Monster (A Cassidy Edwards Novel - Book 1) (18 page)

I really did shiver.

And then his mouth was gone, replaced by the words, “Pray explain, lass. How are you a Chosen One but can take the sun?”

I discovered then that I no longer had control of my mouth.

I told him everything.

Everything
.

From my birth, to my thirst for revenge. My mana-eating habits. My discovery of Lucian. My job. My contract. My imp. My relationship with my mother.

Oh, and I even told him about my secret stash of silver-bladed vampire knives tucked away safely in my boots.

It was a hazy, lust-filled session.

I didn’t even mind when his hands slipped into my boots and withdrew the blades. It was a long, drawn-out affair, and a sexy one. His hands were hot against my calves. My only regret was that I’d only brought three. Why hadn’t I brought all five?

He kept kissing me, drawing out information with consummate skill. But I didn’t care. I just wanted his mouth pressed against my skin.

“And why did you hand our kin over to that young warlock?” Dorian whispered as he planted hot and heavy kisses along my collarbone.

“Our kin?” I asked, panting heavily.

“Our clan members,” he explained readily enough. “Where did he hie them off to?”

The suitcase. Ah, he wanted to know about the suitcase. But I didn’t want to talk about 
that
. I wanted more of his delicious lips on every inch of my body. He was taking too long.

I slid around in his arms and stared up into his green, fathomless eyes.

“Kiss me,” I demanded.

The candlelight accentuated the deep shadow of the crease on his cheek. He smiled down at me. “Ach, a lass as bold and direct as a man.”

“Kiss me,” I demanded again, breathlessly. “I mean, really, 
really
 kiss me.”

The expression on his face altered. And he looked like he really, 
really
 wanted to. With a guttural groan, he thrust his tongue between my open lips in a savage, masterful, and most claiming of kisses.

I think I lost track of time then. I really don’t know how long it was before I felt the pressure of his fangs against my throat.

Dimly, I wondered if I could be made into a 
real
 vampire. I didn’t think so. I already was one. Kind of, anyway. Wasn’t I? I had the retractable—though nonfunctional—fangs. But it wasn’t like I really cared either way. It only mattered what 
he
 wanted. And at that moment, I would have denied him nothing.

Two things happened at once.

Dorian’s fangs pierced my flesh, and the door burst open.

And then Dorian screamed—a blood-curdling, soul-wrenching scream.

As if by reflex, he shoved me away. I flew back. I’d never been on the receiving end of such brutal strength. Had I been a human, my bones would have cracked at the force at which I hit the floor. As it was, I was stunned, my breath knocked completely out of me.

Reeling away, Dorian collapsed against the wall, apparently writhing in pain.

Winded, I crouched, fully expecting to see Lucian on the threshold unleashing an explosive display of warlock magic. Who else could have blasted Dorian away from me?

But there was no entry of an angry warlock. There were only two very astonished, gaping Chosen Ones, hovering hesitantly in the doorway and then rushing to Dorian’s side to offer assistance.

He wasn’t in the mood for their help. Struggling to his feet, he slammed them back and thundered, “Leave us at once!”

They left. At once.

A far different Dorian faced me now—a Dorian with hatred blazing in his bright eyes. “Ach, I recognize the mark of a Rowle!” he spat.

Mark?

I’d caught my breath by then. And rising to my feet, I suddenly began feeling like I’d just awakened from a long, foggy dream—a dream dissipating with astonishing speed.

It didn’t take long for my mind to clear and for anger to catch hold.

I’d been played.

And I’d responded like a fool.

And he had my knives. All three of them!

Furious, I confronted Dorian, “Well, at least Lord Rowle is protecting me. Too bad you didn’t break a few bones!”

Dorian waved his hand at me in a strangely weak gesture. “That’s no spell,” he responded heatedly. “It’s much, 
much
 more.”

“Huh?” I responded and then winced a little. It was hardly the most eloquent of responses, but I didn’t have a clue what he meant. And thanks to his mesmerizing seduction attempt, I was a little rattled—an unusual experience for me.

Dorian approached me then, but this time, he kept at a safe distance. Narrowing his eyes to little more than slits, he demanded, “Just 
what
 are you?”

