Books by Maggie Shayne (90 page)

"Seven tomorrow night."
 
Jamey's eyes lit with hope.

Rhiannon seemed deep in thought.
 
"It is dark by seven, is it not?"

Roland was unable to hold his silence any longer.
 
"Rhiannon, we cannot protect the boy in a stadium crowded with spectators.
 
Do not even suggest--"

"It is important to him, Roland.
 
Surely you can see that."

"I have to make the practice after school tomorrow.
 
If I miss it, I can't play in the match.
 
Coach's rule."

"No.
 
That I cannot arrange," Rhiannon said softly.
 
"This practice session is by day, Jamey.
 
We could not protect you there."

"I can protect myself."

"It is simple, really," Rhiannon went on as if he hadn't spoken.
 
"I will simply pen a note to this coach, telling him you've twisted your ankle, and must rest it for the entire day or else not be capable of playing in the game.
 
If he requires a note from a doctor, I will, of course write one.
 
I will deliver this note, along with a check, a donation, if you will, to the athletic department.
 
I'll make it a hefty enough sum that the man will be only too happy to excuse you from practice.
 
There, you see how simple?"

Jamey smiled slightly.
 
Then frowned.
 
"I shouldn't take your money--"

"Posh," Rhiannon said with a wave of her hand.
 
"I have more than you can imagine."
 
She looked at Jamey, her eyes glowing with affection.
 
"Besides, I can't remember the last time I watched a soccer match.
 
So, it is decided."

She strode out the door, the picture of elegance in her black velvet gown.

Roland dogged her steps.

She stopped on the stairway and turned to face him, daring him to argue with her.

"I do not have any intention of attending this soccer match."

She shrugged delicately.
 
"Well, we'll miss you, of course, but if that's your decision"

"Jamison isn't going either.
 
It's too great a risk."

She rolled her eyes.
 
"What is life without risk?"

"I forbid this, Rhiannon."

"Forbid all you like.
 
Jamey and I are attending the match.
 
And believe me, darling, no mere mortal is going to harm that boy while I am near.
 
You forget who I am."

He shook his head.
 
"There will be, perhaps, over a hundred mortals in attendance.
 
We'd be spotted immediately.
 
Recognized for what we are.
 
Have you no sense7"

She only turned and resumed walking down the stairs.
 
"Just as I was recognized the other night at Le Requin?
 
Roland, there are ways to disguise ourselves.
 
A bit of flesh-toned makeup on our pale skin, a pair of shaded lenses if you fear the glow in your eyes will be seen.
 
A bit of powder to those blood-red lips.
 
It is so obscenely simple to fool them, you see.
 
Besides, they are modern humans.
 
They wouldn't believe what we are, even if we walked up to them and announced it."

"This is utter foolishness," he muttered as he watched her proceed down the stairs.
 
How could one disguise one's nature, one's violence?
 
How could Roland allow the two people he most wanted to protect to place themselves in such a vulnerable position?

She reached the bottom step, and waited for him to join her there.
 
"You've lived as a hermit far too long, Roland.
 
You deny yourself the simplest luxuries."

"I have all I require."

"Nonsense.
 
If you could see some of the places I've lived.
 
Mansions in the countryside, penthouse suites in the finest hotels.
 
I have a delicious condo in New York.
 
When I choose to drive, I only travel in the height of luxury.
 
I attend the opera, the ballet, the theater.
 
Roland, there is no danger.
 
Not to us.
 
Who could hope to harm us?"

 
"DPI, as you well know."

"Ah.
 
I make one mistake in all my centuries of existence, and you cling to it like Pandora with a steak."

 
"They nearly had Eric, too.
 
It can happen."

"Eric is young... a mere two centuries old, Roland.
 
You have triple his strength and powers.
 
Besides, what is the use of endless life if one lives it like this?"
 
Her hands moved to encompass the great hall.

He sighed.
 
Arguing with her was an exhausting venture.
 
"I live here because I want to do so."

"No.
 
I think you cling to the past.
 
I think you fail to embrace your immortality, to relish it, as I do, out of some misguided sense of family loyalty, or something."

"And I think you seek out danger deliberately, as if daring death to claim you.
 
Why do you do it, Rhiannon?"

