Chapter 2

“Did I lose you?” Tom’s voice was laced with sarcasm, eliciting another smile from Sam.

“No. Just thinking. Hey, what do you say we make a pact? How about we both move on?”

Tom’s snort of laughter made Sam grin. Tom kept a respectable distance between them, but he shook his head and leaned in a little. “Nice try, pretty boy. That was clever. But no. I like it here. I got no call to cross, and I know that look on your face. You’re well and truly caught by this man. Even if I go, you won’t hold up your end of the bargain.”

Sam rubbed the back of his neck, properly chastised. “I need to, though.” He knew that. Despite his feelings for Michael, nothing would ever come of them.

Tom was quiet for a long time. “Maybe not. Some things in this world…heh. Or I guess that one. Some things are worth fighting for.” Tom’s expression cracked and showed a hint of vulnerability underneath that Sam had never seen. Tom shook his head. “I didn’t do enough of that when I was walking the world.”

“Yeah? Tell me about it.”

“Nope. You’re getting all wiggly, so I guess we’ll have to save it for another day.”

Sam frowned, confused. But then he felt it—the slight tug in his chest that meant he was being pulled back into his body. Since he hadn’t found a medium to alert Michael to bring him home, he must have been there longer than he thought. Requiem’s strict protocols stated that no ghostwalker could be left for more than six hours. Rigor mortis started to set in at that point, and it was harder to come back. Though his genes benefitted him in a lot of ways beyond the obvious—including increased healing and longer life—nothing could keep death at bay indefinitely.

Both Dom and Michael would be watching the clock.

Sam stepped back. He wanted to be out of Tom’s sight before he was pulled away. “Another day then.”

At Tom’s nod of acknowledgement, Sam hurried toward a thick copse of trees. The tug was stronger, and he closed his eyes. He hated that part. Blake had once described it as akin to throwing up backward through your own nose, and it was an accurate description.

Another moment, and the trees started to fade. Then everything went black.

He came to as Dom pressed on his wounds to staunch the blood flow. He tried to draw breath, but his lungs hadn’t gotten the news that he was alive again. Dom turned him onto his side so he’d cough up the blood instead of choking on it.

“I got ya, buddy. I’m right here.” Dom’s low voice in his ear was the welcome comfort it always was. But as Sam regained his ability to see, his gaze was fixed solely on the other person in the room.

Michael, six feet of solid muscle, held a sword that dripped with Sam’s blood. He was broad shouldered and narrow hipped. His dark hair was long enough to reach his collar, and his dark eyes were sharp and assessing. Sam tried for a smile—because damn, did he love looking at the man—but coughed up blood instead. Dom was right there with a warm cloth to clean his face.

“Four days in a row, I’ve had to pull you back when the time limit approached.” Michael’s voice was quiet, but the tension and displeasure was evident. Sam winced more at the tone than the pain in his chest and back. And Michael didn’t lift his gaze from Sam’s. “When you’re recovered, I want both of you in my office.”

He didn’t wait for a response from either of them. He just slid the sword into a plastic bag so it didn’t trail Sam’s blood everywhere, and left the room. As Sam watched him go, he barely registered Dom’s attention to his wounds.

Well, that wasn’t good.

“Ready to get up?” Dom asked.

“Yeah,” Sam croaked.

Dom pushed the button on the recliner, and it slowly lifted into a sitting position. Once Sam was upright, he remained still for a few minutes so the dizziness would pass. Then he took Dom’s offered hand and stood up. Dom immediately wrapped his arm around Sam’s waist and supported him as he walked to the bed. Sam and Dom’s office was just like every other ghostwalker/anchor office on the floor—a bed, a table and a couple of chairs, a sink, cabinets full of supplies, and the dreaded chair in the middle of the floor. It looked comfortable, but Sam wasn’t particularly fond of it, considering it was where he repeatedly died.

“Pain meds?” Dom kept his voice low.

“Please.”

Sam was settled on the bed, snuggled under the covers, and watched Dom at the counter. When Dom turned, he held a premeasured syringe of pain medication. Having a sword shoved through his chest hurt like hell, and Sam needed the relief. It was a violent method, but it was also the quickest, and it guaranteed the ghostwalker would stay dead until it was removed.