talking.

As if sensing his unease, she clutched the collar of the garment for a moment, but then gave way with a sigh. “Thanks.”

She surrendered the wet trench coat silently, letting go of Jonathan’s hand just long enough to free the sleeve. Mark hung the garment on a peg close enough to the stove that it would dry.

“Come into the kitchen,” he said. “We can find you two something to eat.”

It was a mild deception. As he’d planned, the mention of food caught her attention.

“It’s been a long time since Jonathan had dinner,” she said.

“I’ll take care of that. It’ll be my pleasure.”

Her eyes flicked to his at the last word, imbuing it with extra meaning. Then, she looked away quickly, as if regretting that moment of connection.

Mark smiled to himself. He hadn’t lost his touch after all. “This way.”

Wordlessly, reluctantly, Bree followed him, Jonathan at her heels.

“Can I get you a drink?” he offered.

“I don’t drink.” She bit the words off as if he’d offended her. Fine. Whatever.

Mark turned on the overhead bulbs, washing the room in stark brightness. Bree followed, blinking at the bright light. Suddenly, she was in color. Her face was dusted with golden freckles, her eyes shifting between green and blue. A few strands of hair had dried around her face, morphing into long, tawny ripples. He put her somewhere in her mid-twenties, younger than he’d first thought. Hers was a face meant for summer afternoons.

Mark washed his hands in the chipped enamel sink. Then he bent and lifted Jonathan to sit on the battered wooden table.

“What are you doing?” Bree demanded.

Mark ignored her. The boy inhaled, but didn’t protest. Mark bent to catch the child’s eye again, using a tiny push of compulsion to calm him. “Hello, Jonathan. How old are you?”

“Almost four,” Bree answered on his behalf.

Mark frowned. Now that there was good light, he could see the child’s pallor. “How long has he been sick?”

She looked about to protest, as if to say she’d already refused medical advice, but then surrender washed over her features. “Just after his third birthday, I noticed he couldn’t play for long without getting breathless. Then about five months ago, he stopped talking.”

“Fever?”

“Off and on.”

“What other symptoms?”

“There have been no rashes or anything like that. He’s not in pain that I can tell.”

Now that they’d begun, her voice was brittle with worry. Mark wanted to reach over, brush the curve of her cheek in a gesture of comfort. The blood hunger leaped to life, drawing his eyes down the V-neck of her cotton sweater. He forced his gaze away. “Let’s get these wet clothes off him. They can dry while I do the exam.”

It was a good plan, but doomed to frustration. Mark had brought his doctor’s bag to the cabin, but it was meant for emergencies, not laboratory-level diagnoses. Some of Jonathan’s abdominal organs seemed to be tender, but it was hard to tell when the patient couldn’t speak. He asked many more questions, but Bree’s answers could only help so much.

“He needs tests. The nearest place that does that kind of work is in Redwood. I can arrange it if you want.” Mark watched her carefully. Her gaze lowered, but he could still see her weighing the odds, her son’s health against—what? “Is there a problem with insurance?”

For a moment, she looked as if she was in physical pain. “It’s more complicated than that.”

“How can I help?” The question came instantly to Mark’s lips, surprising him a little.

“You can’t.”

“I can see your son gets the treatment he needs.”

“That’s not your decision.” She sounded almost angry.

Mark’s temper stirred in reply. “Don’t the child’s needs come first?”

She cursed so softly he almost missed it. “I need to think.” She scooped Jonathan into her arms and walked back to the front room, cradling him against her shoulder. The boy’s dark eyes watched Mark from over his mother’s back.

The sudden silence in the kitchen jarred. Mark stared at the litter of doctor’s instruments on the kitchen table and cursed. He was trying to help, but something wasn’t right. Too many questions crowded into his mind, and he had a feeling none of the answers were pleasant. Why involve yourself with their troubles? You were at peace with just the other beasts for company.

But the one human attribute that still plagued him was curiosity. Bree and her son obviously had a story, and he wanted to know what it was. With speed born of long practice, he tidied away his medical equipment. After that he found some cans of tomato soup in the cupboards. He never had visitors, but kept a small stock of human food for emergencies. He probably should have offered food first, but he’d forgotten many of those small courtesies. Such were the hazards of living mostly among his own kind.

Mark returned to the sitting room, about to ask if he could make tea or coffee. Bree was slouched in his chair, Jonathan—now in dry clothes—asleep in the curve of her arm. Mark’s step hitched, caught for a moment by the peaceful tableau. Mother and child. It never got old.

She rose to her feet, a graceful unfolding of her long, slender legs. Mark watched with appreciation until she brought his own Browning pistol into view, aiming straight for his chest.

A lightning glance saw the weapons cupboard standing open. She’d picked the lock. By all the fiery hells! Shock soured to bitterness. “So you are here to kill me.”

“Paranoid much?” He could hear fear in her voice. “Don’t flatter yourself. I don’t need to kill you. I just want your car keys and all your cash.”

Chapter 3

Nerves dried Bree’s mouth to cotton, making her words clumsy. The cold metal of the gun chilled her hand, driving every scrap of the stove’s warmth out of her blood.

The doctor named Mark stood frozen in the kitchen doorway, stark surprise on his handsome face. Disappointment flooded his dark eyes, making Bree’s throat clutch with regret. He didn’t deserve this. I’m sorry. You’re kind, and I’m horrible, but I have to run.

Mind you, this was the guy who’d dropped from the trees Tarzan-style and scared off a cougar. He was six-foot-plus of steely muscle, and she was very glad she had the gun.

His face dropped back into what seemed to be his usual expression—a wary, keep-your-distance frown just shy of an outright scowl. He’d cheered up when he was dealing with Jonathan, but the frown was going full blast right now.

“You’re robbing me?” he said, voice heavy with incredulity.

A flicker of annoyance bolstered her resolve. “Duh. Yeah.”

His upper lip curled with disdain, ruining the line of his perfectly sculpted lips.

Bree gulped, fighting her dry throat. With that face, he could have been a male model. Wavy dark hair, olive skin, perfect nose, dimpled chin. And a doctor. Even her mother would have approved, except—what was he doing out here? Dancing with wolves?

Though gentle with Jonathan, whenever he looked her way Mark was too intense, too raw. He scared her even as he fascinated. And just to complicate matters, she was coming to believe that he really meant to help. But there were always strings attached—strings she couldn’t afford.