Free Red Demon by Deidre Knight Page B

was late and getting later. Didn’t she know that creatures like him existed? That they lived to inspire rape and murder and every depravity that existed in between?
    She should be back by now. What of those blasted cats she fostered, each with its own special name that she’d given it? Someone should be feeding the pests. Her potted daisies—had she even thought to water them today? He hated the small kick of concern that flooded into his sinister heart.
    “Sophie,” he said on a growl. “You should be more careful. If something happened to you . . .”
    He could not, would not, let himself finish the sentence. Instead, he forced his way farther into the shadows, ensuring that if she should come whistling around the corner, swinging her thin arms, she’d not discover him. Even with her gifts, he still knew how to hide in the mid-dimensions, and so he moved into darkness.
    Suddenly, the sound of feminine voices echoed down the quiet street. Remaining concealed, he peered outward, wondering whether Sophie approached, perhaps with a friend.
    But it wasn’t Sophie’s voice, he realized, and the second female was not a friend. Not of the Daughters themselves, and certainly not of the polite spirit who currently stood engaged in eager conversation with her. Far too eager, he thought with a twisted smile, considering the danger that little ghost now entertained.
    Layla Djiannis. In the Americas. What an interesting twist of fate, and a useful bit of knowledge. What mischief did his dark cousin wish to make here in Savannah? And with his friendly little ghost, no less?
    Yes, most intriguing indeed, he decided, easing farther into the shadowy spaces.

Chapter 7
    A ri awoke feeling like a jackhammer was going to town inside his skull—and still under the spell of that erotic, disturbing dream. The one where he’d been lying in bed, Juliana slowly massaging his entire body, unfastening his pants, untying his freaking Nikes. And that last bit, with the cross-trainers? It had actually been sexy as hell.
    Because that was how Juliana had always affected him, in any century.
    By so much as glancing his way, she’d turned him as stupid as one of the turkeys that roamed their new property, following him around like he’d adopted the damned things.
    And if she flirted or, gods help him, allowed her hand to graze any portion of his clothed anatomy? He’d thrown wood like a Major League Baseball player up at bat.
    Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he groaned, “Juliana, why are you so determined to mess with my head?”
    “I’m sorry, Aristos, but I don’t know exactly what you mean.”
    She was right here, in his room, gazing down at him on the bed.
    “Holy shit, Jules!” he shouted, scooting as far back against the headboard as he could. This wasn’t Emma channeling his onetime love; this wasn’t some spirit whispering in his ear. No, this was Juliana, in her physical body, dressed in that pale blue, lace-collared gown that he’d always particularly loved.
    He pointed numbly. “That . . . that dress. You’re wearing our dress.”
    She smiled, brushing her fingertips over the bodice. “I remembered.” The words were sensual, flirtatious.
    Her hair was swept high off her neck, delicately curling tendrils falling free across both cheeks, and her face was flushed. Alive. Not dead. Here, now, having the gall to blush. Her clear blue eyes were wide as if amazed herself at being alive again.
    “I don’t know how you got here . . . ,” he began, but she didn’t seem to hear. Instead, she sank onto the edge of his bed, settling so close that the physical weight of her graceful body pressed against his thigh.
    She was no ghost; she was a woman. His woman, or at least she had been, and she’d come back. Somehow, some-way, the infernal female had found a loophole in eternity, chasing him all the way to the compound—a zone that Leonidas kept warded so that no supernatural creature ever got behind the wire without