Free Scorched by Sharon Ashwood Page B

from her books and over to the couch, where they could talk or watch television until other ideas pleasantly interfered. The ugliness of the night is done, and I’m going home to the girl I love , he thought, and he smiled. In all his long centuries of existence, this last year had been the first time he had been able to say that night after night.
    He didn’t mind. Holly had been worth the wait.
    As he sped into the driveway, the first thing he saw was a strange motorcycle at the curb. He parked and got out of the T-Bird, looking first at the house. Holly’s family home—where he lived now, too—was an 1880s painted lady with an ocean view. The usual lights were on in the kitchen and front room. He could see Kibs, the cat, staring out of the study window. Except for the motorcycle, everything looked normal.
    But in the last few minutes, Holly had grown upset. He could feel it the way he could feel all of her strong emotions, as clearly as if she had spoken in his ear. Trouble had arrived.
    He got the sword out of the trunk.
    No doubt the trouble had ridden in on the bike. He turned and paused long enough to take in the red trellis design of a Ducati Monster. It was dirty, as if their visitor had ridden a long way.
    Alessandro ran up the steps, mind scrambling for clues as to who this invader might be.
    If this guy meant harm, he shouldn’t have made it over the threshold. The house should have kept him out . Witch houses were semi-sentient and self-repairing, sustained by the ambient magic that surrounded their families. They were also able to work basic protection spells, so why hadn’t it stopped this motorcycle-riding intruder?
    The front door opened for Alessandro before he reached for the knob. He swept inside, noticing an unfamiliar red and white helmet on the front hall table. This guy had left it there like he owned the place. A sudden wave of territoriality made Alessandro clench his teeth.
    He could sense Holly in the kitchen. She was always at the table these days, studying for her university midterms. The last thing she needed was an outsider disrupting her work. Alessandro went to confront the stranger, letting his boots fall ominously on the polished oak floors. A sharp, bitter smell hung in the air, as if Holly had forgotten to turn off the coffeemaker.
    When he reached the kitchen, his eyes went first to her. His Holly was dark-haired and beautiful, but slowly surrendering to the wild-eyed, disheveled look of a full-time student. She sat surrounded by textbooks, dirty mugs, a laptop, pencils, and two complicated calculators, neither of which Alessandro could figure out.
    “Hi,” he said. “What’s going on?”
    As she turned around to greet him, he could see Holly’s huge green eyes were too wide, like she’d been shell-shocked. Frowning, he turned to the figure sitting in the chair next to Holly.
    Then frowned some more. The motorcycle rider was not male.
    The woman in riding gear was a bit taller than Holly, blonder, but had the same startling green eyes—which were riveted on him. She was grubby, her hair flat from the helmet and a hard set to her jaw. Alessandro knew the type—they swore hard, drank hard, and picked their teeth with a sharpened stake—just before they drove it through some unfortunate vampire’s heart.
    Which was just unhygienic.
    No one said anything. The tap dripped in the kitchen sink. He held the scabbard of his broadsword casually, but doubted he was done with it for the night.
    “Hey,” said Holly.
    “What’s going on?” he repeated, looking pointedly at Kick-Ass Gal.
    “This is my sister, Ashe.”
    “The vampire slayer,” Ashe added in a voice like filthy snow.
    Oh, great.
    Holly’s expression was projecting a version of don’t-blame-me-I-didn’t-invite-her. He tried to smile but could feel it sagging into a grimace. He liked Holly’s grandmother. Holly’s parents were dead. That had been the sum total of his thoughts about his de facto