Kiss Me Deadly Read online

  Dedication

  For Mandy, Michelle, Jaycee and Sydney for sharing this flight with me, and for Angie, for air traffic controlling.

  Chapter One

  It was a simple thing for Khail to make his way into the dwelling of the woman.

  A door propped open, a moment of distraction, and he was in—death on the faintest whisper of wings. Concealment was effortless. Mortals were patently oblivious to the many dangers surrounding them.

  Khail waited in the deepest shadows of the bedroom without so much as a twitch until the woman slept and then—with an ancient spell no more than a fleeting thought passing through his mind—he shifted into the shape of a man. Hair as black as the raven’s wing flowed over his shoulders much as it had when he trod the steppes of his Russian homeland hundreds of years before.

  He walked softly on bare feet to stand beside the woman’s bed. Hers would be a painless death and her loved ones would be told it was a freak incident. A thrown blood clot. An unexplained coronary event. And they would know she passed away in her sleep peacefully, with no pain.

  The death of this woman and the grief of her family would be more drops added to the eternal, bottomless well of his punishment.

  Khail began to chant, his lips moving but the sound resounding only in his mind. As the chant came to an end and sorrow flooded his senses, Khail pressed his naked fingers to the human woman’s lips, stopping her breath. Stopping her heart.

  And then she screamed.

  Bridget Sawyer came awake in a hurry, barely realizing the scream of terror had come from her own throat.

  In the split second between nightmare and wakefulness, she imagined a naked man touching her lips, talking to her without making a sound. She scrambled to her hands and knees on the bed, kicking free of the covers. Backing up to the headboard, she reached over and turned on the bedside lamp. Then, over her own ragged breaths, she heard the flapping of wings.

  A freakin’ bird. There was a damn bird in her house.

  A very big bird, she thought, as it came to rest on her dresser. It regarded her without blinking. It was kind of creepy, perched there like a statue. And scary, as well. With that beak and those talons, it could do some serious damage if it got spooked and decided to attack.

  Though it was ridiculous to care if the bird saw her naked, she inched her hand slowly down the bed and retrieved her robe from the foot. Trying not to make any sudden moves, she slipped it on. After knotting the red satin sash, she turned her thoughts to shooing the bird out of her house.

  The bird fluffed its feathers, turning its head this way and that as if scoping out the nearest exit. That was fine with her. But then it resumed staring at her with beady little eyes.

  It had to have been hiding for hours. Before it got fully dark she’d propped the door open to carry in firewood. Though it was spring, the nights could get chilly in the White Mountains and she liked the crackle of burning logs in the fireplace. The bird must have gotten in at that point. But that was an awfully long time for a winged critter to be so still she didn’t even know it was in the house. How could she not have known a bird that big was hiding in her bedroom?

  Taking her pillow with her, as it seemed slightly better protection than the paperback on her nightstand, Bridget started making her way toward her bedroom door. She never turned her back on the big—hell, it was massive—bird, and it never stopped unblinkingly tracking her progress.

  Bridget considered her options. If she went and opened the front door and then tried to shoo it out, they could spend hours going around in circles from room to room. It made more sense to herd the thing into the front room and close the bedroom door. Then she could work on getting it outside.

  “Okay,” she said out loud, and the bird twitched at the sound of her voice. “Here’s how this is going to go. I’m going to wave my pillow at you, and you’re going to fly yourself the hell out of my bedroom. Capische?”

  The bird cocked its head to the side, looking for all the world as if it were considering her words. Then it took flight and Bridget tried to hide her five-foot-six body behind the queen-sized pillow, stumbling backwards and ready to dive under her bed if need be. The bird had to tilt to fit its wingspan through the doorway and she sucked in a breath when she realized the true size of him. That was one damn big bird. Much bigger than any bird she’d ever seen in these woods.