Her face quickly became shuttered, showing not a trace of emotion.
 
Even her mind closed to him, a heavy veil dropping instantly over it.
 
He knew he'd hit on something, but had no idea what.

"Even if that were true, you must believe I wouldn't include your Jamey in my challenge.
 
I would not risk him, Roland."

"Why not?
 
What is he to you?"

"It is what he is to you that matters."
 
Her ebony gaze fell to the floor, and for an instant, Roland glimpsed stark agony in her eyes.
 
"I know how he feels.
 
I know just the kind of pain there is in his young heart.
 
The loss of his mother--"
 
She blinked rapidly, and stopped speaking as her voice grew hoarse.
 
She whirled away from him, and headed across the stone floor toward the heavy doors.

"Where are you going?"
 
His mind reached out to hers.
 
He felt as if he'd been shown a part of Rhiannon no one had ever before seen.
 
He wanted to know more, wanted to identify the source of the pain he'd just glimpsed.
 
Wanted to end it.

"To my lair, of course.
 
It's nearly dawn."

He found himself at a loss.
 
He hadn't expected her to leave the castle today.
 
"I... I thought you'd stay here."

"And sleep where?
 
I suppose you have some spare box of polished hardwood I could use, stored in those dank dungeons of yours?"
 
The cynicism returned to her voice.

He didn't answer.

"I prefer a soft bed, Roland.
 
I prefer satin sheets to shrouds.
 
A fluffy down comforter and a plump soft pillow beneath my head.
 
I prefer fresh air, rife with the fragrance of incense."

"Sounds very lovely.
 
But where is your protection?"

"Come to me some dawn, darling, and I will show you."
 
With a swish of her velvet dress, she turned, strode to the door and was gone.

Roland woke at full dark, feeling the rush of tingling awareness sizzling in his every nerve ending.
 
He quickly unfastened the complex locks on the inner lid, using his mind to scan the immediate area, before throwing it wide.
 
He leapt to the floor with ease, landing soundlessly on the cold stone.

His rest had not been peaceful.
 
Often he'd found himself hovering on the verge of consciousness, while images flitted to and fro in his mind.
 
He was troubled, and not just on Jamey's behalf.
 
The images had been of Rhiannon, more often than not.
 
Beautiful, desirable, reckless Rhiannon.
 
Had he no more sense than a rutting mortal?
 
Could he not distinguish common, vulgar lust from true feelings of affection?
 
Could he not banish the temptress from his mind?

He moved slowly through the crumbling passages of the dungeons in utter darkness, his extraordinary vision showing him the way.
 
Blind, he'd have known the way.
 
It was embedded in him.
 
Every niche of this castle was.
 
It had been his home in boyhood, his curse in adolescence, his prison as a young man.
 
It had become the purgatory of the immortal, the place in which he would serve the sentence for the sin he'd committed against the family he'd adored.
 
Yes, adored, but adored too late.

And what earthly good was done by dwelling on it now?

He tugged at an iron ring mounted in what appeared to be an immobile stone wall, using a great deal of his vampiric strength to move it.
 
No mortal could hope to achieve the same feat without the help of some explosive or other.
 
He slipped into the passage, and mounted the perpendicular spiral stairs of rusting iron.
 
His every step echoed a thousand times in the darkness.
 
There had once been a ladder here as the sole entrance to the dungeon's lowest level from the castle keep.
 
When the ladder had needed replacing, the set of spiral stairs had seemed more apropos.

At the entrance to his chambers on the castle's ground level, he opened the door and emerged into his wardrobe, shoving hangers and suits of clothes aside.
 
These, of course, he carefully rearranged to cover the entrance.
 
Then he chose a fresh suit, and emerged into his chambers in the west wing.

He moved directly to the antique desk and took a long wooden match from the holder there to light the oil lamp.
 
He repeated the ritual, lighting several more until the room glowed with a soft, golden hue.
 
Looking around him now, he supposed Rhiannon would scoff at the place he called his home.
 
The draperies that covered the tall, arched windows were heavy and faded with time.
 
They smelled of dust and age.
 
Their color was green, once brilliant as emeralds, but now dull, as if one were seeing them through a heavy fog.
 
