Light Beyond the Darkness (2 page)

Servers strode through the swinging doors and attached small, rectangular bits of paper to the turnstile hanging between their area and the kitchen proper, where the real cooking was done. Two young humans stood at a salad prep station. Another that Reid guessed was the dishwasher carried a stack of plates that was almost as tall as he was. He was short and stocky, with a dark complexion and colored with tattoos everywhere Reid could see. With expert ease he placed the plates in perfectly symmetrical rows on the stainless-steel counter separating the servers’ area from the kitchen proper, and then he retreated again through another swinging door on the far end of the kitchen.

Behind the stainless-steel counter were five different people, all dressed in white chef smocks and some sort of hat covering their hair. In the middle of all the hustle and bustle was one woman with ash-blonde hair pulled back into a knot at the nape of her neck. She had bright eyes and a pale complexion, and she was tall and thin and clearly in charge. And all around her, he could practically see the magic sparking and dancing, as if it were a living thing. He supposed in a way it was.

Lightbearer
.

Lightbearers operated best in full sunlight. With the absence of light, their magic slowly faded, until it was regenerated again by the next dose of the sun’s rays. It was rumored that if you cut a lightbearer off from sunlight for too long, she would die.

The ridiculously bright lights, he suspected, were her doing.

Her
.

He stopped and stared. Take away the magical sparks dancing over her skin, and he supposed she wasn’t particularly exceptional-looking. In fact, it appeared she was doing her best to downplay whatever positive attributes she might possess. The hair severely pulled away from her face, the lack of makeup, the oversize chef’s coat, all lay proof to his suspicions. He knew nothing of other magical beings, but he knew enough about females in general to know that they tended to play up what they considered their best features, not tone them down.

Despite this, Reid found himself attracted to her, even from halfway across the room, without so much as a word spoken between them.

He’d never considered that he might be attracted to a specific type of being. Until just a few months ago, he would have assumed his type was simply female shifter. Prior to this foray into the human world, he’d never lain with any females other than shifters. Human women were new to him, so he hadn’t yet determined if he desired a specific type of human female. And never in his wildest fantasies had he imagined he would run into a lightbearer and actually wonder,
Is this my type?

She recognized his presence while he was still trying to come to terms with the reality of seeing a lightbearer in the flesh, standing a few feet away. The only other time that had happened was last summer, when Quentin Lyons had captured one, and his son then escaped with her. That had ultimately led to Quentin’s death, his pack being dispersed, and the various members being assigned to new, smaller packs. Reid had left before that occurred. He had no wish to learn the ways and rules of a new pack master. Not after what he’d gone through with the last one.

This experience was far different from Reid’s only other experience with a lightbearer. The last one had been a prisoner and had been sentenced to die, because Quentin believed that whoever killed her would inherit her magic. A shifter with magic above and beyond the ability to change forms at will. It was a heady concept.

This lightbearer was—apparently—the head chef at one of Chicago’s most popular restaurants. Living in the human world. He’d noticed no other trace of magic aside from hers, so he suspected she lived there alone, without the protection of others of her own kind. How had it taken Quentin forty years to find one, if they lived among the humans like this? If her steak was as good as Reid suspected it was, he could not fathom that a shifter or two had not stumbled across this particular restaurant before. Shifters loved their red meat, and considering their typically obsessive personalities, they would go to great lengths to try a delicious steak dinner.

At least Reid would.

In the space of a handful of heartbeats, she was surrounded by humans, both female and male, and none with particularly welcoming expressions on their faces.

“Hey, no civilians back here, buddy,” one human sharply announced. She had blue-black hair, heavy dark makeup, and piercings in every visible orifice. She reminded him a little of some of the female shifters he knew.

He was amused by the way she stood slightly in front of the lightbearer, almost as if she expected an attack. But surely not? All magical beings understood one overriding rule:
never tell the humans about the magical side of your nature.

The lightbearer had yet to speak, although he could tell by her widened eyes, rapid breathing, and the stench of fear in the air that she knew precisely what he was.

“I only wanted to compliment the chef,” he said, his gaze fixed on the lightbearer.