  When it had settled on the back of her couch, its talons clutching but not quite punching through the soft, battered leather, she scrambled through the doorway herself, pulling the door closed behind her. In the soft glow from the light over the kitchen sink, she watched it. It watched her right back, seemingly content to let her do whatever she was doing. She sidled a few feet to the left and pulled the bathroom door closed as well.

  So that left her and the giant black bird alone in the single large room that functioned as living room, dining room, kitchen and office in her tiny cabin. Time for stage two.

  Bridget walked toward her front door, intent upon propping it open so she could shoo the bird in that direction if he didn’t go willingly. When she was a few feet from the door, however, the bird—a very large raven she realized, as improbable as that seemed—flew between her and the objective. Its harsh calls and flapping wings backed her up so quickly she almost tripped and fell on her ass. Not until she was more than halfway back to her bedroom did it settle. This time it perched on the back of a kitchen chair. The damn thing even seemed to shake its head at her.

  Curiouser and curiouser, she thought, feeling very much like Alice fallen down the rabbit hole.

  Bridget drew in a deep breath, then blew it out, her aggravation increasing by the second. She always had difficulty falling asleep, and now that she was fully awake she’d have to start the process all over again.

  Twice more she tried moving around the room, but each time she neared the front door, the raven chased her back. Bridget was beginning to feel uneasy. The consistency of its actions and the eerie way it looked at her gave her the impression it was actually intelligent. She wasn’t up to dealing with a bird capable of critical thinking.

  It was definitely time for a Plan B. For the first time she wished she hadn’t hidden herself so far away from civilization. The only people she could really call for help would be the police or fire departments—assuming anybody was available. It was after midnight. It would take somebody at least a half-hour to reach the cabin, and the long, winding dirt path that passed as her driveway could be treacherous in the dark, especially now in the spring. She wasn’t going to ask that of anybody just because she had a bird in her house.

  Another option was retreat. She could return to her bedroom, close the door and deal with the problem in the morning. But Bridget knew herself well enough to know she’d never go to sleep with a raven loose in the house. She’d be listening for it, waiting for the rustle of wings. Wondering if it would damage anything. It had to go now.

  “Look, buddy,” she said quietly. “I want to go back to bed. You need to go fly around outside and do whatever it is birds like you do at this time of night. So I’m going to open that door and you’re going to fly through it, okay?”

  Hey, talking to it had worked getting it out of the bedroom. Now, though, it only stared at her without so much as twitching. Hoping they’d come to some kind of understanding, Bridget started once again for the door. The raven reneged on the deal, however, and took flight, once again trying to drive her back.

  This time she was ready for it. Holding the two corners of one end of the pillow, she swung it like a plank, knocking the damn bird clear across the room. She felt a spasm of guilt—but it wouldn’t let her open the door, dammit—as it tumbled through the air.

  Then things got a little crazy. Bridget’s
vision blurred and a split second later a very large, very naked man bounced off her pine paneling and hit the floor with a thud.

  Oh shit. That did not just happen. There was no such as thing as…whatever the hell that was. Like a werewolf, only a bird. A werebird?

  He lifted his head and blinked at her with those same dark eyes.

  Ohshitohshitohshit. What the hell was going on? She had to be dreaming. But on the off chance she wasn’t, Bridget dropped the pillow and ran for the door.

  “No,” the man called in a husky, cracking voice. “Do not…open the…door.”

  Yeah, sure buddy. Like she was going to listen to a naked man who’d just been a bird flying around her house. Bridget turned the knob and yanked open the door.

  The shadows of the cabin’s deep porch erupted in a whirlwind of black wings and hoarse raven calls. Oh my God. There had to be hundreds of them. Her mind blanked, instinct took over and she slammed the door closed. Just in time, judging by the thuds against the heavy wood.

  What the fuck is going on here?

  She’d landed in a horror novel. Shit like this did not happen. Bridget whirled, relieved to find the naked man still on the floor. God, he was tall. And writhing in pain, clutching his head. She thought about conking him a good one with a frying pan, knocking him unconscious long enough to tie him up, but then she heard a sound that made her blood run cold.