The windows themselves, a concession to modern times and added long after the deaths of the castle's rightful barons, were streaked and dirty.
 
Looking through them was like looking through the filmy eyes of an old man.
 
But wasn't that what this castle was, after all?
 
An old, old man, whose every beloved friend had left him to wither and die alone?

The brocade upholstery on the antique set tee had lost its luster long ago.
 
The fireplace was a cold, dark cavity, holding the ashes of a fire long forgotten.
 
The hardwood chairs, once throne like and imposing, sat like sad witnesses to the end of an era, their wood grain and hand-tooled designs barely discernible through the years of neglect, their embroidered cushions worn and faded.
 
High above, the chandelier, with its tier upon tier of candles, hung dark and brooding like a ghost of the past.
 
Draped with cobwebs and shrouded with dust, it watched in silence as Roland served his eternal death sentence in the rooms below.

Rhiannon would hate these rooms.

And what did he care what Rhiannon thought of anything?

She's here, now.

The realization came to him with sudden clarity.
 
She was here, on the grounds.
 
He felt the vivid colors of her aura, and sensed the mad vibrations in the air, the snapping electricity that always announced her presence.
 
In spite of himself, Roland hurried through his nightly bathing and dressing.
 
Not because he was eager to see her again, he told himself.
 
Not that at all.
 
He only wished to be present to keep her in check.
 
God only knew what she might do left to her own devices.

He followed his sense of her, moving soundlessly and quickly through the echoing corridors and finally into the great hall.
 
Still she was not in sight.
 
He sensed Jamey's presence now, as well, and Frederick's... and the cat's.
 
Not within the keep, but without, in the courtyard.

Beyond the heavy plank door, he saw her in the darkness.
 
Surprising him was something she did well and often.
 
Why had he not grown used to it by now?

She raced over the grass less brown earth, her path illuminated by silvery moonlight, keeping a spotted ball moving along between her feet.
 
She was clad in a pair of black denims, which had been cut off midway up her shapely thighs.
 
Small white socks barely covered her ankles and her feet were encased in black, lacing shoes with garish red stripes and mean-looking cleats protruding from their soles.

As Roland stood, transfixed, Jamey raced toward Rhiannon thrusting one foot between her two and snatching the ball away.
 
Rhiannon tripped and tumbled head over heels in the dirt, rolling to a stop with a cloud of brown dust rising around her.
 
Roland lunged, but stopped himself when he heard her deep laughter.
 
She stood and brushed the dirt from her derriere.

"Very good, Jamey."
 
Again she laughed.
 
She pushed the ebony hair from her face, leaving a dirt smear on her cheek.
 
"Show me again, I want to learn this."

Roland cleared his throat, and Rhiannon turned, spotting him.
 
"Don't look that way, love," she cooed.
 
"I'm not going to hurt him."

For a shocking instant, Roland realized he'd been more concerned about her hurting herself.
 
Imagine!
 
He'd been afraid the most powerful immortal he knew might hurt herself playing soccer with a young boy.
 
Damn strange.
 
True enough, immortals felt pain more keenly than mortals did, and Rhiannon would be especially sensitive.
 
But any injuries Rhiannon might sustain would heal as she rested by day.
 
Still, it stunned him that the thought of seeing her in pain should shake him so.

"See to it you don't," he told her, unwilling to admit the true path of his thoughts.
 
"He does have that match tomorrow night."

"Does this mean you've decided to stop arguing the point?"

He nodded, but reluctantly.
 
Rhiannon strode baldly up to him and threw her arms around his neck.
 
Her embrace resulted in his starched white shirt and tailored jacket be coming as dirty as she was.
 
Yet he withstood it well enough, even though her body pressed tightly to his that way sent his pulse racing and caused his eyes to water.

"There are conditions, Rhiannon."

She gazed up at him, for though she was tall for a woman, he was still a good deal taller.
 
"Conditions?"
 
Her eyebrows furrowed, showing her displeasure.

He cleared his throat.
 
He was about to anger her.
 
Seemed to him everything he said angered her.
 
Still, he had to speak his mind.
 
A ball of foreboding about this excursion had lodged somewhere in his stomach and he couldn't shake the feeling that she was about to put herself at risk... yet again.
 