She lifted a hand and cupped her narrow, smooth neck, as her eyes widened farther and her breathing escalated a notch or two.

“Usually people do that without actually leaving their seats,” the dark-haired human woman said. “And you need to get out of our kitchen. It’s a health-code violation for you to be back here.”

He could care less about anyone’s health except that lightbearer’s. He had no specific code, not anymore. And if there was to be any violating around here…

He stepped forward, extended his hand, and bowed his head slightly, not an act of submission, but an act of acknowledgment.
I know you’re afraid. I don’t intend to hurt you.

She did not accept his gesture. If anything, she shrank away even more.

“Order—oh.” A server hustled through the swinging doors and then stopped short when she spotted Reid standing there. One of the other chefs extended his arm across the stainless-steel counter and snagged the meal ticket from her hand. Then he turned and shoved it at the lightbearer, clearly trying to pull her attention away from Reid.

“We need to get back to work, Carley,” he said. “The orders are starting to back up.”

Carley
. Was that the lightbearer’s name? Reid continued to stand there, continued to watch her. Wisps of silver-blonde hair stuck out from under her chef’s hat, which was a tall, white paper contraption that perched at a jaunty angle on her head. While everyone else in the room looked sweaty and bordering on exhaustion, she looked as fresh as a spring breeze.

Magic
. Only magic could keep someone looking so damn unaffected amidst the chaos of a popular restaurant kitchen on a Friday evening.

“I’d like to speak to you,” he said, his gaze never wavering. “Alone.”

She shook her head and accepted the ticket that was thrust into her hands. She looked down, read what was scribbled there, and finally spoke to him.

“That isn’t possible,” she said without looking up from the ticket. And then she apparently decided to act as if he wasn’t there, and began issuing orders to the humans, each one scrambling to do as she commanded.

It was fascinating to watch. Until the spunky human woman with the blue-black hair stepped in front of him and stood on her tiptoes so she could get in his face.

“Look, buddy. If you don’t leave our kitchen, we’re going to call the cops. Great meal or not, you don’t belong back here.” She glared at him, not intimidated in the least.

It was almost refreshing. Nearly everyone was intimidated by him, and he rarely bothered to disabuse people of the notion that he might strike them down at any moment. He rather liked the fact that most people—magical or otherwise—were too frightened or nervous to get close to him. He was not fond of personal contact.

“Carley,” he murmured, repeating the name he’d heard the human male say a moment ago. “Did she make my steak?”

“Yeah,” the woman said with obvious impatience. “She makes all the steaks here. It’s one of her specialties. Now, can you go back to your table?”

“What else does she do?”

She gave him a peculiar look. “What do you mean?”

“What other plates? What are her other specialties?”

“Oh.” The human considered his question for a moment. “She makes a mean beef stew,” she decided. “And duck. Amazing duck. And key lime pie. I know it sounds weird, because it seems like such a simple dish, but her key lime pie is just out of this world.”

Duck. He loved duck. “Key lime pie?” he repeated out loud. He didn’t often eat dessert. There usually wasn’t meat in dessert. “Maybe I’ll give it a try,” he decided, and then he asked, “How often does she work?”

“You’re awfully damned obsessed, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told.”

The woman shook her head. “We’re open Tuesday through Sunday. Closed Mondays. Carley has some serious work ethic. She’s here every single night.”

*

Carley Santiago loved to cook. It didn’t matter where or for whom. She’d loved it when she worked as a chef at the king’s beach house, creating elaborate dining experiences for the queen’s parties. She’d stumbled out into the human world just a few months ago, and as frightened as she’d initially been, she honestly couldn’t say she wasn’t glad it happened. Cooking for humans, in this massive kitchen, with all these eager human helpers, was truly an exciting experience.

She loved getting creative with food. She loved the challenge of coming up with a new entrée special each and every night. She loved to work, and did so, every opportunity she could. The restaurant manager had no issue whatsoever taking advantage of her eagerness, and scheduled her six nights a week without fail.

The other under chefs and the servers all thought she was either crazy or a kiss up. She definitely wasn’t a kiss up—at least not intentionally—but crazy, well, that was another subject entirely. She tried not to go there—ever.