  Tap. Tap. Tap. Hard beaks on glass. Still running on instinct, Bridget ran from window to window, closing the interior storm shutters and sliding the latches closed. She had to pass by the man on the floor to get to her bedroom, but he made no move toward her and she didn’t dawdle on her way by.

  She slammed the last shutter closed just in time to catch the glass as the window gave. The man in the front room screamed once, a short and angry cry, and then the small cabin was encased in silence. The only sounds were the short, ragged breaths Bridget forced in and out of her lungs.

  What the hell was going on? And why the hell hadn’t she installed a phone jack in her bedroom? Every person on the planet had a phone on the bedside table but her. Brilliant.

  Still panting, she took stock. She was stuck in her bedroom. No weapon, no phone. A huge raven had just turned into a tall, naked man in her living room.

  She still couldn’t believe it. The images replayed over and over in her mind. And yes, the bird had turned into a man in mid-air. So either something terrifyingly supernatural was going on, or she’d suffered a total psychotic break.

  Oh, and let’s not forget there was also a crazy flock of what looked to be were-ravens on her front porch. And none of them wanted her to leave her house.

  Oh…shit. What if he opened the door and let them in? She had to find some way to defend herself and get back out there.

  Wasting no time, she lifted the curtain rod from its brackets and slid the drapes off the end. The wrought-iron rod with its faux-spearhead tip wasn’t the most rugged of weapons, but she wasn’t sure she had the strength to bludgeon the man with the wooden closet rod.

  When her breathing was as calm as it was going to get and the feeling of impending coronary doom had eased, Bridget tiptoed into the front room, her decorative spear at the ready.

  The intruder was on his feet, which wasn’t so good. But he was still alone, which was. The light spilling out from her bedroom lamp combined with the low-wattage bulb she always left on over the sink to bathe the room in dim, spotty light.

  He was tall—at least six feet—and definitely built. Bronzed muscles, but not too bulky. Thick, black hair flowed just past his shoulders and she could just make out a closely-cropped mustache and goatee. His most distinguishing characteristic, that she could see, was a dick that would be the perfect “after” picture for enlargement spam. If she wasn’t scared half to death, she’d probably be impressed. Actually, she was sort of impressed anyway.

  “What are you?” she demanded, her fingernails biting into her palms as she practically strangled the curtain rod in her hands.

  “I am—” He clutched his head and groaned, then dropped to his knees. He stayed down for about thirty seconds, then he struggled back to his feet. “We…are the Unkind.”

  What the hell was that about? Maybe he’d suffered a concussion when she slapped him into the wall. And the Unkind? She’d definitely fallen into a horror novel. Or a sci-fi movie.

  Maybe they were some kind of devil-worshipping cult that had sold its soul to Satan for the power to shapeshift. Was she the sacrifice? Her legs felt like jelly, and she prayed she could stay on her feet.

  She glanced toward the phone, inconveniently hanging right next to the door on the kitchen wall. Another brilliant move on her part. She needed to keep him talking. Maybe he’d start moving and she could inconspicuously get to the phone. Then she’d only have to fend them off the half-hour to an hour it would take help to arrive.

  “So you said ‘we’. Are all of those birds men, too?” And do they all look like you? Because…damn.

  “We are the Unkind.”

  She took a deep, calming breath. The guy seemed willing to talk, such as it was. “Yeah. An unkindness of ravens. I get that. What I don’t get is why you’re all flying around the northern New Hampshire woods at this time of night. You guys aren’t even indigenous to…”

  Okay, sure Bridget. Like ravens who morphed into tall, well-endowed men were indigenous to anywhere.

  “You are not dead,” he said simply.

  Her breath caught in her throat as her heart started pounding again. Dead? She was supposed to be dead? Her stomach rolled, and even though it was in the opposite direction of the phone, she took a couple of involuntary steps backward toward her bedroom.

  If an entire flock of naked men wanted her dead, she could only fend them off for so long with a curtain rod.

