Now Comes the Night (39 page)

“But Marc, we don’t need someone else to do that for us,” Heather insisted. “We have you. Everything’s so much better since you’ve taken charge. I can’t believe you don’t see that.” From the corner of his eye, Marc saw several of the others nodding in agreement.

“She’s right, you know.” Nighthawk glanced up briefly and then away again. “Not that I didn’t try but… I dunno. Seems like the harder I tried, the worse I fucked things up.”

Heather snorted. “That’s ‘cause you’re a moron.”

“Nice,” Nighthawk muttered beneath his breath. “Thanks.”

“Cut him some slack,” Marc told Heather, still trying to readjust his thinking. Could he stay after all? Did they really want him to? “He did his best, right? I guess that’s all any of us can do.”

“What I don’t get is… Why’re you even here?” Nighthawk asked, seemingly of his shoes, since he still refused to meet Marc’s gaze. “I get that you had your fun slumming with us, but why d’you want to waste any more time hanging around?”

Marc glanced around, surprised to see the same expression on just about everyone’s face—anxious, hopeful. “Who said it’s a waste of time? And where else would I be?”

Nighthawk frowned. “You have a home, don’t you? A family? And it’s Christmas-fucking-Eve. Even if you don’t do holidays—and I know, most vampires don’t—I still don’t understand why you aren’t there with them. That’s where you belong, right? I mean, if I had a home, I’d sure as hell wanna be there tonight.”

The answer was so obvious Marc was surprised he hadn’t figured it out weeks earlier. “This is my family now, and right here is all the home I’m looking for. Trust me, I fit in a lot better here, with you all, than I do anywhere else.” It was strange, coming face to face with that realization, but it was true all the same. He felt stronger somehow, calmer and infinitely more comfortable here on misfit island than he had even earlier this evening with Conrad and Damian.

“Yeah?” A suspicious warmth colored Nighthawk’s cheeks. But if he was pleased—and Marc was pretty sure he was—he did his best to hide it behind a snarky attitude. “Well, shit, if that’s the case, you’re even more fucked up than I thought you were.”

“You still want him here though, don’t you?” Heather demanded.

Nighthawk smirked. “What are you crazy? ‘Course I do. I’m not that big an idiot.”

Heather shrugged. “If you say so.”

“I never did think we needed anyone else you know,” Nighthawk said, finally addressing Marc directly. “It’s just…you kept talking about passing us off to someone else, maybe getting Quintano to take us on—and no lie, that’d be awesome, no one’d dare mess with us then. But I figured what it really meant was you didn’t want to get stuck dealing with us on your own. I mean, I don’t know how these things are supposed to work out, how houses and sires and stuff are decided or founded or whatever—especially when it comes to our kind—but you’ve been more of a sire to us than most of us have had in years. Of course we want you to stay. And if you’d be willing to take us on, I for one would be proud to say I belonged to your House.”

His own House? Could he really have that? For the life of him, Marc could not find the words to respond. He’d never even considered the possibility, although… He had to admit the idea held a lot of appeal. He couldn’t imagine what Conrad would have to say about it when he found out, and he was absolutely certain it was nothing like what Damian had in mind when he’d begged Marc to keep up appearances. For once, Marc didn’t care. This felt right. And if he was really as different as everyone said he was, maybe this kind of thing made sense for him.

“See?” Heather beamed at him, obviously pleased with herself. “That wasn’t so hard, was it? Now where’d you put your cup? We need to have a toast.”

“What are we supposed to be toasting to?” Nighthawk asked, climbing warily to his feet. The look he shot in Marc’s direction was laced with trepidation, reminding Marc he’d yet to give him an answer.

“To us,” he answered, finally finding his voice.

“To all of us,” Heather added. “To our family.”

“Exactly.” Marc met Nighthawk’s eyes and smiled. “Let’s do this.” A fresh cup of blood was pressed into his hand. Marc raised it high. “To us. Our family. Our House.”
My
House.

