and noted the back door of the woman’s house hung open. “I should go up and close that door for her. She probably forgot. She’s old—”
“Don’t go near the house.” He gripped her by the arm, and again Zenia shoved his chest and struggled. She stumbled in the long grass and he helped her to stand. It was all she could do to step away from him without falling again.
“Who are you?” she demanded with an impertinent lift of chin. “You don’t live here. If you did, you might have taken care of the yard for your grandmother, or whoever she is to you.”
“She’s not my—” The man gestured a wide splay of fingers toward the street. “I was working across the street and saw you two talking. I just— I don’t need to explain myself. I asked first. Who, and what in particular, are you?”
Zenia crossed her arms and looked the man up and down. Dressed all in dark clothing from his loosely laced Dr. Martens to the black jeans and gray T-shirt, his muscled arms gave her pause, as did his broad chest. But the long black hair with a weirdly blue sheen to it screamed goth. Goths were skinny and morose. This man’s physique said, I work out—a lot.
“Well,” she provided, “I’m certainly not an alien.” Of that she was aware.
The nerve of the man. He hadn’t even offered a friendly how do you do. Perhaps this neighborhood wasn’t as friendly as she’d originally thought. And for as much as she enjoyed the view of him, she did know not to trust a complete stranger.
Zenia marched past him and up toward the house. He passed her and slammed the door shut, stepping before it as if to guard the contents. His anger was so palpable she felt shivers trace her arms. But it wasn’t warning enough to make her run away from the guy.
“I didn’t find anything here,” she offered, hoping to appeal to his compassionate side. If such a thing existed. “This is where I came walking out and into the street before I lost my memory. I feel as though I was walking in from that field, but I haven’t a clue what I was doing out there. It’s just a bunch of dirt.”
“What the hell are you talking about, lady?”
“I, uh...” She raked her fingers through her long hair and splayed out her hand uncertainly before her. When she noted the cream-colored markings inside her elbow, she slapped a palm over them and offered with a shrug, “I have amnesia.”
This time when he raised his hand, perhaps to clutch her again, she flinched. That paused him. He put up both palms facing her, placatingly. And Zenia sensed whatever it was that had made him so tense and angry settled. Just a teensy bit.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have grabbed you like that. There was a commotion in the house while you were wandering in the field. I don’t think you should go inside.”
“What’s wrong with the old lady?” Zenia bobbed on her toes in an attempt to see over his broad shoulder and through the window near the back door. “Is she okay?”
He narrowed his gaze on her so intently that she felt as if he’d physically touched her. Over the heart. And she suddenly wanted to know that touch for real. She’d not been touched by a man before. Maybe. She couldn’t remember if she had. Oh, woe, if she had not.
“She’s...been better,” he offered.
Arms sliding defensively across her chest, she studied his eyes again. Both of them now, for his hair blew away from his face. A curious gray and some fleck of brighter color. Violet? They had softened, though she could see the sharpness in them as if a cut to her hope for his kindness.
When he asked, “Did the Darkwood denizen send you?” her mouth fell open.
Because Zenia knew what a denizen was. Yet that knowledge startled her. Why did she know the word for a group or gathering of demons?
Because there are demons in this world. As well as angels, vampires, witches and other things most didn’t believe in.
Did she believe in them? No, such things were mythology. Fantasy bred into wild stories designed to entertain the masses. Which made this guy, as handsome as he was, some kind of wacko.
“I am not a demon.”
She turned to march around the side of the house. She wasn’t going to find what she was looking for here. And most especially, she did not want to deal with a crazy man. Even if he was the most remarkable specimen of male she’d seen. Ever.
A hand grabbed her by the arm, halting her near the picket fence that hugged in the front yard. “Yet you are familiar with the terminology?”
She shrugged. Annoyance felt new to her, and she didn’t like the feeling so she tried to look beyond it. Was his hair so black it gleamed blue? When the sun shone on it, it appeared blue. Kinda cool. She wondered if it was as soft as it looked.
Oh, Zenia, do not let his good looks distract you!
“I know a lot of things,” she offered when he gave no sign to leave her alone. “Except who I am.”
“So then how can you be sure you are not a demon?”
Zenia slammed her hands to her hips. “Are you for real? Demons are myth, buddy. Stories. Fantasy. I think it’s time I got some facts from you. Who are you?”
“Blade Saint-Pierre.” His shoulders stretched back proudly, yet his eyes remained dark. Uncertain? “I live on the outskirts of Tangle Lake. I was helping Mr. Larson across the street fix his trellis.” She followed his gesture to the yellow rambler across the street and spied the climbing purple flowers on the side of the house. “And who are you? Oh, wait, you don’t remember.”
“Zenia,” she offered with a lift of her chin. “It’s the name I’m using until I learn my real name. And I’m quite sure you and your weird fantasy ideas will be of no help to that quest, so if you’ll leave me alone, I’ll be on my way. Do not follow me!”
Stalking away from the man’s accusing stature, she strode through the long grass toward the sidewalk. Her truck was parked down the block. Feet shuffling quickly, she landed on the sidewalk and did not look back. A weird feeling that she was rushing forward, walking toward knowledge, flittered into her brain, and as quickly, fluttered back out.
And yet...it had been a familiar feeling. She’d felt the very same when she’d been walking this sidewalk previously. Before the bus had changed her destiny.
Destiny?
Hmm... It felt right to think that. At least, nothing in her being screamed, No, you’re on the wrong path. Interesting. Maybe she had gathered a bit of her memory by retreading her footsteps? Albeit, memory she didn’t know how to decipher. A quest for knowledge? It meant nothing to her.
The man followed so close behind her she could hear the trod of his boots on the concrete sidewalk. His name was Blade? Interesting name. Sharp and dangerous. It certainly matched his demeanor.
And he was stalking her.
“I have a weapon!” she called out, and scrambled for the truck keys in her skirt pocket.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said firmly.
“Says