So, it was back to that again.

I felt a wave of loss. So much for a delicious romance. But right on the heels of disappointment came the realization of what he’d just inferred.

He thought that 
I’d
 caused him to bolt back in horrific pain the moment his little vampire fangs had penetrated my neck.

Had I? I mean, really. 
Had I?

I stood there a good solid minute or more before finally answering, “I’m One of the Damned.”

It was the truth.

But this time, I didn’t feel quite so bitter about it.

An Act of War

I guess it was true.

When a vampire turned the seduction on it was impossible for mere mortals to resist. At least the first time, anyway. I knew I wouldn’t fall prey to Dorian’s designs ever again.

My ego was bruised—battered, tromped and tattered to pieces, actually. But most importantly, I was angry.

And knifeless.

Crud. I had only myself and my foolish hormones to blame for that one.

Suffice it to say, I would now die before helping Dorian attain that suitcase or whatever else he wanted. What had I overheard Lucian’s employer say? That a lover spurned was an enemy like no other? I could relate to that.

Dorian wasn’t a fool. He saw the extent of my fury, but then, could anyone have really missed it? Dropping all amorous behaviors at once, he raised his own chin and let his anger flash in response to mine.

“I am Dorian Ramsey,” he announced with more than a hint of pride in his tone. “And I am a Night Hunter, a Defender of my Kind. I will find my kin with or without your aid. I’d beg you to think twice, lass. Consider well which side to join in this war—a war in which ‘twill ultimately be the Terzi who ride to victory. The Rowles are wretched cowards, destined only to lick the soiled boots—”

“Oh, give it a rest,” I interrupted his pompous tirade. “You’re a bit dated. Times have changed.”

Shock crossed his face. Utter shock. Apparently, few people dared to speak to the vampire in such a manner. In retrospect, I could have avoided a lot of trouble if I’d refrained from trotting down that road myself. Maybe I would never have awoken the beast that lay slumbering within me … but I get ahead of myself.

At that moment, I was angry. And I wanted to get even.

“Make no mistake, my lady,” he warned with more than a glint of malice in his eyes. “I’m hardly a creature ruled by habit and discipline such as yon warlock Lord Lucian Rowle. Nay, I’m a warrior—one who always 
wins,
and one who makes his foe suffer defeat—truly suffer.”

I shot him a black look and rolled my eyes. I can’t say why I still felt comfortable enough with him to actually do that. Maybe it was the vampire-clan-connection thing.

A timid knock sounded on the door.

Dorian glowered.

Unfortunately, the knocker couldn’t see that and merely knocked with more urgency.

Finally, Dorian exploded, “Enter and have done!”

Slowly, the door swung open, revealing the same two cloaked vampires—cowering a bit more this time. They didn’t enter. One of them just leaned forward, extending his hand to offer Dorian an envelope.

“’Tis from the warlock,” he murmured. “He’s sent a message.”

Relief flooded me.

Lucian. So he was trying to rescue me. Thank heavens! My brief flirtation with the Chosen Ones was soon to come to a full, resounding end. I was definitely ready to leave.

The instant Dorian snatched the envelope, the vampires dashed away.

I couldn’t blame them.

Dorian and Lucian had one thing in common—well, two things actually, they were both thoroughly captivating, and they also shared a temperamental nature. Well, maybe the fact that they’d both allowed revenge to consume them, rendered them unstable. They were both selfish, and how about irritatingly aggravating and arrogant?

Come to think of it, they were quite alike—practically twins.

Suddenly, Dorian swore, jarring me back to the present.

He was livid. He began to swear at the top of his voice then, but I found his choice of swearwords vastly amusing. I didn’t even try to hide my grin—of course, that infuriated him all the more. I can’t say that I didn’t intend for that to happen.

“Pox and pestilence but I’ll see that useless addlepated fool of a churlish warlock strung up by his toes!” Dorian vowed, pounding his fist into his hand. “By Our Lady, the clay-brained clotpole will fall upon my sword and right speedily! The beslubbering sot of mulish Rowle will—”

At that point, I really did burst out laughing.

