Books by Maggie Shayne (91 page)

"These stockings are wonderful, don't you think?"
 
She stepped nearer and bent one knee, propping her foot on low stool.
 
"So soft against my skin.
 
Touch them, Roland and you'll see what I mean."
 
She caught his hand in hers and pressed his palm to the front of her thigh, then rubber it up and down over the smooth, cinnamon-tinted silk.

He swallowed.
 
"As I've mentioned before, you lack a certain degree of subtlety.
 
Why do you not simply tea my clothes off and attempt a forced seduction?"
 
H snatched his hand away, more angry with his own responses than with her childish attempts to lure him.

He saw the hurt in her eyes before she covered it, and he regretted his words at once.
 
She truly couldn't help herself, he supposed.
 
She was simply being Rhiannon He'd allowed his anger at himself to spill out onto her "I'm sorry, Rhiannon.
 
I didn't mean--"

She tossed her hair.
 
"Of course you did.
 
You'd prefer me to become what you consider a true lady, to sit on an embroidered cushion and bat my eyes until you take the initiative, and ask me to dance.
 
Hah!
 
I'd be coated in mot cobwebs than this great hall by the time you made up your mind."

She turned her back to him.
 
"I was going to the match with you, but now I believe I will ride in the car with Frederick and Jamey.
 
Enjoy your walk, Roland.
 
And it God's sake, change into the clothes I brought for you before you leave.
 
If you think attending a schoolboy soccer match in such formal attire is inconspicuous, you better think again."

He glanced down at the bag she'd dropped near the door as she whirled and walked through it.

He did not enjoy his walk.
 
It turned out that he wasn't quite hard-hearted enough to hurt Rhiannon and take any sort of pleasure from it.
 
He hadn't meant to insult her, but she was getting to him, dammit.
 
Any man would be less than cheerful and charming when feeling as frustrated as he'd been.
 
To resist her overt sexual overtures took every bit of will he possessed.
 
But to give in to them would be foolhardy, to say the least.
 
Not only would she never let him forget that she'd won this particular battle of wills, but she'd probably flit away like a summer breeze when the act was done.
 
He might not see her again for years.
 
And in the process, she'd have loosed the beast he'd battled for so long.

No.
 
This... thing that sizzled between them was purely physical in nature.
 
It's overwhelming potency... well, he could attribute that to the vampiric state.
 
Every sensation was felt more keenly by immortals.
 
Desire was simply magnified by his nature.

That explanation firmly established in his mind, he used his preternatural speed to arrive at the stadium before the little car he'd purchased for Frederick.
 
He much preferred travel by his own power or by horse, to being helplessly hurtled through space by three thousand pounds of manmade scrap metal.

At the stadium, he felt more conspicuous in the attire Rhiannon had chosen for him than ever he had in his own overly formal clothing.
 
The blue denim hugged his backside and clung with unaccustomed tightness to his groin.
 
The sweatshirt was black.
 
That part did not disturb him.
 
But the blaze of neon paint across his chest, proclaiming him a fan of something called the Grateful Dead, had him at the end of his patience.
 
He was not amused by the skull and crossbones, or by the not so subtle irony in her choice.
 
At least he blended in with the crowd.

In contrast, Rhiannon, seated just to his left, was anything but unnoticeable.
 
She shouted encouragement, not to mention a few obscenities when the opposing team made progress.
 
She was in constant motion, wriggling in her seat, leaning forward or standing or both, when she wanted a better view, much to the delight of the males in the seats near her, Roland noted with a rush of inexplicable anger.

Still, in the seats below, near the team's bench, he saw that Frederick was nearly as animated.

Jamey, looking fierce in his uniform and with black smudges under his eyes to fight glare from the overhead lights, raced across the artificial turf with the ball.
 
Rhiannon shouted encouragement, getting to her feet as he neared the goal.

Roland scowled.
 
Was this supposed to be unobtrusive behavior?
 
My God, he couldn't take his eyes off her, nor could several other men in the immediate area.

Roland forced his gaze back to the field of play, just as another lad thrust a leg in Jamey's path, tripping him so he tumbled head over heels, hitting hard.
 
Roland caught his breath.
 
Jamey got to his feet, though, and charged after the brat.
 
When Jamey regained possession of the ball, Roland stood.
 
He had no idea he'd done so, but there he was, upright.
 
When the bully approached, Jamey skillfully passed the ball to a teammate, and when the teammate was similarly accosted, he passed back to Jamey.

A moment later, Jamey planted one foot and slammed the ball with the other, driving it into the goal with impressive speed.
 
Roland applauded as loudly as anyone.
 
Rhiannon released a piercing whistle that probably damaged some human ears.
 
He touched her arm.
 
She looked at him, her half smile a full-blown one for a change.

"You're forgetting yourself."
 
He nearly didn't remind her.
 
He didn't want to see her brilliant smile die.

"So are you," she told him.
 
But she did sit down again.

*
   
*
   
*
   
*
   
*

Jamey's team won by a slim margin.
 
Rhiannon felt drained from the excitement of the match.
 
She and Frederick walked to the parking lot, while Roland waited outside the locker room to escort Jamey out.
 
Rhiannon was certain no DPI operatives had been in the stadium.
 
She'd kept her mind attuned throughout the match, and had caught not the faintest sense of a threat.
 
Still, she remained watchful, and she scanned the minds of everyone who passed, in search of belligerent thoughts.