It was Friday night, and she was catering to a packed house, despite the late season snowstorm that hit the Chicago area earlier in the day. The reservations were full until midnight, and there was still a line out the door. Even the patrons in the bar were ordering full entrées tonight, not that her appetizers were anything to sneeze at. Yes, Carley was in her element.

At least, until
he
walked into her kitchen. Him. That—that—that—
shifter
. A shape-shifter strolled right into her kitchen!

Shifters aren’t the enemy
. Her heart beat madly, and her hand clenched and unclenched around the razor-sharp Santoku knife.

At least, those with whom she was acquainted were not. The shifters she knew were polite and respectful. They praised her food and expressed genuine appreciation for her efforts in the kitchen. They were also, frankly, pretty damn good-looking.

Not that this one wasn’t.
Must be a shifter trait
.

She contemplated the incredibly tall, rugged man who stood before her. His hair was coppery and trimmed short around his collar, and spiky on top. His eyes were palest blue. His face was sharp angles and planes covered with a thick coating of auburn stubble. His nose had a bump in the top and was slightly off-center, indicative of a break that had not healed properly. What could have been a flaw in his appearance only added to the man’s craggy good looks.

He wore a gray button-down shirt over a white undershirt, and a pair of black slacks that looked tailor-made to show off every muscle. Every single one. Damned bright lights.

She tried to convince herself that he wasn’t a shifter—maybe just a human, or possibly a lightbearer—but it was a futile attempt. Few lightbearers were quite so
large
, and if they were, they were far less scruffy than this man. And humans, well, they didn’t even compare.

Shifters aren’t the enemy
. It was the truth. Which meant fear wasn’t the reason her heart rate was accelerated and she felt as though she could scarcely breathe. Every nerve ending in her body was on fire, especially the ones at the apex of her thighs.

Lights above, Carley, get a grip
.

It was hard to do, with the coppery-haired shifter watching her with such an intensity she suspected he wasn’t even aware of anyone else in the kitchen.

What would it be like to be the center of this man’s universe?

The thought drifted through her head, startling her so much that her body gave a jerk. And he’d been halfway to the door, too, about to walk out of her life. Yet when her body reacted to the thought in her head, he stopped and turned to look at her again. His eyes flared, and she knew she wasn’t imagining it when they began to glow faintly. Tanner’s eyes had glowed even brighter than that when he looked at his mate, Olivia. And Finn—his eyes had glowed whenever Cecilia, Olivia’s cousin, was within ten feet of his person.

Her previous life. A life where shifters weren’t the enemy, no matter what the history books claimed. It wasn’t a shifter who pushed her over the edge of a cliff and left her for dead.

She cleared her throat, conscious of the fact that they were surrounded by humans, and the very last thing either of them needed was for one of her human coworkers to question some random customer’s glowing eyes.

“D—did you enjoy your steak?”

Did he even order steak? Of course he did. He was a shifter, after all. Finn once told her that most of them rarely ate anything but meat. Until he started eating out of the lightbearers’ royal kitchen, Finn had counted himself in that classification, but Carley had changed that for him. She’d introduced him to delicious vegetables and delightful pasta and rice dishes and desserts that simply melted in one’s mouth.

She was tempted to peek at his ticket, to see what cut he ordered, which blend of herbs she’d put on his steak. She was positive he had ordered it rare, because that too was a shifter characteristic, according to Finn. And Carley had to agree. Too much cooking ruined a perfectly fine piece of meat.

“Yes,” he said in a voice that was hot as embers, smooth as honey.

The apex of her thighs heated a few degrees. His eyes glowed brighter. She resisted the urge to wiggle, cleared her throat, and waved her hand in a vague fashion. “Eyes,” she murmured, knowing he would hear even over the din of kitchen noise. Then, louder, “Thank you for personally letting us know. We appreciate the positive feedback.” She snagged a ticket from the turnstile and pretended to study it. “Unfortunately, we have a full house tonight, and we have to get back to work. Thank you again for letting us know that you enjoyed your steak.”