It only made him more furious. Clenching his jaw—another habit he shared with Lucian—he tossed the message into the fire. And without even looking in my direction, he left the room, slamming the door hard behind him.

Of course, the first thing I did was dart to the fire and yank the letter back out. After stomping on it a few times, I managed to stop its fiery destruction and, squatting down next to it on the floor, read the following words:

… return to me what’s rightfully mine—including all property, land, and titles. If you do not comply immediately, the entirety of your clan shall be entombed in the bowels of the Earth forever, and those Terzi left that fail to prove their fealty to me shall be imprisoned by my Night Terrors in eternal exile. The Terzi’s futile and utterly laughable attempt at domination is at its end. I’m well aware that you’ve been … living under a rock, until recently that is, but that much should even be obvious to you.

Sincerely,

Lord Lucian Rowle

P.S. Regarding the spell-finder/Terzi spy Cassidy Edwards—do what you please with her. She is not my concern.

My mouth dropped open. 
That
 was rescuing me?
Do what you please with her. She is not my concern.

What about our contract—what about protecting me? Didn’t that self-writing paper mean anything? Was I the only one following the rules?

I was beyond furious and ready to steal a few of Dorian’s choice swearwords. What was it? A pox-sucking warlock? I couldn’t recall if Dorian had actually said that, but I liked it anyway.

I tried to escape the room then.

It was impossible.

But I kept trying.

Finally, I realized there was nothing I could do but wait for Dorian to return.

And he made me wait.

Hours.

All night and all of the next day.

An Unexpected Visitor

I went through modes of trying to escape and snoozing in the chair in the attempt to pass the time away.

During my escape attempts, I would thoroughly investigate the room, but there were no holes. No rotting boards to pry away. No avenues of escape of any kind, even in the ceiling. And there was nothing I could use to force, dig, or pry my way out with.

Jiggling the ancient door handle did nothing; it just squeaked hideously.

There was nothing in the room but a few old rugs, stacks of moth-eaten blankets and pillows, and several dusty paintings—oil portraits of long-forgotten faces. The closest thing to a weapon was an old silver chalice, blackened with neglect.

For a while, I screamed.

No one even came to shut me up.

Food and water? They didn’t offer a drop, but then, Dorian knew better now. I winced, trying not to recall just how much I’d told him. If only I had my knives … but that just made me wince again. I didn’t want to remember just how I’d lost them.

Disheartened, I returned to the wing-backed chair in front of the dying fire and tossed my booted leg over the arms for another nap to pass the time.

I was a deep sleeper. It always took me a bit to open my eyes. I stirred drowsily. Apparently, I’d fallen asleep again. I could hear the crackling of rekindled flames and smelled the pleasant aroma of smoke.

And Dorian.

Startled, I rose halfway out of the chair, eyes flying open. I’d reached for my knives, but again, my hands came up empty.

Dorian stood right next to my chair, still wearing his hot, steamy kilt but no shirt this time. Why? Did he think I’d find his impressive array of muscles a distraction? A deeper, second look at his face revealed that he wasn’t there for another seduction. He was pensive. Subdued. His hands were folded behind his back as he stared at me, but in a distant manner. His mind was clearly somewhere else.

“You can sleep,” he said, as if finally noticing that I was awake. His voice held more than a single note of bitterness. “Ach, I can’t remember how it feels to do so, lass.”

Slowly, I rose the rest of the way out of the wing-backed chair to ask uneasily, “Weren’t you just asleep for a long time? For what, over four hundred years or so, in that plague grave. I’d think you’d be sick of it.”

“Buried,” he corrected. Rotating on his heel, he moved to the fireplace. Leaning against the mantle, he peered down into the flames. The firelight played across his shoulder blades, accentuating his strength.

Irritated at the turn of my thoughts, I scowled and forced myself to concentrate on his words.

“’Tis far different than a peaceful night’s rest,” he was saying. “Nay, ‘tis naught like sleep. ‘Tis simply lying there in the dirt, listening, waiting. Hungry. Never slumbering. No sweet release of death.”

I drew back, startled. I hadn’t realized they’d been awake the whole time. It sounded like the worst kind of torture—enough to drive someone totally mad.