Books by Maggie Shayne (99 page)

"No.
 
Roland, use your brain and listen.
 
I should have realized that older vampires would be more susceptible to adverse effects than younger ones.
 
Just as they're more susceptible to other elements.
 
Sunlight.
 
Pain.
 
Don't you see?
 
The drug caused this."

Roland faced Eric without blinking.
 
"You truly do not wish to see me for what I am.
 
If the drug did anything at all, it was only to weaken the tenuous grip of my control.
 
The beast within is mine alone, I know it well."

"You're a damned fool if you believe that."

Roland stood.
 
"This conversation is senseless.
 
Go below and rest before the sun fries your wits any further."

"I've been below.
 
I took Tamara down not thirty minutes ago.
 
But, like you, I imbibed the drug this dawn.
 
I understood we would take turns at this day shift of ours.
 
And this conversation is not senseless.
 
It makes perfect sense, and if you were not so stubborn, you would know it."

Roland could stand no more of Eric's rationalizing.
 
He started for the great hall.
 
But his persistent friend followed on his heels.
 
At the foot of the worn stone stairs, Roland turned.
 
"You want a turn guarding the castle, be my guest.
 
But stop hounding me, Eric.
 
I need to be by myself for a time."

Roland hurried up the stairs.
 
Thankfully, Eric remained at the bottom.

He moved past the second level, and the entrance to Jamey's apartment.
 
He continued upward, beyond the third level, and the decaying chambers that hadn't been used since his time as a mortal.
 
The stairs ended abruptly at a heavy wood door, and Roland shoved it open.
 
He stepped into the weapons room, a huge, circular tomb, without windows.
 
It was black as pitch, but he could see clearly.

Suits of armor stood like dust-coated specters, the darkness within them eyeing him with what felt to him like condemnation.
 
Well deserved, Roland thought.
 
Broadswords hung upon the stone walls, tarnished with neglect and time.
 
Their finely detailed scabbards were barely discernible through the filth.
 
Crossbows lined the floor in one section, likely inoperable by now.
 
Bolts stood in a short, wooden box.
 
Hundreds of them, bunched together like a porcupine's quills.
 
Shields leaned against the wall, the faded remnants of the Courtemanche family crest upon their faces.

Roland felt bitter irony when he glanced at the black, rampant lion, teeth bared, upon a field of red.

The beast and the blood.
 
How appropriate.

He tore his gaze from the grim reminders of his past, of his family, and strode toward the ladder at the far end of the room.
 
As he neared the top, he shoved at the trapdoor above him, and climbed through it to the tower room.
 
He found the long, wooden matches upon the table where he'd left them, and struck one against the rough stone wall.
 
Then he lit the candles until the entire room was aglow.

Like the chamber below, this one was circular.
 
The walls had been lined with slits, from which the archers of old could shoot at intruders if the castle came under siege.
 
Roland had sealed the slits only recently.
 
There were times when he rested here, by day, rather than in the dungeons beneath the earth.

He wouldn't do so again.
 
The dungeons were fitting enough for a man such as he.

For a moment, he stood in the room's center and turned slowly.
 
His paintings stood all around him.
 
Those he'd done as a boy, all but ruined by the ravaging hands of time.
 
Once they'd been fanciful images of dragons and knights and heroic dreams.
 
Then there were the portraits, which had come much later.
 
The faces of his mother, and father.
 
The accusing eyes of his brothers.

Upon an easel, the unfinished portrait of Rhiannon drew him nearer.

He'd come to this room to destroy it, to destroy all of them.
 
He intended to slice them to shreds.
 
He was no painter, no artist.
 
He had not the heart of a poet, but the heart of a villain.
 
What right did he have to hold to these memories of a human' with a soul?
 
They were false.
 
Utter lies, all of them.

He drew a dagger from a sheath at his hip, and lifted it.
 
He strode up to the portrait.

But something stopped him.
 
He knew not what, only that it was a force stronger than his anger.
 
He gazed at the image, that was now only a jumble of vague shapes and outlines.
 
In it, he saw Rhiannon, her almond eyes reaching out to him, filled with warmth, and light.
 
With a strangled sob, he dropped the dagger to the stone floor.

He turned his back to the painting and faced instead a small table where his paints and pallets and brushes stood at the ready.
 
Beside it, stood another ladder.
 
He looked slowly upward, to the trapdoor at the top.
 
Above was the top of the castle.

He used to go up there as a boy, and look out over the woods to the spot where the two rivers joined.
 
Narrow, rapid Tordu, laughing as it bounded into the broad, calm waters of the Loire.
 
As one, the two rivers continued their unending journey southward in a glistening, glittering strand.

Beyond the trapdoor was daylight by now.
 
The warm rays of a golden sun, with nothing overhead to prevent its touch.
 
He started forward, placed his hands on the rungs.

Then he paused, and looked again toward the painting.
 
He moved as a blind man, guided by unseen hands.
 
He grabbed up the brushes, and a pallet.

*
   
*
   
*
   
*
   
*

Her head throbbed, and her stomach seemed alive, the way it twisted and writhed within her.
 
She felt slightly stronger now than she had when she'd first stirred, to find Tamara in worried attendance.
 
She'd fed, and gradually, her strength had begun to filter back into her.

"Where is he?"
 
She saw Tamara's face tighten when she asked the question.

"I don't know.
 
Eric said he'd holed himself up in the tower room all day.
 
