Otherworld Protector. Jane GodmanЧитать онлайн книгу.
envisioned when he took this assignment and laid his plans for this day was that he would be forced to watch as his charge gazed worshipfully into the fiery eyes of the very being from whom she should be shrinking. On reflection, he supposed it was only to be expected. Moncoya’s touch, like that of all his kind, was known to be heady and intense. Moncoya, the most powerful of them all, could, it was said, induce euphoria to the point of spiritual, even physical, ecstasy with the lightest touch of his fingertips. Cal curled his lip at that. He’d believe that particular piece of Moncoya propaganda if he felt it for himself. Not that the little manikin would ever have the nerve to touch him, let alone come close to him. Not after the last time. Nevertheless, the new, dreamy look on Stella’s face seemed to confirm the rumor that Moncoya’s touch, once felt, had such a profound effect on the psyche that it evoked a desperate yearning to experience it again.
“More wine?” Cal looked up as the cause of his bad mood held the bottle of Rioja over Stella’s glass.
“No.” She shook her head, placing her hand over her glass a fraction of a second too late so that the ruby liquid ran over her fingers. She laughed, lifting her fingers to her lips to lick the droplets away. “I want to get back to that platform tonight. There are still some issues with fine-tuning the graphics.”
They were seated on the terrace at the back of the house enjoying its spectacular views over the city. The evening sky was a tapestry of coral and lavender threaded through with streaks of gold, and the air was heavy with the scent of summer flowers. Stella wore a sundress that looked as if it was made from six stitched-together handkerchiefs. From his position leaning against an olive tree to one side of the terrace, Cal studied her face thoughtfully. For the first time ever, she was wearing lip gloss. His heart sank further and he found himself torn between conflicting emotions. Moncoya’s presence made him want to behave like the overprotective father in a sitcom and tell her to get inside and cover up. Another part, possibly the stronger part, insisted in forcing his eyes to linger on the slender expanse of her thighs. It was an oddly possessive emotion, new and strangely exhilarating.
The sky darkened swiftly to night and bats flew in relay from the eaves of the casa to the street lamps and back, greedily grabbing any insects in their path. Moncoya leaned closer to Stella, and Cal clenched a fist against his thigh, willing the tousle-haired mongrel to give him an excuse to intervene, at the same time knowing he was powerless to do anything. Because this was as it had been ordained and he, of all people, could not deflect the course of the prophecy.
Just as Moncoya’s hand moved to within an inch of the pale flesh of Stella’s upper arm, a monumental crash reverberated around the garden. The ground trembled as though in the grip of a brief but violent earthquake, and a cloud of red dust flew up several feet from the terrace.
“Go inside.” Cal watched approvingly as Moncoya thrust Stella toward the open door. This was a first. Who’d have thought he’d ever find himself in agreement with Moncoya? He was aware that, although she followed the instruction, Stella hovered half in and half out of the casa, gazing at the point of impact in fascination.
Moncoya lowered his head and stretched out his arms, and the grotesque beast that had just fallen to earth drew itself up to its full height as it faced him. Moncoya appeared tiny in comparison. Grudgingly, Cal admired his courage. Moncoya spoke softly in a lilting language. The whole night stilled. The dust cloud settled. The creature bared its teeth in a snarl. Moncoya spoke again and it unfurled wings that spanned at least eight feet. Nevertheless, it appeared pinned to the spot.
Cal, growing tired of Moncoya’s dawdling methods, stepped forward and smashed his fist directly into the gargoyle’s hideous face. The creature sank into a crouch, its glowing eyes searching the darkness for the invisible assailant. Moncoya’s head snapped up and Cal took a second to mutter a curse. He had been determined not to reveal his presence to Moncoya. Not yet. Now Moncoya was aware of his existence, although he still didn’t know who Cal was.
“Time to catch up on your beauty sleep. God knows, you need it.” Cal delivered a swift, painfully accurate dropkick to the side of the gargoyle’s head. With a curious grace, the huge creature collapsed back into the red earth. Its natural defense mechanism kicked in and its flesh turned instantly to stone.
“Who is there?” Moncoya’s voice rang out.
Cal moved close, allowing his breath to touch the smaller man’s cheek. “Your worst nightmare,” he whispered. Moncoya’s eyes narrowed to slits of pure fury as he turned in the direction of Cal’s voice.
“What just happened?” Stella stepped back onto the terrace, her own eyes huge and very green as she stared at the recumbent gargoyle.
“A meteorite of some sort.” You had to admire Moncoya, Cal decided. The man could smoothly tell a bald-faced lie.
“That isn’t a meteorite!” Stella had begun to stomp across the garden in the direction of where the stone creature had fallen. Even though Moncoya reached out to halt her, his intervention wasn’t necessary. Before she reached the pile of rubble, Stella turned slowly back to the house, her expression changing. Cal knew that look well. It was a combination of suspicion and stubbornness.
Moncoya shrugged. “Does it matter?” He gestured for her to be seated but she ignored him.
Cal waited for her to say it did matter. Willed her to see Moncoya for what he really was. To finally understand why she had been brought here...
The wariness vanished from her face as she looked at Moncoya. Frustration chased away Cal’s brief feeling of optimism when Stella began to laugh. “I suppose another glass of wine won’t hurt before I get back to work.”
Stella would have known her protector anywhere. She had stored up the memory of those curiously light eyes, that strong jaw, the perfection of his mouth. It was as if, in that brief instant of seeing him all those years ago, her mind had taken a mental photograph. That was how she knew the man at the beachside cafe was watching her. Not just ogling a random girl in a swimsuit. Not smirking with amusement as she struggled with the tie on her bikini top and almost flashed the whole Barcelonan beachfront as she emerged from the water. No, he was watching her because it was him, and that was what he did.
Although in his own form Stella’s protector stayed on the edge of her vision, she knew he sometimes came to her in human form. She would get that feeling—as if warm honey had been injected into her veins—and she would know. He was the lifeguard at the swimming pool when she slipped and hit her head. Or the electrician who fixed the faulty wiring in her apartment.
Once she had been jogging in the park when a dog ran toward her. She hadn’t been alarmed at first but, out of nowhere, a figure had streaked past her and wrestled the animal to the ground. The beast had clamped its jaws onto the man’s forearm, but luckily he wore padding so that its teeth did not sink into his flesh. Some sort of dog training exercise, Stella had thought as she ran past. Then the familiar soothing feeling had come over her and she had paused to look back. Although they had been there only seconds earlier, there was no longer any sign of either the man or the dog.
Another time, after a night out with friends, she had been about to get into a taxi when a line-jumper had shoved her out of the way and stolen her cab. Her initial fury had died away as the sweet warmth flowed through her. A collective gasp of horror had risen from the watching partygoers as the taxi pulled away straight into the path of an out-of-control truck. The cab had spun wildly, like a toy in the hand of a giant, before banging to a stop. Its rear end was crushed like a concertina. Stella had shivered in her thin party dress as she gave a witness statement to the police.
“There was no one else in the car,” the police officer assured her. “Luckily. Anyone in the backseat would have been smashed into a million pieces against that wall.”
The closest she’d got to actually seeing the real him was when she actually was involved in a car accident. She’d been sixteen. A rebellious, studiously unorthodox sixteen-year-old who jumped on the back of the motorcycle of her latest crush. When