Books by Maggie Shayne (92 page)

She closed her eyes and focused her thoughts on Roland.
 
Take Jamey out of here.
 
Be careful.
 
They're watching, and
...
 
Before she completed the thought, the bastard twisted his blade again, and Rhiannon couldn't stop the gasp of pain that escaped her.
 
"Well?
 
Are you going to give me what I want?"

Her legs gave out.
 
The loss of blood combined with the pain was simply too much.
 
She went to her knees, causing the man's blade to rake up over her rib cage, and nick her throat.

At that moment, the man flew backward for no apparent cause, landing with a heavy thud on the ground.
 
"You've just ended your life, human."
 
It was Roland's voice, and it was quivering with a rage she'd never heard in him before.
 
He reached for the man, who lay on his back, staring defiantly up at him.

"Here!" the mortal yelled at the top of his lungs.
 
"They're here!
 
Hurry!"

"That won't save you."
 
Roland lifted the man by the front of his shirt, and Rhiannon knew he was about to crush his larynx.
 
She'd never seen Roland so angry.
 
He'd forgotten his well-schooled caution, his carefully cultivated calm.
 
She felt it in his every thought, saw it in every line of his face.
 
He would kill the man, and anyone who tried to stop him.
 
The force of his anger shook her to the core.
 
She hadn't known he was capable of such explosive violence.

"Roland, they're coming," she managed to say.
 
"We must go.
 
Think... of Jamey."

He pummeled the man's face with his fist, and slowly lifted him again.
 
"Let them come.
 
They'll soon wish they'd kept their distance."

She put every ounce of strength she had into her voice.
 
"Roland, please!
 
I'm bleeding--"

All at once, it seemed, his fury dissipated.
 
Roland dropped the limp form to the ground.
 
Then he whirled, bending over Rhiannon and lifting her easily into his arms.
 
He searched her face, his eyes wide with fear now, rather than narrow with a barely suppressed rage.
 
She felt him stiffen as he realized the extent of her blood loss and the weakness of her body.
 
In a burst of preternatural speed, he left the parking lot and the sounds of running feet behind.

"Where... is Jamey?"

"We had to sneak out a window and duck through the brush.
 
There were DPI agents watching all the exits.
 
I put him in the car with Frederick and saw them safely off.
 
They're fine."

She sighed, but it was broken by pain.
 
"Good."

"You're still losing blood."
 
He stopped, and settled her on the ground.
 
She glanced upward, seeing only the black outline of gnarled tree limbs against the paler gray of the night.
 
They were in a wooded area.

She heard the tear of fabric as Roland hurriedly opened her blouse.
 
Then there was more pain, even at his gentle touch, as he pressed a handkerchief firmly to the wound.
 
"Hold it there," he instructed.
 
"Hold it tightly.
 
Ignore the pain."

She did, but cried out.
 
"Easy for you to say.
 
You're less than ten centuries old.
 
I'm more than twice that."

"With age comes strength," he replied in a hoarse voice as his fingers touched the smaller wound.
 
She winced.

"And weakness."
 
She drew a shaky breath.
 
"You well know that I'm far more vulnerable to pain and blood loss, sunlight and fire, than you are."
 
Her head fell backward, her neck suddenly incapable of supporting it.
 
"I'm not certain I'll make it to dawn, Roland."

Again, he slipped his arms beneath her, lifted her.
 
This time, he pressed her face to the crook of his neck.
 
"You will, Rhiannon.
 
I won't allow it to be otherwise.
 
You only need to drink."

She stiffened, unsure of his meaning.
 
His hand at the back of her head pressed her nearer, his fingers moving softly through her hair as his palm held her to him.
 
Her lips touched the skin of his throat, tasted its salt.

"Drink," he said again.

And she did.

Roland closed his eyes as her lips moved against his throat.
 
The blood lust came alive at her touch.
 
The sexual desire pummeled him until he felt too weak to fight it.
 
God, but he wanted her.
 
And what she was doing now only trebled the already powerful longing.
 
Slowly the restraint he'd been struggling to hold in place shuddered beneath the assault of desire.
 
Roland drew a strangled breath.

"Enough!"

He hadn't meant the single command to sound so harsh.
 
She immediately lifted her head, blinking.
 
Roland saw the passion in her eyes, even through the pain clouding them.

"Any more and I'll not have the strength to carry you home, Rhiannon," he lied in a much softer tone.
 
He still feared for her well-being, but in truth if she didn't stop right then, he'd have dropped her into the tangy scented leaves at their feet, and made frantic love to her, pain or no pain.

"Put me down, then.
 
I can walk."

He only shook his head and began again, in the direction of the castle.

"I said put me down.
 
I've never needed any man to help me, and I never will.
 
I can manage on my own."

"You needed the help of a man tonight, Rhiannon.
 
No doubt if you continue in your reckless life-style, you'll need it again.
 