Then at dusk, he went outside.
 
He hasn't come back."
 
The young one searched Rhiannon's eyes.
 
"You were hoping he'd be here when you woke."

Rhiannon shrugged, hoping to hide her disappointment.
 
"I was only curious."

Tamara touched her hand.
 
"Don't be too disappointed in him, Rhiannon.
 
Eric said he was pretty distraught over what happened."
 
She frowned, her pretty face puckering.
 
"Not that he doesn't deserve to be."

"Oh, posh, Tamara, I'm fine.
 
And don't tell me you don't enjoy a small sip or two in the throes of passion."
 
Tamara blushed.

"Well, yes… but--"

"I like to think he was so overwhelmed with desire for me that he took leave of his senses.
 
It's rather flattering, actually."

Tamara shook her head.
 
"Eric thinks the drug was to blame.
 
He feels terrible about it."

Rhiannon tilted her head to one side.
 
"I know little of chemistry.
 
Do you think he's right?"

"Oh, yes.
 
Eric is a genius about those things."
 
She glanced at Rhiannon, then lowered her lashes.
 
"Was it... very nice?"

Rhiannon almost smiled.
 
Perhaps would have, if not for the lingering pain lodged in the center of her chest, for which she had no explanation.
 
She'd never encountered a vampiress so embarrassed to discuss sex.
 
"My body nearly exploded at his touch," she said frankly.
 
"I've wanted him for a very long time, you know."

Tamara faced her fully then.
 
"So, why do I see such sadness in your eyes?"

Rhiannon blinked and turned away.

"Come on, Rhiannon.
 
If you aren't going to talk to me, then who?"

She met the younger woman's gaze once more.
 
She sensed only genuine caring emanating from her.
 
"My body was sated."

"But?"

Rhiannon sighed.
 
"It was almost as if he were alone as he plunged himself into me.
 
Almost as if I weren't even there."

Tamara nodded sagely.
 
"You wanted tenderness, some cuddling" some talking.
 
I understand."

Rhiannon lifted her brows.
 
"Cuddling?
 
Where do you come by such ideas, fledgling?
 
Do I honestly look to you like the type of woman who needs cuddling?"

Tamara grinned.
 
"He'll come around.
 
Give him time."

Exasperated with the young woman's nonsense, Rhiannon flung back her covers and got to her feet.
 
She didn't miss the sudden widening of Tamara's eyes, before she turned her back.
 
Imagine, being so bashful with another woman.
 
Well, Rhiannon certainly had nothing to be embarrassed about.
 
She went to the dresser, tugged out a pair of designer denims and slipped them on.
 
At the wardrobe, she removed a thin silk blouse in a stunning electric blue, and poked her arms into the sleeves.
 
As she fastened the onyx buttons, Tamara faced her again.

"You're going out, aren't you?"

Rhiannon nodded.
 
"Yes, and it will be useless for you to tell me to stay here and rest.
 
I'm immortal.
 
Granted, I feel like a brisk wind could blow me away right now, but it will pass."
 
She knelt near the closet and searched for a suitable pair of walking shoes.

"Eric said Roland headed for the woods, just beyond the wall."

Rhiannon turned.
 
"Reading my mind, are you?"

"I don't have to.
 
I'm a woman."

*
   
*
   
*
   
*
   
*

She'd rested too long, Rhiannon told herself as she crossed the grassy meadow, its dew dampening the hem of her jeans.
 
Cool, moist breezes bathed her face, and the full moon lit her way.
 
She wouldn't try to summon Roland, or to track him down by honing her senses to his.
 
She had a feeling he would only go out of his way to avoid her if he knew she sought him.

At the meadow's edge she leaped the wall, and stepped into the darkness of the woods.
 
Twisted, dark-skinned trees and thorny bushes surrounded her, but she pushed steadily onward, determined to find him.
 
She had no idea what she wanted to say to him, but she knew she had to say something.
 
Tamara had been wrong about her wishing to be cuddled, but right about the talking.
 
She needed, desperately, to talk to Roland.
 
More important, she needed him to talk to her.

The scents of the rivers grew stronger as she neared them, and a fine, silvery mist hung at knee level.
 
Decomposing limbs and plants made the earth beneath her feet like a sponge.
 
It sank with her every step.

She took her time, moving slowly, inhaling deeply to experience every aroma the night had to offer.
 
The spinning in her head eased a bit with each passing moment, and eventually she came upon a well-worn path, meandering among the trees.
 
She followed it, stepping in and out of the abstract patterns the moon's light painted on the ground.
 
A small gust caused the elms to sway and groan as if in agony... or in ecstasy.
 
Their deep tenor harmonized with the soprano voice of the breeze rushing over the smaller branches high above.

She approached a wrought-iron gate, with an elaborate C twined around its bars.
 
It creaked as she pushed it open.
 
The wind stiffened.
 
Huge limbs parted, bathing the tiny cemetery in moonglow.
 
Markers stood in uneven rows, most crumbling with age.
 
Five stood apart, large and elaborate.

Roland stood with one hand braced against an obelisk taller than he.
 
On the face was carved a crest, with two crossed swords above it.

Without turning, he spoke.
 
"So, you've found me."

"So I have."
 
She stepped nearer.
 
The crest on the stone was one she knew well.
 
She'd seen the same rampant lion on Roland's shield when she'd found him all those years ago, lying near death on a field of battle.
 
"A relative?" she asked softly.