“All right, then.” Nighthawk lifted his own cup in a return salute. “It’s about fucking time. Fischer House. Long may it stand.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Christmas Eve and Julie hadn’t ever seen the city so quiet. She wandered through the grounds that surrounded Conrad’s mansion, reluctant to go inside the house, unwilling to stray too far beyond the wall. She wasn’t sure what had gotten Marc so riled up, but her encounter with her brother had left her restless and unsettled and unable to relax. It wasn’t as though Marc hadn’t always been protective of her—because he definitely had been, for almost all their lives. But he didn’t generally warn her to be careful. It was far more usual for him to bully her into standing up for herself, reminding her of all the training she’d received, of all the strength she possessed, reminding her she was more than capable of defending herself…

A footfall on the path behind her had her spinning around, prepared to do just that, but her alarm was short lived. “Oh, it’s you,” she said, breathing a sigh of relief.

Armand clasped a hand to his chest and gazed at her with mock sorrow. “Ah,
chérie
, you wound me. Could you not at least pretend you’re happy to see me?”

“Oh, please,” she said, not bothering to hide her smile. “You’re lucky I didn’t wound you for real. How many times do I have to tell you? Stop sneaking up on me.”

Armand’s smile turned mischievous. “I fear I cannot oblige you in that.” He held up his hand, revealing a sprig of mistletoe. “For how else am I to get close enough to steal a kiss?”

Julie’s cheeks flamed. Had he come out here tonight in search of her in particular, or would anyone have done? Not that she had the slightest right to complain even if that was the case. Come to think of it, she wasn’t sure she had any right to even speculate. She was still sleeping with Brennan, after all, although not this weekend, as he’d taken Parker to visit his grandparents for the holiday, leaving her hungry, depressed, frustrated and more confused than ever about what she really wanted.

Except for this kiss. That was one thing she had no doubts about and she thanked her lucky stars that Armand had thought to bring mistletoe. What a brilliant excuse that made for ignoring the many reasons why this was such a terrible idea.

Armand glided closer. “Last chance to say no,” he teased as he dangled the mistletoe above her head.

Julie shivered. Her lips parted in anticipation. Hunger and need had stilled her tongue, stolen her breath and left her mute. If she could have spoken, however, she was damn sure
no
would not have been anywhere at all on her list of possible responses.

Armand’s eyes glittered as they locked with hers. She read traces of desire, surprise, even a little bit of triumph in their depths as she lifted her face in silent invitation. Their lips touched. Heat flared. The taste of him sparked memories of the last time they’d kissed—she’d wanted more of him then too. She clutched impatiently at his shirtfront and shifted closer, growling softly, part demand, part entreaty. His response was instantaneous. Powerful arms closed around her and held her tight, calling up a surge of some nameless emotion from deep inside her. Relief? Acquiescence? Completion? Need? All of the above?

She twisted in his arms, turning until she was resting partially against his chest. When he broke the kiss with a shattered gasp, it seemed the most natural thing in the world for her to turn her face into the curve of his neck. To trail her tongue up and down along the strong column of his throat. To find that spot where his blood seemed to call to her the loudest. She bit down swiftly, filling her mouth with his essence and drawing a startled groan from his lips. Then she bit again. Marking him. Claiming him. And challenging him to do the same to her.

Again, his response was everything she’d hoped for. He speared his fingers into her hair, bent his head to her exposed neck and sank his fangs into her throat. Venom tingled as it rushed through her veins, headed straight to her core. Then he bit again. And again. Until she could no longer control the shudders that shook her from head to toe. Until she had to retract her own fangs, just so she could continue breathing. Until she had to cling to him to keep from falling.

An ecstatic whimper slipped from her lips.
Yes. Just, yes. This
. Armand stiffened at the sound. Raising his head, he peered at her in alarm. “
Chérie
? Are you all right?”

“Mmm.” Julie nestled closer. “But I’m really glad Christmas only comes once a year.”

“Oh?” Armand frowned, absently running his tongue over his lips, as though seeking out every last trace of her. “Why do you say that?”

