Masters of the Night (21 page)

She pressed the broken chain into Angie’s palm. The cross dangled free
in the air from between her fingers.

“Please.
If you wouldn’t mind.”

After Christa had gone, Henri sat in the chair across from the couch
and studied his guest. His desire for her was so deep it almost drowned him.
Her skin would have such warmth, passion, heat.
And if she
desired him that passionately in return …

Their love would be a dangerous liaison at best—twin powers that could
collide like exploding stars.

As she slept quietly, he lost himself in her beauty until twilight.
Then he moved close to her, and pressed his fingertips to the inside of her
forearm just above her wrist—above the hand holding the cross chain. Working
the muscles patiently, deeply, his fingers coaxed the muscles to relax, so her
fingers would release the chain, and let the cross fall.

Her hand opened outward, the chain slid out of her palm, and the cross
dropped to the carpet.

21.

Angie awoke with a
gasp. And even as she opened her eyes, she was still staring into the nightmare
that had just gripped her.

Her breathing was hard and rapid, perspiration covered her forehead,
and the moisture on her cheeks was either perspiration—or tears. Her dream had
been a horror from which she thought she would not awaken.

She glanced down the hallway.

The door to his bedroom was closed. Sun was streaming into the hallway.

Her hand moved instinctively to the side of her neck.

It was smooth, untouched.

Which was more than she could say for her sleep.

She had dreamed she died.

But not as a mortal human.

She had died as a
vampyre
.

Surrounded by his soft pillows, pillows that carried the scent of his
cologne and vapors from his being, she had lain jailed by his brocade coverlet
in a cell without a lock or key. It had become a weight heavier than iron,
holding her down, pinning her into a grave from which she could not rise.
Quietly terrified, she had felt, seen and heard nothing as the power of the
essence in the pillows and the blanket, his essence, enveloped her, weakening
her to allow him easy entrance into her dreams through his unity with her.

For several moments he had fought the need to strike, then as he won,
she had felt an emptiness crash through his being, the overwhelming knowledge
she was becoming a mystic slayer—carrying the power of a master
vampyre
.

Using a force as terrifying in its gentleness as it was in its
strength, he had surrounded her with a dream of a black void, an abyss claiming
her as the sun in her dream climbed into the dawn.

He pressed her into an understanding of what the dawn and the day meant
to a
vampyre
. She slept the empty dark sleep of the
undead, without dreams or thought. This was not immortality. This was the
inability to die. She could not see the sun, could not hear the birds.
Only the whirring of bats’ wings.

Phantoms and horrid things touched her, overwhelming her with their
evil. The phantoms slashed her into horrific pain with their formless wings.
But she could not bleed. She could only heal.
Over and over
and over.

The void again.
She felt hot, her
soul emptied of all hope. Then out of the void a wrenching in her
chest,
and indescribable terror as the stake struck deep and
a spasm in her heart told her she would die now. She screamed as she felt her
heart burst. Her breathing went wild.

Through the dream, or in the dream, she wasn’t sure which, he spoke to
her, refusing to let her break the threads of sleep. “I don’t want to die that
way, Angie. I don’t want to be—destroyed. I won’t let Andre destroy me that
way. I need you to know how I feel, what I fear when I
daysleep
.”

Then she was running through strange, tunnel-like corridors, searching
for him through the cities and streets of his past.

The corridors were empty. He had gone. Daylight called her into
wakefulness.

Mercifully, he had at least exchanged the brocade quilt for another
blanket. The brocade had been folded and was draped across a corner of the
couch. Her pouch and belt were on the coffee table next to her. Angie was able
to reach them and strap the belt around her waist.

Someone was knocking at the door. She tried to rise, but her side was
still painful.

She heard a key in the lock. The door opened and a woman in her
mid-forties with pale brown hair and just a dusting of face powder announced
herself as “Christa, Henri’s friend the lab tech.” The room filled with the
welcome fragrant smell of fresh coffee as she dropped a bunch of shopping bags
by the couch and carried a large
styrofoam
box and cups to the kitchen counter. “I brought you a breakfast burrito, coffee
and orange juice.
Hope that’s okay.
And I think the
clothes will fit. I threw in some shower gel and makeup.”

“Thank you—I guess,” Angie said in surprise.

“Not my doing. It was your rescuer’s request. He also called me a
little while ago and said your cross fell under the couch or something. I’ll
get it for you. How are you feeling?”

Oh, I’m fine. A master
vampyre
helped me
dream I died. That’s all.

“I’m okay.”

Christa began taking breakfast out of the container, and Angie forced
herself to try to get up.

The pain in her side sent her back against the pillows.

Odd.
The inside of her
arm above her wrist also ached. Yet she couldn’t remember hurting it during the
fight in the parking lot. She rubbed her wrist and asked Christa for ice. The
lab tech brought some ice cubes in a plastic baggie,
then
retrieved the cross.

“Do you—give him transfusions?” Angie asked as she took the cross and
inspected the broken chain.

“What?” Christa blurted, sloshing coffee in her surprise as her hand
almost lost the lid she was removing.

“You’re not giving him enough. Why?”

Christa sighed resignedly. “How can you tell that?”

“Trust me.” She sipped the orange juice and began working the chain to
fix the links.

“There’s a shortage at the blood bank. He won’t take more. Isn’t he a
sweetheart?”

