Bloodchild (23 page)

He shook his head, and despite
himself felt his lips curl up into a thin smile. Of course she’d say that. Of
course she’d deny he’d hurt her. Of course she’d say anything to get him to
come back. There was one thing she could have done to ensure his return: she
could have given him a direct order. He didn’t know whether she realized that
was an option, but even if she did, he doubted she’d have done it. He knew she
hated giving orders, and to him even more than to others.

“I did hurt you,” he murmured, and
his gaze flicked down to the crook of her neck. The collar of her shirt hid the
place where he’d bitten, but he knew there had to be scars, however faint. He’d
broken her skin. He could still faintly remember the feel of her blood on his
tongue.

And he still craved it.

“I can’t come back yet,” he said
again. “But I will. I’ll learn to control myself, and I will come back.”

He only hoped that, by then, she’d
still want him to return.

Something passed through the bond,
strong but fleeting, and drew his attention to Aedan. He had one hand on the
knife at his waist, and his focus remained on Ciara as though he expected her
to attack. What filtered through the bond, though, wasn’t directed at her but
at Bradan instead. Bradan couldn’t be sure, not when Aedan was actively muting
his feelings, but it felt like sadness.

Bradan’s throat tightened, and he
turned his attention back to Vivien. It didn’t help, far from it. Tears were
gleaming in her eyes, though she didn’t shed them—or at least not yet.

“Why did you come today?” she
asked, her voice croaking a little. “Why come to tell me you’re not coming
back?”

Bradan’s hands closed at his
sides. He wished he could have held her again, comforted her, brushed those
tears away with his fingertips or his lips, but he didn’t dare get close. If he
did, he might never leave her again.

“Because I wanted you to know I
still believe in you,” he said. “You’ve only lost one duel. Please don’t give
up. Keep training. Keep thinking of new ways to beat him. You did well today.
You’ve been using the Quickening for a few short weeks, but you held him off
for quite some time. If you keep training, if you believe in yourself like I
believe in you, I know you’ll beat him next time.”

Behind him, Ciara made an impatient
noise. Whether she was annoyed he was voicing his hope that her king would be
defeated or annoyed he was taking more than the few moments he’d asked her to
give him with Vivien, he didn’t know. Nor did he care. She’d agreed that he
could come, and that was good enough.

“I’ll try,” Vivien said.

For a moment, she looked like she
would add something, but in the end she remained quiet. Her gaze focused on
something behind him, and he thought she was looking at Ciara. He soon realized
she was channeling, reopening the way for him and Ciara to Pass Through. He’d
have liked to remain longer, but he’d said what he’d come here to say, and
Vivien was clearly trying her best not to cry in front of him—or maybe she was
concerned about Ciara.

He bowed to her, part of him
hoping she’d step forward to hug him again, but she remained where she was,
trembling slightly but not coming closer. Aedan did, holding his hand out.
Bradan noticed for the first time the gleaming Quickening symbol etched in the
middle of his palm, and felt both happy that his brother at last had the sign
he’d wanted for so long and sad that he hadn’t been there to watch Aedan renew
his oath.

He clasped Aedan’s arm under the
elbow, and Aedan clasped his in return. They looked at each other for a few
seconds, and although neither of them spoke, a rush of emotions flooded the
bond, going both ways.

Bradan knew his regret and guilt
were coming through, along with his determination and loneliness. The same
loneliness echoed back at him, right along with guilt, but tinted by pride,
too. Pride for what Bradan was doing, for the way he remained away for their
dame’s safety, even when he wanted to come back so much.

Comforted that his brother
understood why he’d left—that he not only understood but maybe even approved,
too—Bradan let go of him. Aedan held on a couple of seconds longer before he
released Bradan’s arm and stepped back.

“Let’s go,” Ciara said behind
Bradan, her first words since they’d entered the Passing Room back in Rhuinn’s
palace and she’d instructed the majordomo to contact Vivien’s castle.