And you need it now, whether you'll admit it or not, so rest in my arms and are quiet."

She did settle more comfortably against him, but the set of her lips told him the argument was far from over.
 
"I will, but only because I know the truth.
 
You're carrying me because you like it.
 
You like the way my body feels so close to yours.
 
As for my needing the help of a male, you are completely wrong.
 
I was only waiting for the right moment to rip that fool's head from his shoulders.
 
I'm as capable as any male, mortal or immortal, young or old, and you ought not forget it."

Roland rolled his eyes.
 
"I thought at least to get a word of thanks for saving your life.
 
Instead, I get scolded for daring to assume you were in need of assistance?"

She was silent for a moment, considering his words, he thought.
 
"All right, I suppose I owe you my thanks, then.
 
Only don't dare think of me as inferior."

"I never have, Rhiannon."

"That is purely a lie."

Roland frowned, searching her upturned face as he continued carrying her through the thickening forest.
 
Crisp leaves and fallen twigs crackled beneath his hurried steps.
 
"Why do you say so?"

"Foolish question."

Roland focused on the bite in her tone, rather than on the weight of her hip, or the way it slid over his abdomen with his every step.
 
He forcibly ignored the feel of her head nestled upon his shoulder, and the softness of the rounded breast that pressed to his chest.
 
"I believe being assaulted by DPI operatives makes you decidedly cranky."

He saw her part her lips to reply, then she stopped herself, frowning.
 
"I'm not sure he was DPI.
 
At least, if he was, he was more concerned with his own interests than theirs."

"What do you mean?"

"Roland, the man was uncommonly knowledgeable about our kind.
 
He listed our weaknesses.
 
He called me by name."

Roland stopped walking, glancing ahead to the dark stone wall that completely surrounded the Castle Courtemanche.
 
He could hear the violence of the River Tordu to his left as it splashed and roiled its way to fuse with the older, calmer waters of the River Loire.
 
To his right, past the edge of the woods, a cool, green meadow rolled like a carpet from the outer wall to the winding dirt road.
 
But the aromas of the grasses, of the rivers, of the very night, faded beside the scent of Rhiannon's hair and skin.

Roland shook himself and honed his senses, searching for the presence of others.
 
They'd made excellent time, but he feared DPI forces would be on their way.

"Roland, you aren't listening.
 
I scanned, and found no sign of this man, though he was lying in ambush.
 
He can mask his presence, block us out."

Roland nodded.
 
"It was only a matter of time before they learned that simple trick, Rhiannon.
 
It shouldn't alarm you."

"He ordered me to transform him."

Roland froze, a chill of precognition tiptoeing up his spine.
 
"That's ridiculous.
 
He couldn't be transformed unless he was one of The Chosen.
 
Anyone working for DPI would know that--"

"Which can only mean he
is
one of The Chosen.
 
Roland, we should have felt his presence.
 
He has somehow sharpened his psychic abilities.
 
The man is dangerous."

Roland recalled again the shock of pain that had lanced through him when he'd felt Rhiannon's mind reaching out to him back at the stadium.
 
He recalled the rage he'd felt when he'd seen the bastard holding her, that knife piercing her sensitive skin, the blade twisting as she gasped in pain, the tears shimmering over her eyes.

"You ought to have let me kill him."

She stilled utterly, searching his face.
 
"You very nearly did, Roland.
 
I've never seen you like that."

"With good reason."
 
He glanced down at her.
 
He wished to God she hadn't witnessed the ugliness inside him.
 
But now that she had, there was little use in denying it.
 
"I'm a man capable of great violence, Rhiannon.
 
There lurks within me a demon, one who thrives on bloodshed."

She frowned, sable eyebrows bunching over her small, narrow nose.
 
"I've known you from the first moment of your preternatural existence, Roland.
 
I've never seen a sign of this demon."

"I keep it in check, or I have, until now."
 
He gazed at her beautiful, flawless face.
 
Why was control so much more difficult when she was near?
 
She was like a magnet, drawing the beast from its hidden lair, stirring it to life by her very presence.
 
"It was in me before, Rhiannon, when I was yet a mortal."

"You were a knight!
 
One known far and wide for courage and valor and--"

"All pretty words for bloodlust.
 
I was talented in the art of battle.
 
A skillful killer.
 
No more."

She stiffened in his arms.
 
"You're wrong about yourself.
 
This demon you claim possesses you is no more than the will to live.
 
Those times were violent, and only the violent survive in battle, a man must kill or be killed.
 
You did what was necessary..."
 
She winced all at once, and clung more tightly to his neck.

His knowledge of her discomfort was as acute as if the pain were his own.
 
"Press the handkerchief more tightly, Rhiannon.
 
The bleeding is beginning again."
 
He strengthened his hold on her and ran the last few steps to the wall, leaping easily over it.
 
Now was no time for recriminations or confessions.
 
Not while her very life was slowly seeping from her body.
 