“The mistletoe,” she murmured in explanation. It wasn’t fair. It gave him far too much of an advantage. It was bad enough that he could reduce her to this state with a single kiss, bad enough that she forgot everything else when she was in his arms. Anything that gave him an excuse to kiss her at will, that gave her a reason not to object… “That’s just wrong.”

Armand’s arms dropped away from her as he took a step back. “You think I took advantage of you?”

Deprived of his support, Julie swayed on her feet. An embarrassed blush heated her cheeks. “Armand… No, that’s not… I don’t think I meant that the way it sounded.”

“Oh, no?” He looked unconvinced. She sought for the words to convince him, but came up empty. It probably didn’t help that she could barely meet his gaze either. But…in a way, he was right. He had taken advantage of her, hadn’t he? In her heart, she was still committed to Brennan, and they both knew it. They shouldn’t be kissing each other at all right now.

Giving up, Julie glanced around, searching for a suitable change of subject, anything that would give her an excuse not to go back inside, to stay out here with him for a little while longer…
To maybe kiss him again
?

No. Not happening
. Doing her best to ignore the evil little whisper of temptation, she glanced again at the house. It was restfully dark, peacefully quiet. Usually, she loved that about it, but not tonight. Tonight, it struck her as a little too depressing, empty and cold. “We should put up some Christmas lights,” she sighed, thinking of her childhood fascination with the season, thinking of the tiny, tabletop tree in Brennan’s apartment. “Wouldn’t that be fun?”

“What?” Armand stared at her in horror. “No. Absolutely not.”

Julie eyed him with surprise. “How come? Don’t you think it would look pretty?” Not to mention help the place blend in with the surrounding houses. That was an idea she remembered very clearly from her childhood. Conrad and Damian had always seemed to put a lot of stock in before. Something else that had changed. “Maybe I should talk to Conrad about it.”

“It would look ridiculous—I’ve said so before. And don’t say a word about this to Conrad. He’s not to be bothered with such things.”

A grim certainty took hold. Julie narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Are you by any chance speaking from experience?”

Armand’s mouth tightened. “
Oui
.” The bitter set of his lips told her everything she needed to know.

“Oh, good. Let me guess. This has to be about Wind-chime Girl again, right?” Truth be told, Julie was getting a little tired of that chick, even if she was her mother. If it weren’t for her, if it weren’t for Armand’s involvement with her then and his continuing infatuation with her now, Julie’s life and her choices would be so much simpler.
Thanks, Mom.

“Wind-chime Girl?” Armand repeated coldly. “Is that what you call her? You have no right to speak of her that way.”

“Hey, if the shoe fits.” Julie shrugged then surprised herself by adding, “I have to call her something, don’t I? It’s not like I know her actual name.”

“Well, you won’t hear it from me.”

Of course she wouldn’t. Why had she ever thought otherwise? “Okay, you know what? This conversation is getting us nowhere. I’m going to go back in the house now.” Before they totally screwed things up between them. Maybe a workout would help improve her mood. Or, better yet, a snack. “For the record, though? You didn’t really need the mistletoe tonight. Or the stealth.” She would have kissed him anyway. Even now, even knowing that neither of them was free and uncommitted, if he gave her even the slightest encouragement, if he even hinted that he wanted her to stay…

When he didn’t, she turned and started up the path. Maybe it was just wishful thinking, but she swore she could feel his eyes on her, tracking her progress each step of the way.

“Are you never coming to bed?” Damian came up behind Conrad who was standing by the window in his sitting room, looking out at the garden. He wrapped his arms around him and nipped softly at his neck. “It’s getting quite late, you know.”

Over the past six weeks, he’d grown accustomed to a certain amount of reluctance, on Conrad’s part, when it came to bedding him. Such reticence was charming, up to a point, or so Damian had finally convinced himself, happily attributing it to a concern for his welfare, rather than a disturbing lack of interest. But it was now almost daybreak, and well over half an hour had elapsed since Damian had announced he was headed for bed. He was beginning to wonder if there wasn’t something else troubling Conrad tonight, something beyond his fear of hurting him.