He turned toward her and the
passage Vivien was holding open. She Passed Through first. Bradan was about to
follow when he turned back one last time to look at his dame and his Maker, his
love and his brother, Vivien and Aedan, the two people he loved more than
anything—the two people he refused to disappoint or betray.

“Soon,” he said, trying and
failing to deliver the word with a smile.

As he Passed Through back to
Rhuinn’s palace, they both echoed the word back at him.

“Soon.”

To be continued in Duels

Excerpt
from

Ward of the Vampire

Who in the world would have said
no?

Certainly not me.

And don’t fool yourself; you
wouldn’t have said no either.

If I’d known what was going to
happen… No, even then I’m not sure I’d have refused to go. I couldn’t have. And
I mean that quite literally. Couldn’t, as in not physically able to. Not
without my body refusing to obey my commands, or losing the simple ability to
breathe.

The biggest holiday bash in New
York City, with reportedly a dozen different caterers booked for the event,
five bands, everyone from New York’s ‘who’s who’ on the guest list, along with
a few A-listers flown straight in by private jet from Hollywood, all that in a
renovated mansion—a castle, really—right off Central Park… And of course, one
of the most famous yet elusive men in town, a businessman, philanthropist and
friend of the arts, just turning forty, and an eminently eligible bachelor…

Well, at least that was what
newspapers, TV anchors and various blogs had been saying since October. I
should know. I’d been reading every article and blog post, watching snippets of
news where the party was mentioned almost obsessively.

Why, yes, I did make a scrapbook
about it, but that’s part of my job, not a sign that I have OCD, not at all.

See, I think I was one of the
first people not directly involved in the planning of that party to have heard
about it. It was mid-August when Miss Delilah, my boss, received the envelope,
and she must have been one of the very first guests who did. In the following
months, that blue envelope became famous enough that dozens of articles and
blogs posts were written about it.

Someone—someone obsessive, not
at all like me—played Sherlock Holmes and discovered that the thick, textured
paper from which the envelope and matching stationery were made had been
handcrafted in a French monastery, and that the distinctive blue color came
from a local flower. I could tell you which flower, but that’s hardly the point
and again I’m not that obsessive about it. Really.

As I was saying, Miss Delilah
received the envelope in August, and I got to open it, the way I do all her
mail. She wants business correspondence on her desk when she comes down from
the penthouse, which is usually around two or three in the afternoon. Personal
letters, invitations to Broadway shows, gallery openings and things like that
don’t make it to her desk until seven or eight when she’s done with work.

I knew which pile this would go
in as soon as I looked at the return address. It was handwritten in elegant
cursive letters, like Miss Delilah’s address. I recognized the sender’s name at
once. I knew Morgan Ward to be Miss Delilah’s brother.

He’d never come to her office,
at least not when I was there, but he called, every now and then. He’d never
said more than a few words to me—“Mr. Ward for Mrs. Stanford, please.”—but he
has the kind of voice that makes you shiver, and never mind what he says.

You know the kind of voice I
mean; one of those rumbling, warm, rich chocolate voices with a touch of
whiskey, the kind that any single woman, and probably quite a few married ones,
too, would listen to for hours on end even if it meant listening to something
as dull as the entire Federal tax code.

Or maybe that’s just me.

I couldn’t recall him writing to
her before, and I’d undoubtedly have remembered if he’d sent such a distinctive
envelope, closed with a perfect circle of red wax imprinted with a seal in
which a W and M were superimposed. It felt old-fashioned and elegant, and I
wondered if he’d addressed the envelope and imprinted the wax himself, or if he
had a personal assistant to do these things for him.

I carefully slid a letter opener
under the wax to lift it without breaking the seal and pulled out a sheet of
blue paper that matched the envelope. The same W and M symbol was embossed in
silver in the upper right corner.

A dozen or so of these letters
have appeared in the press or online; you’ve probably come across one or two.
Each one is worded a little differently from the others, but they basically all
say the same thing: big birthday bash in December, everything red and black,
starting at nightfall and until morning, pleasure of your company, in lieu of
gift donate to charity, etc.