Frederick got into the car and started the engine, letting it idle as they waited for Roland and Jamey.
 
Rhiannon stood near the driver's door, one arm propped on the car's roof.
 
Others began to leave, a few at a time.

Within a short time, the lot was deserted.
 
The moon's light this evening was more often than not obliterated by inky clouds.
 
The concrete field became eerily silent, save the occasional sounds of vehicles passing on the street nearby.
 
Time passed with leaden feet.

"The game was wonderful, wasn't it, Freddy?"

He nodded enthusiastically.
 
"I practice with Jamey sometimes.
 
But I'm not much good at running."

Rhiannon frowned slightly.
 
"Your leg?"

Again, he nodded.

"Do you mind if I ask what happened to it?"

"No, it's all right.
 
It happened when I was in the city, when I didn't have anyplace to live.
 
It was wintertime, and I guess it just got too cold."

Rhiannon suppressed a shudder at the thought of gentle Freddy, freezing his limbs on a frigid winter's night.
 
"Does it hurt you very much?"

"Oh, no.
 
It hardly bothers me at all, anymore."

"I'm glad."
 
She looked toward the rapidly darkening building.
 
"They're taking too long."

"Maybe we better go back and check on them."

A warning prickle of danger danced over Rhiannon's nape.
 
She sent the probing fingers of her mind in search of the source, but there was nothing tangible.
 
"I think you should wait here, in the car."
 
Rhiannon shook her head, still unable to pinpoint the source of her precognition.
 
"Lock the doors," she added.

"Rhiannon, is somethin' wrong with Jamey?"
 
Fear made Freddy's voice hoarse.
 
"'Cause if there is, I'm going with you."

"I don't know," she said truthfully.
 
"But it really will be better if you wait here.
 
In case Jamey comes out and I miss him.
 
Okay?"
 
She tried to sound unconcerned, and for a moment it surprised her that she should care to ease the mind of a mortal.
 
Then again, Freddy was no ordinary human.
 
When she saw the car doors were locked, she gave him an encouraging nod and hurried across the blacktop toward the entrance.

The thrill of foreboding grew stronger and her fear for Roland and the boy grew with it.
 
Her quickened steps snapped loudly over the lot, and then the sidewalk.
 
She rounded a corner and reached for the doors.

A heavy arm came around her from behind, jerking her off balance and into the shadows.

Fool!
 
Did this human think he could hope to do battle with her and win?

She prepared to pull free, turn around and wring the idiot's neck, when pain split through her consciousness like a piercing cry.
 
The blade tore the flesh at her waist, only a small cut, surely.
 
Yet the scalding pain paralyzed her.
 
And when she felt she could move again, his voice gave her pause.

"I know your weaknesses, Rhiannon.
 
Loss of blood, exposure to sunlight, direct contact between your flesh and an open fire... and pain."
 
The blade pressed to her rib cage, but didn't cut.
 
"Pain," he went on, his voice a rasping serpent in her ear.
 
"The more severe, the more it weakens you.
 
Isn't that right?"
 
The blade's point pressed into her sensitive skin.
 
"And the older the vampire, the more keenly she feels it."
 
More pressure on the blade.
 
A trickle of blood ran beneath her satin blouse, over her abdomen.
 
She sucked breath through her teeth.
 
"So this must be just about maddening, isn't it?"

Teeth grated, she forced words through her lips.
 
"What do you want?"

Again the blade poked, twisting this time.
 
She cried out, then bit her lip.
 
She wouldn't summon Roland, not until she knew what he would be facing.
 
"What do you think?" he rasped.

He was not Curtis Rogers.
 
He was not anyone she'd ever encountered before.
 
He was strong for a human, and unstintingly cruel.
 
The first wound, the one in her side, still pulsed hot spasms of pain as well as blood.
 
She felt herself weakening.
 
A vampire as old as Rhiannon need lose very little to meet her demise.
 
She needed help.
 
Damn, but she hated to admit that.
 
She'd never found herself less than able to deal with adversity.
 
It infuriated her that this human had identified her few weaknesses, and used them so skillfully against her.

Her knees began to tremble and she forced them rigid once more.
 
"Who are you," she growled, "and why do you court death so eagerly?"

"Not death, Rhiannon.
 
Life.
 
Eternal life.
 
Immortality.
 
You have it.
 
I want it."

The man was insane!
 
"You have no idea what you're talking about.
 
You're not..."
 
She paused, dizziness swamping her brain.
 
She blinked it away.
 
"Release me.
 
I must... sit."
 
She pressed her free hand against the hole in her side, hoping to slow the flow of her life from her body.

"If I release you, lady, you might just find enough strength to kill me.
 
That is not my goal."

"If I die, so does your chance of getting what you want."

"Not really.
 
There are others."
 
His grip on her tightened.
 
His pinpoint blade pressed harder, and the end twisted slowly.
 
She was breathing hard now, in broken, ragged gasps.
 
A response to the pain.
 
Tears blurred her vision.
 
"Give me what I want and I will let you go."

"And if I refuse, you'll let me die?"
 
The words came slowly, and her speech was slurred.
 
"I choose death, then."

"Not death, Rhiannon.
 
Something far worse.
 
There are DPI agents all over this place tonight, waiting for that boy of yours.
 
But they'd consider you a greater prize, don't you think?
 
The vampiress who murdered one of their most highly valued researchers all those years ago?
 
I'll just give a shout and bring them running.
 
You're too weak to fight them.
 
Getting weaker all the time."