Oddly enough, Roland felt as if his vitality were draining away, as well, keeping perfect pace with hers.

He carried her over the barren courtyard, past the crumbling fountain that marked its center and through the huge, groaning door.
 
He set her on her feet to pull the door closed.

The cat lunged gracefully from the lowest stair, stopped in front of her mistress and seemed almost to study her, eyes intent and intelligent.
 
Pandora lifted her head, and sniffed delicately at Rhiannon's blood-soaked blouse, and the sound she emitted from deep in her throat could have been a snort of alarm.

"There, kitty.
 
It's not the end of me."
 
Rhiannon stroked the cat's head with one hand, still holding the hanky to her waist with the other.

Jamey came bounding down the stairs with Frederick on his heels.
 
The boy stopped a yard from Rhiannon, his face setting into a granite mask no child of his age had any business wearing.

Frederick came forward, dropped to one knee in front of her and moved the handkerchief aside briefly before pressing it tight again.
 
"It's bad.
 
You need stitches."

"Not necessary," Roland stated, hoping to hide the effect of those words on his equilibrium.
 
Stitches.
 
It brought to mind the image of a sharp object piercing her sensitive skin, an object held by his hand.
 
The pain would be incredible.

Frederick looked again and shook his head.
 
"It isn't gonna stop bleeding."

Roland swallowed hard.
 
Frederick had been a medic in the army before he'd succumbed to the mental illness that kept him so childlike.
 
The man knew a bit about injuries.
 
Still, the thought of the pain...
 
"She needs only rest."

"Nonsense," Rhiannon said softly.
 
"I can rest, but the regenerative sleep will only come with the dawn.
 
I doubt I can keep from bleeding to death until then."

At her words, Roland felt a fist in his stomach.
 
Reckless and irritating though she was, he could not see her die.
 
Even the thought was too much to bear.
 
He glanced once more at Frederick.
 
"Can you do it?"

Frederick's blue eyes widened and he shook his head.
 
It was obvious the very idea scared him to death.

"You'll have to stitch it up, Roland."
 
Rhiannon's voice was steady and firm, but he heard the underlying weakness.
 
"There must be a needle somewhere in this place.
 
You can use the silk thread from my blouse.
 
It's ruined, anyway."

He met her slowly clouding gaze and knew she was right.
 
The specter like image of the needle, wielded by his own hands, inflicting what would be agonizing pain on her sickened him.
 
He stiffened his resolve.
 
He would do what must be done.

"I'll bring a needle," Frederick said softly.
 
He turned and lumbered up the curving stone stairs, hugging the wall as if afraid of falling should he walk too near the open side.

Roland swept Rhiannon up once again.
 
He turned toward the vaulted corridor to the west wing.
 
Jamey's voice, low and trembling, stopped him.
 
"It was Rogers, wasn't it?"

Rhiannon's head rose from his shoulder as Roland turned to face the angry boy.
 
"No, Jamison," she told him.
 
"It was not.
 
It was a man I've never seen before."

"Was he DPI?"

She sighed.
 
"I can't be certain."

Jamey's gaze met Roland's then.
 
"Did you kill him?"

"No."

"He would have, though," Rhiannon put in quickly, as if defending him.
 
"I had to insist he drop the man and leave before the others discovered us there."

"Killing him would have solved nothing, Jamison.
 
It would only have brought more trouble."

Jamey shook his head slowly.
 
"Not good enough."
 
His gaze again met Roland's and there was an intensity burning in the young eyes that gave him cause to shudder.
 
Like looking into a mirror and seeing his own youth.
 
"Doesn't matter," Jamey said.
 
He glanced back at Pandora, and simply tilted his head.
 
Then he walked ahead of them down the corridor, with the cat leaping to keep up with him.

Roland frowned.
 
"Did you see that?"

Rhiannon, still staring down the dim corridor after the two, shook her head.
 
"He is communicating with my kitten."

She sounded as if she disliked the idea.

*
   
*
   
*
   
*
   
*

Rhiannon grated her teeth and squeezed her eyes tightly.
 
Roland's hands trembled as he poked the needle into her skirt, and pulled another tight knot in the thread.
 
He snipped the thread with tiny scissors, and bent over her to begin again.

She wore a cream-colored camisole, stained with her own blood.
 
Roland had deftly removed her ruined blouse and her skirt.
 
She lay on her back on Roland's bed.
 
Of course, it wasn't really his bed.
 
He only kept one in his chamber for appearance's sake.
 
She'd had a brief moment to be grateful he kept it made up with fresh linens and a fluffy down comforter, before this torture had begun.

Roland sat upon the bed's edge, grim-faced.
 
Jamey stood at the opposite side.
 
After the first stitch and Rhiannon's breathless reaction to it, the boy had gripped her hand.
 
She squeezed it harder with each jolt of pain, then reminded herself not to crush his mortal bones to dust.