Miss Delilah’s letter was different.
I must have read it three or four times, so I recall what it said pretty well.

“Dear Lilah,” it started, and
that threw me off. I’ve never heard anyone call Miss Delilah ‘Lilah,’ not even
Mr. Stanford before he passed away. It had to be a pet name from when they were
kids, I thought at the time, but I’ve learned since then that if it is a pet
name, it doesn’t go back that far. But I’ll get to that eventually. Let me go
back to the letter for now.

Dear Lilah,

I yield.

You already knew I would, I
suppose. Between you and Mother, what chance did I have, really? I’d tell you
that there is no need for you to contact her and that I already informed her
myself, but that would be robbing you of half your fun. So go ahead, gloat. But
rest assured that the party is the only thing I changed my mind about.

Before you ask, no, I won’t
need any help from you. I am quite capable of throwing a decent party on my
own, even a party I give despite my better judgment. The same goes for the
menu; I can plan it for myself, and as my guest I hope you will enjoy my
choices of refreshments. I’m sure you will be busy enough deciding on your
wardrobe and I wouldn’t want to trouble you with any such concerns.

There is no need for you to
bring a gift, and I really do mean it, Lilah.

December twenty-first,
nightfall, although I assume you’ll be fashionably late.

Yours,

          Morgan

PS - NO gift. Please.

The letter was handwritten in
dark blue ink except for his name, which was a deep red. Every other letter
I’ve seen is all blue. None was sent before mid-October. Family first, I guess.

Now, I’ve worked for Miss
Delilah for almost five years. I like to think I’ve learned to know her well—or
at least, I believed that before the party. She always took Mr. Ward’s calls,
even when she was busy. Once, she interrupted a meeting with an ambassador to
talk to him.

I folded the letter again, set
it sideways in the envelope so it’d be easier to pull out, and set that on top
of her business letters. Ten minutes after coming in, she buzzed and asked me
to put the party on her calendar. I said I would; truth is, I already had.

There was no RSVP card, no
number to call. Mr. Ward must have assumed the people he invited would show up,
and I doubt anyone who received one of those blue envelopes declined. Or maybe
he didn’t care all that much who did show up in the end. With so many guests,
it’s not like he’d notice anyway.

I didn’t realize right away what
kind of party it would be, and by ‘what kind’ I mean the sheer scale of it. I’d
seen Miss Delilah get excited about finding the perfect dress for an event
before, so that was nothing new. The first time I noticed a mention in the
press of the ‘Ward Bash’ as it came to be known, I felt a small thrill.

One of the perks of working for
someone like Miss Delilah is that I often hear about things that will make the
news long before they do. Some people would take advantage of it and try to
sell what they know. I’d never do something like that. Miss Delilah’s trust is
important to me. Or rather, it was. I’m not sure what to think of her anymore.

She ended up buying four
dresses, from four different designers, all four of them blood red. Two of
those were custom-made according to her own sketches. All were sumptuous, and I
couldn’t wait to see which one she’d end up wearing. I doubted she’d decide
until the day of the party.

That day, she didn’t come down
from the penthouse; instead, sometime around four in the afternoon, she had me
bring her mail up.

An advantage of owning the
entire building of your company’s headquarters and of living there yourself: if
you don’t feel like going to work, you can have work come to you. She doesn’t
do it all that often, but I’ll admit I like it when she does. The penthouse is
just breathtaking.

Every time I take her private elevator
to get up there, I feel I’m stepping into a whole different world. The offices,
and the rest of the building for that matter, have this open feel that comes
from being high above the city with windows from floor to ceiling. There’s a
lot of glass and steel all around. It was featured in some architecture and
style magazine, once. The penthouse…

How can I describe it?

For one thing, it’s a sort of
maze. When you walk out of the elevator, you’re presented with a half-moon wall
with four identical doors spaced out evenly. In my mind, I call that first room
the flowers room because there are always large arrangements of fresh flowers
on stands between the doors. Most days, Miss Delilah comes down with a flower
on her lapel or pinned to her breast, and I guess that’s where she gets them.

