Kethan’s body.
The convent had been turned into a home for orphaned children by Theresa Blackstone after a tragedy killed most of the nuns living there. She’d been a novice at the time and never took her final vows. However, instead of running away to recover from the horrors she’d experienced, she’d found the resources to convince the church to convert the facility into a haven for those who most needed it: children who had lost their parents through similar, terrifying experiences.
The lights seemed vulnerable in the thick darkness, as exposed and defenseless as the children seeking refuge within its stone walls.
Quicksilver parked the bike near the main door, under the gaze of a pair of stone saints guarding the entrance. Their sad faces, streaked by years of rain, looked uncertain in the poor light, as if the world around them had changed beyond recognition.
After easing off her helmet, Quicksilver shook out a cloud of pale hair. It flew around her head with an electric life of its own, moving with every soft breeze. The strands were so fine they never really settled over her shoulders but floated in a swirling mass as she dismounted and moved toward the door.
Again, he felt the force of desire pull at him. He had a sudden vision of tangling his fingers in that soft hair, running his thumb over that plump lower lip. He wanted to taste her mouth, somehow knowing it would taste of winter apples and plums, like a rich, heady wine.
As if aware of his scrutiny, she glanced at him, pushing hair off her forehead with the back of her hand. “I didn’t see any sign of Kathy. Did you?”
“T he girl you’re looking for?” He shook his head.
She puffed an irritated breath through her lips . That small action made him crazy with an itch he’d all but forgotten after years of repression, trying to hold fast to his vows. He ached to fold her in his arms and feel her warmth against him. It had been so long….
“Who else would I be looking for?”
“More vampires to kill?” The sarcasm in his voice seemed to please her.
The flicker of a smile glowed over her face, lighting up her eyes before she snorted and looked away. Without another word, she edged around him. Using her helmet like a giant knocker, she pounded three times on the ornate door.
After a few minutes, Theresa Blackstone yanked it open. Wrapped in a floor-length fuzzy robe of deep blue, she frowned at them. “What do you…. Oh, Quicksilver. You’re back.”
W ith her face flushed with sleep, Theresa looked like a teenager dragging herself out of bed at noon. It was difficult to believe she managed a large orphanage and spent her nights in a small cell by the front door, guarding her charges like a living version of the stone angels outside.
She caught Kethan’s gaze. “Father Hilliard? What are you doing here?”
“Kethan, now. Just plain Kethan Hilliard.”
A flicker of disappointment darkened her eyes , but she didn’t question the correction.
His lips twisted in self-deprecating amusement . An irritating edge of guilt, or shame, he could never decide which, slipped under his skin when he had to admit he was no longer a Jesuit.
He hated that feeling of letting others down, of somehow being a failure. A quitter.
“Wh y did you bring Mr. Hilliard here?” Theresa asked.
“ Him?” Quicksilver gestured toward him, knocking him in the stomach with her helmet. The underlying teasing warmth in her voice startled him. He glanced at her in surprise as she continued, “He seems to think I’m afraid of the dark, or something. Like he needs to protect me.”
Theresa laughed and waved them through the doorway. “Poor idiot. Well, what can you expect from mortal man?”
“Common sense would be nice,” Quicksilver replied in a dry voice.
Theresa rubbed her eyes and forehead. “What time it is? I’ve been sitting here by the door, waiting, but I must have fallen asleep….”
“Nearly four ,” Kethan answered.
Theresa gave them
The convent had been turned into a home for orphaned children by Theresa Blackstone after a tragedy killed most of the nuns living there. She’d been a novice at the time and never took her final vows. However, instead of running away to recover from the horrors she’d experienced, she’d found the resources to convince the church to convert the facility into a haven for those who most needed it: children who had lost their parents through similar, terrifying experiences.
The lights seemed vulnerable in the thick darkness, as exposed and defenseless as the children seeking refuge within its stone walls.
Quicksilver parked the bike near the main door, under the gaze of a pair of stone saints guarding the entrance. Their sad faces, streaked by years of rain, looked uncertain in the poor light, as if the world around them had changed beyond recognition.
After easing off her helmet, Quicksilver shook out a cloud of pale hair. It flew around her head with an electric life of its own, moving with every soft breeze. The strands were so fine they never really settled over her shoulders but floated in a swirling mass as she dismounted and moved toward the door.
Again, he felt the force of desire pull at him. He had a sudden vision of tangling his fingers in that soft hair, running his thumb over that plump lower lip. He wanted to taste her mouth, somehow knowing it would taste of winter apples and plums, like a rich, heady wine.
As if aware of his scrutiny, she glanced at him, pushing hair off her forehead with the back of her hand. “I didn’t see any sign of Kathy. Did you?”
“T he girl you’re looking for?” He shook his head.
She puffed an irritated breath through her lips . That small action made him crazy with an itch he’d all but forgotten after years of repression, trying to hold fast to his vows. He ached to fold her in his arms and feel her warmth against him. It had been so long….
“Who else would I be looking for?”
“More vampires to kill?” The sarcasm in his voice seemed to please her.
The flicker of a smile glowed over her face, lighting up her eyes before she snorted and looked away. Without another word, she edged around him. Using her helmet like a giant knocker, she pounded three times on the ornate door.
After a few minutes, Theresa Blackstone yanked it open. Wrapped in a floor-length fuzzy robe of deep blue, she frowned at them. “What do you…. Oh, Quicksilver. You’re back.”
W ith her face flushed with sleep, Theresa looked like a teenager dragging herself out of bed at noon. It was difficult to believe she managed a large orphanage and spent her nights in a small cell by the front door, guarding her charges like a living version of the stone angels outside.
She caught Kethan’s gaze. “Father Hilliard? What are you doing here?”
“Kethan, now. Just plain Kethan Hilliard.”
A flicker of disappointment darkened her eyes , but she didn’t question the correction.
His lips twisted in self-deprecating amusement . An irritating edge of guilt, or shame, he could never decide which, slipped under his skin when he had to admit he was no longer a Jesuit.
He hated that feeling of letting others down, of somehow being a failure. A quitter.
“Wh y did you bring Mr. Hilliard here?” Theresa asked.
“ Him?” Quicksilver gestured toward him, knocking him in the stomach with her helmet. The underlying teasing warmth in her voice startled him. He glanced at her in surprise as she continued, “He seems to think I’m afraid of the dark, or something. Like he needs to protect me.”
Theresa laughed and waved them through the doorway. “Poor idiot. Well, what can you expect from mortal man?”
“Common sense would be nice,” Quicksilver replied in a dry voice.
Theresa rubbed her eyes and forehead. “What time it is? I’ve been sitting here by the door, waiting, but I must have fallen asleep….”
“Nearly four ,” Kethan answered.
Theresa gave them
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