Angie repaired the cross chain and laid the necklace on the coffee
table. “How long have you known him?”

“Long enough to know he’s started continually looking back behind him.
Would you like the rest of your juice put in the fridge?”

“Yes, please. You trust him then?”

“He’s a
vampyre
, miss.” She put the orange
juice in the refrigerator.

Angie glanced around the large open cabin with pine ceiling beams,
comfortable furniture (if you weren’t lying under his blankets),
sparse
lighting and hardwood floors. He had taken her into
his chambers.
His domain.
“Where he has absolute
power,” she murmured as she closed her eyes, drowsy again.

Christa stayed with her as she slept, and watched over her for the rest
of the day. But when the sun fell behind the city, Christa was gone.

Angie looked down the hallway, bracing herself. He was stirring, and he
was powerful.

He opened the door and walked out dressed in a simple blue shirt and
black pants. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Like I took a walk through hellfire and damnation
with you.”

He did not even try to deny what he had done. Taking a goblet from a
corner armoire, he poured himself a glass of wine and dropped onto a barstool
at the kitchen counter. Twirling toward her, he glanced at her belt pack.
“You’re quite a slayer to get your ribs all busted up so easily.”

He took a long draught of the wine. “All this is my fault, Angie,” he
said
remorsely
. “Do I deserve mercy, do you think?
Mercy for the unwanted, the unloved, the cast-offs, the not-very-atoning
atoners?”

He set the goblet on the counter and walked toward her.

His eyes were penetrating, sensual, moist.

“I should go,” she said. With difficulty, she rose from the couch.

The heat in the water blue eyes was searing, the ache of desire for her
within his body deep and raw.

And it matched
her own
.

He stroked her hair, pressing the tresses away from her face. Then he
pressed his cheek to hers and pulled her close.

He became lost in her, in the rise and fall of her breasts against him,
in her breathing.

His hand slid down her arm and onto the belt holding her pouch, her
stakes. He unsnapped the buckle. The belt and pouch slid to the floor. Then his
hand encircled hers in a caressing grasp. “Not tonight, Angie,” he murmured,
his voice heavy with yearning. “Tonight there are no slayers, no enemies,
no
fear.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow we can
face our destiny.”

He moved his mouth over hers, searching, needing, but careful.
I don’t want you
to fear me,
Angie, he whispered into her thoughts, not wanting to
mesmerize her, wanting her to remember his touch, remember him.

Within the powerful embrace, Angie sensed the wildness of him, the
fierceness,
the
depths of the dark night within him.
And she felt his heart, struggling to beat again, to embrace life.

Surrendering to that heart on fire, she brushed her lips across his
cheek, felt his cold fire and trembled. “Dare I trust you, Henri? Can I believe
you? Can I believe in you?”

“Can I believe you will not slay me?” he countered.

“Touché,” she said softly.

His eyes dipped deeply into hers. “Tell me, Angie, when you’re
dreaming, who are you kissing? Tell me. Who is it you see and feel, as you draw
your beautiful lashes down over your eyes in sleep and your lips search for
dreams of love and desire?”

“I think I need to explore that question,” she said, moving her mouth
over his.

The unexpected response aroused him to fever pitch, and love and lust
became a torrent of passionate entwining. Embracing her as close as he could
and still remain gentle, Henri guided her lips, her tongue, her surrender.

When he drew away, she was breathless.

And aching fiercely.

He unbuttoned his shirt and pulled her to him to enjoy her warmth.

“The slayers will be looking for me,” she said, physical enjoyment
pelting her as the strong, bare chest muscles rubbed her breasts through the
shirt clinging loosely to her.

“I know,” he said heavily, his hands moving to her hips, pulling her
closer, deepening the tantalizing sensations. “I know. Everybody’s looking for
you.”

She closed her eyes and moaned, the strength of his desire consuming
her. She could become his minion so easily.

She put her hand against his chest, uncertain.

He was pulling her hand away, drawing her to him again.

“We could be protectors of mortals together. If that’s what you want,
Angie,” he said, his voice raspy as he pressed his thighs harder into hers.

His hands moved in under the shirt he had given her, to the silken skin
he wanted.

“Your eyes are wild and hot,” she breathed, trembling.

“And your own are not?”

“I’ve heard when you make love, you also have to take a—transfusion?”
she asked.

“I’ve made love to many women, Angie, and never taken anything—” His
lips curled at the corners.

The shirt slid from her shoulders.

She arched her breasts to accept the hands encircling them.

“Henri …” She lost her thoughts. His hands knew where to touch, where
to please. Pleasure spilled through her in luscious streams.

Drenched with swells of physical fire, she could no longer keep the
sweet pangs exploding through her in check. Her logic was rushing away in swift
currents of forgetfulness under the force of the raw presence within her.
Desire reigned.
Desire for muscle and fire.

His
muscle and fire.

The shirt began to slide, as though smoothed away from her body by
invisible hands.

“You’re using your power,” she protested in a soft moan.

“Do you not like it?” he whispered.

Her panties joined the shirt, sliding down her hips, her thighs, her
legs, leaving her body bare and his to touch.

His hand slid downward in a fell stroke that sent her body spiraling
into soft, physical fire.

She gasped a tiny gasp of sudden, seeping pleasure. He touched bare
flesh, his fingertips skimming milky, silky softness.