Of the four doors, I only ever
go through the second on the right. I’m not sure where the others lead,
although I wish I dared explore when I know she’s out of the building. The next
room could be called a sitting room, I suppose, with its heavy carpets,
assortment of sofas, love seats and armchairs, and the gas fireplace made
entirely out of glass like a throne in the center of it all. Thing is, I’ve
never seen a sitting room that was as large as my apartment. And no, my apartment
is not tiny.

This room also has four doors:
the one that goes back to the flowers room, and one on each wall. Again, I only
know what’s behind the door directly across. If I didn’t have a good memory for
places and directions, I’d probably get lost. As it is, it only takes me two or
three minutes to cross five extravagant rooms and finally reach the antechamber
where Miss Delilah always waits.

I say antechamber but really
it’s a walk-in closet. A closet as large as my living room, but still a closet,
with a shoe rack taking an entire wall, and opposite that wall rows of gowns,
dresses, skirts, shirts and pants all perfectly organized. There are only two
doors in that room, the one I come in and the one to her bedroom. I caught a
glimpse, once, when she was walking back in. It’s done all in dark blue and
navy colors, and the bed could fit at least five or six people.

Do I think it ever welcomed that
many? I told you, I’d never betray Miss Delilah’s trust, not even now.

Especially not now.

That afternoon, she was still in
her dressing gown, reclining in the Victorian fainting chair in the center of
the room. The chair was upholstered in shiny black velour and looked simply
gorgeous. So did she, in fact.

Her hair was done, half of it
piled on top of her head in a regal bun set with pins accented with what I’d
bet were real diamonds, and the rest framing her face and neck in elegant
curls. Her skin is so pale that her hair seems darker for it, jet black, shiny
and beautiful. Her make-up was perfect, too: just a hint of lipstick, a burst
of pink in her cheeks, and smoky eye shadow that deepened her green eyes.
Except for the robe, she was ready for that party.

She set the correspondence aside
without giving it so much as a look when I handed her the tray and then she
gestured for me to sit on the chair next to her.

“I can’t make up my mind,” she
said, and only after I sat did I know what she meant.

Facing us, four mannequins
displayed the dresses she’d had made for the party. I couldn’t help but smile.

“I can’t blame you,” I said.
“They all look beautiful. And I bet they look even better on you.”

No, I wasn’t sucking up to her.
It was only the truth. She has the kind of body that could make a potato sack
look like high fashion. It’s not just her body, though. It’s her poise, the way
she carries herself like she’s beautiful, knows she’s beautiful, and knows
everyone looking at her, male or female, thinks she’s beautiful.

She made a little sound that
could have meant ‘Of course they look gorgeous on me’ or maybe ‘you’re just
saying that.’ I could feel it when her eyes turned to me—believe me, there’s no
way not to know when she looks at you, the air is charged with electricity all
of a sudden—but I kept looking at the dresses, thinking that if I’d been in her
position, I would have had a hard time making up my mind as well.

“I think what we need is a
fashion show,” she said, her voice a little aloof like she’d been musing aloud.

Immediately, I slipped into
Private Assistant mode and worked up a battle plan. I would contact the
designers, and have each of them pick a model that would best display the
dress. Either they could contact the girls directly or I would do so myself. An
hour, maybe an hour and a half depending on traffic, and Miss Delilah would get
what she wanted. The way she always did.

Except… that was not what she
wanted.

“The one on the far left first,”
she said with a small gesture of her fingers. “Go ahead.”

I didn’t move. Blinking, I
turned my eyes to her. She was watching me with a small smile and a perfectly
shaped raised eyebrow.

“I’m sorry, Miss Delilah. I’m
not sure what you mean.”

She clucked her tongue. “Of
course you do, Lina. You’re going to model these dresses for me. Come on. The
one on the left first.”

I was confused and amused and
annoyed and absolutely certain that no, I wouldn’t do this, it was way beyond
my job requirements.

And still, I stood and slipped
out of my jacket.