  “Why?” he demanded.

  The question baffled her for a moment. The situation—this conversation—was totally surreal. Now that the initial terror was over, she didn’t appear to be in mortal danger. But this man talking about her being dead kept the adrenaline pumping through her body.

  “Why am I not dead? Look, werebird guy, you’ve got me scared shitless and I’d really like it if you went away, but you haven’t done anything yet that would kill me.” And it was fine with her if it stayed that way.

  “My touch should have killed you.”

  She remembered the end of what she’d thought was a dream—the man’s fingertips on her lips, his mouth forming silent words—and shuddered. She considered another retreat to her bedroom, but she wasn’t sure that would accomplish anything. If she stayed and talked, she might convince him to leave peacefully, and take his feathered friends with him.

  “I’m not sure what whacked-out chat rooms you’ve been visiting, pal, but why do you think touching my mouth would kill me?”

  She thought of poison, then, and squashed an urge to lick her lips nervously. Instead she dragged the sleeve of her robe across them.

  “That is the curse,” the man stated.

  They were getting nowhere. He wasn’t exactly a brilliant conversationalist and she still had no idea what was actually going on here. But he wasn’t moving at all, and she had no hope of getting by him to the phone. She really didn’t know what to do.

  While she wasn’t the least bit sleepy anymore, her mind was still trying to catch up to the fact a six-foot-something man with a raging erection—it was difficult not to notice—who previously had been a bird was standing in her cabin in the middle of the night.

  But he’d made no further moves toward her. Neither his facial expression nor body language struck her as menacing. Though she was still incredibly freaked out, she no longer felt directly threatened.

  “So, what do we do now?” Bridget asked when the silence stretched on.

  “I want to touch you again.”

  Khail watched the woman flinch at his words. He knew it was the wrong thing to say, but he couldn’t hold it back.

  It had been thre
e hundred and sixty-one years since he’d touched a woman with any result other than her death.

  The woman must die.

  Khail shook his head, trying to ignore the collective voice of the Unkind. It was better when he looked at her—the drone of their voices faded away somewhat. His thoughts were his own.

  The woman managed to look both fierce and vulnerable, standing there in her shiny red robe with her flimsy metal weapon. Her hair was nearly as dark as his own and fell straight to a little below her shoulders. Her skin was pale, and her eyes big and dark in her face.

  The robe gaped slightly above the belt, giving him glimpses of the smooth tops of her breasts. Her long, shapely legs were barely covered by the short length.

  Yes, he wanted to touch her. He ached to touch her again. He wanted to touch her lips, her face. He wanted to run his hands through her hair and down over her back. And maybe he could. He had touched her and she hadn’t died.

  The stirrings of humanity he’d thought long erased from his soul nearly drowned out the angry buzzing of the collective’s thoughts.

  “My name is Khail,” he offered. The Unkind rallied at this claim of individuality—a high-pitched screech reverberating through his mind—but subsided when he looked into her eyes.

  “Kale? Like the cabbage?” The woman was frowning, but her knuckles were no longer white as she clutched her weapon.

  “My true name is Mikhail Pavlovich Barsukov, but I am called Khail. Who are you?”

  “You came to kill me with your supervillain death-touch and you don’t even know who I am?”

  He didn’t quite understand what a supervillain death-touch meant, but her meaning was clear. “We are the balance between good and natural death and evil and unnatural death. We are random. We are unexplained…unexpected.”

  “So…why me? Why did you choose me to die?”

  There was an ageless sorrow in her eyes that called to him, but he had no answer for her. “We are random.”

  He noticed then that as her gaze flicked down to the aching rise of his cock, her jaw would tighten and her fingers would tense on the metal rod she held. He could do nothing about his physical state—just the thought of touching her made him hard. So he went to her rocking chair and lifted a thin throw blanket to wrap around his waist. He tucked the end in, and then flicked the switch for the light fixtures—he’d been watching the mortals’ technological progress for centuries. Perhaps full light would help put her at ease.