"At this match, you will behave with a modicum of decorum."

"Oh, will I?"

"You will try, for once in your existence, not to draw undue attention.
 
You will be polite, soft-spoken and unobtrusive."

Her eyes glittered.
 
"And just why will I transform myself this way?"

Roland sighed.
 
He only wanted to keep her from being discovered by Rogers or another one like him.
 
Why did she have to be so defensive?
 
"Because I have asked you to, Rhiannon.
 
And because it is the wisest course to take.
 
Rogers isn't stupid, nor is he the only agent in the area.
 
Anyone who's learned Jamey's identity will know enough to look for him at that match."

For once, her chin dropped rather than thrusting upward into his face.
 
She gave an almost imperceptible nod, and Roland felt a mingling of surprise and relief.
 
He'd been certain she would argue.
 
Protecting Rhiannon was going to be as much a challenge as protecting Jamey, he thought grimly.

*
   
*
   
*
   
*
   
*

"Ready?"
 
Roland asked the following evening, an hour before the match was to begin.
 
He stood near the huge, empty hearth in the great hall.
 
Rhiannon closed the heavy door, causing its hinges to groan in protest, and crossed the cold, dusty stone floor to join him.

She chewed her lower lip.
 
"I'm not sure.
 
I don't have the benefit of a reflection by which to judge my appearance."

He fought the urge to smile.
 
"Must be a damned nuisance to a woman of your vanity."

She met his gaze, her own flashing.
 
"Quite right.
 
You ought to paint my portrait, so I can see what I look like when I wish it."

"You know I don't paint anymore."

"Perhaps it's time you started."
 
She glanced around her, and he knew she was noting the absence of any decoration adorning the gray stone walls.
 
There were only torches mounted in brackets, and here and there the mounted antlers of one of his brothers' kills.
 
"This place could use it.
 
Whatever became of the portraits you'd done of your family?"

He shook his head.
 
The subject was not open to discussion.
 
Having the faces of those he'd failed looking down at him would be too much agony to bear.
 
"In answer to your initial question, Rhiannon, you look fine."

"That, my dear Roland, is no answer at all."
 
She stood before him, hands at her sides.
 
"Look at me, darling.
 
Describe to me what you see.
 
I am so tired of going out and about wondering if everything is in place."
 
She waited a moment.
 
Roland's gaze moved over her, and he found himself unable to form a coherent thought.
 
"I'll help," she offered.
 
"Begin with my hair.
 
Is it all right?"

She turned slowly and Roland nodded.
 
"It gleams like satin, as you well know."
 
His eyes traveled the length of it.
 
She wore it long, and unencumbered by barrettes or dressings of any kind.
 
She'd combed it all to one side, as she was prone to do, thus leaving the bare length of her swan's neck visible to the point of distraction.
 
She had braided a tiny, silken lock on the left side of her face; from the crown of her head all the way to her waist.
 
It had a petite charm that lured one to touch it.

Rhiannon, catching his gaze, lifted the braid in two fingers.
 
"You like it?"

"Yes."
 
He licked his lips, then caught himself.
 
"Yes, it's just fine.
 
Are you ready to go now?"

"But you haven't finished."
 
Her pout was utterly false.
 
She leaned forward.
 
"What about the blouse?
 
Does it show too much cleavage?"

Against his will, his eyes were drawn downward to the plunging neckline of the satiny, emerald-colored garment.
 
The swell of her creamy breasts filled the lowest part of the V, and Roland felt a twisting sensation in his stomach.
 
"When do you not show too much," he asked, trying for a sarcastic tone.

She shrugged, straightened and struck yet another pose, this time hands on her hips.
 
"And the skirt?
 
Do you think it's too short?"

It was tight, molded to her hips like cling wrap, black and made of suede.
 
It buttoned down the front, and as if the garment had not already been daring enough, Rhiannon had left the bottom two buttons agape.
 
Her thighs, shimmering beneath silk stockings, extended from the skirt's edge.
 
As she stood there, turning first to one side, then the other, Roland's gaze affixed itself to her legs.
 
"Perhaps it's simply that your legs are too long," he suggested.
 
But instead of sounding dry and uninterested, his voice came out hoarse and none too loudly.