Elijah: The Nightwalkers

by Jacquelyn Frank

  “Gideon,” she said evenly, inclining her head in sparse respect. “What brings you to my chambers, so close to dawn?”

  The riveting male before her remained silent, his silver eyes flicking over her slowly. Her heart nearly stopped with her sudden fear, and immediately she threw up every mental and physical barrier she could to prevent an unwelcome scan and analysis of her health.

  “I would not scan you without your permission, Magdelegna. Body Demons who become healers have codes of ethics as well as any others.”

  “Funny,” she remarked, “I would have thought you to believe yourself above such a trivial matter as permission.”

  His mercury gaze narrowed slightly, making Legna wish that she had the courage to dare a piratical scan of her own. She was quite talented at masking her travels through the emotions and psyches of others, but Gideon was like no other. She was barely a fledgling to one such as he.

  Gideon had noted her more recent acerbic tendencies aloud once before, irritating the young female even more than usual, so he resisted the urge in that moment to scold her again and let her attitude pass.

  “I have come to check on your well-being, Magdelegna. I am concerned.”

  Legna cocked a brow, twisting her lips into a cold, mocking little smile, hiding the sudden, anxious beating of her heart.

  “And what would give you the impression that you need be concerned for me?” she asked haughtily.

  Gideon once more took his time before responding, giving her one more of those implacable perusals in the interim. Legna exhaled with annoyance, crossing her arms beneath her breasts and coming just shy of tapping her foot in irritation.

  “You are not at peace, young one,” Gideon explained softly, the deep timbre of his voice resonating through her, once again giving her the feeling that she was but fragile crystal, awaiting the moment when he would strike the note of discord that would shatter her. Legna’s breathing altered, quickening in spite of her effort to maintain an even keel. She did not want to give him the satisfaction of being right.

  “You presume too much, Gideon. I have no need for your concern, nor have I ever solicited it. Now, if you do not mind, I should like to go to bed.”

  “For what purpose?”

  Legna laughed, short and harsh.

  “To sleep, why else?”

  “You have not slept for many days together, Legna. Why do you assume you might have success today?”

  Legna turned around sharply, driving her gaze and attention back out of the window, trying to use the sprawling lawn as a slate to fill her mind with. Mind Demon he was not, but she knew he was capable of seeing far enough into her emotional state by just monitoring her physiological reactions to his observations. Legna bit her lip hard, furious that she should feel like the child he always referred to her as in their conversations. Young one, indeed. How would he like it if she referred to him as a decrepit old buzzard?

  The thought gave her a small, petty satisfaction. It did not matter that Gideon looked as vital and vibrant as any Demon male from thirty years to a thousand would look. Nor did it matter that his stunning coloring gave him a unique attractiveness and aura of power that no one else could equal. All that mattered was that he would never view her as an equal, and therefore, in her perspective, she had no responsibility to do so for him.

  Gideon watched the young woman across from him closely, trying to make sense of the physiological changes that flashed through her rapidly, each as puzzling as the one before it. What was it about her, he wondered, that always kept him off his mark? She never reacted the way he logically expected her to, yet he knew her to be extraordinarily intelligent. She always treated him with a barely repressed contempt, though she never had a harsh word for anyone else. He had almost gotten used to that since their original falling out, but this was different, far more complex than hard feelings. Gideon had not encountered a puzzle in a great many centuries, and perhaps that was why he was continually fascinated by her in spite of her marked disdain.

  “It is not unusual,” she said at last, “to have periods of insomnia in one’s life. Surely that is not what has you rushing into my boudoir, oozing your highhanded version of concern.”

  “Magdelegna, I am continually puzzled by your insistence in treating me with hostility. Did Lucas teach you nothing about respecting your elders?”

  Legna whirled around suddenly, outrage flaring off of her so violently that Gideon felt the eddy of it push at him through the still air.

  “Do not ever mention Lucas in such a disrespectful manner ever again! Do you understand me, Gideon? I will not tolerate it!” She moved to stand toe to toe with the medic, her emotions practically beating him back in their intensity. “You say respect my elders, but what you mean is respecting my betters, is that not right? Are you so full of your own arrogance that you need me to bow and kowtow to you like some throwback fledgling? Or perhaps we should reinstate the role of concubines in our society. Then you may have the pleasure of claiming me and forcing me to fall to my knees, bowing low in respect of your masculine eminence!”

  Gideon watched as she did just that, her gown billowing around her as she gracefully kneeled before him, so close to him that her knees touched the tips of his boots. She swept her hands to her sides, bowing her head until her forehead brushed the leather, her hair spilling like reams of heavy silk around his ankles.

  The Ancient found himself unusually speechless, the strangest sensation creeping through him as he looked down at the exposed nape of her neck; the elegant line of her back. Unable to curb the impulse, Gideon lowered himself into a crouch, reaching beneath the cloak of coffee-colored hair to touch her flushed cheek. The heat of her anger radiated against his touch and he recognized it long before she turned her face up to him.

  “Does this satisfy you, my lord Gideon?” she whispered fiercely, her eyes flashing like flinted steel and hard jade.

  Gideon found himself searching her face intently, his eyes roaming over the high, aristocratic curves of her cheekbones, the amazingly full sculpture of her lips; the wide, accusing eyes that lay behind extraordinarily thick lashes. He cupped her chin between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand, his fingertips fanning softly over her angrily flushed cheek.

  “You do enjoy mocking me,” he murmured softly to her, the breath of his words close enough to skim across her face.

  “No more than you seem to enjoy condescending to me,” she replied, her clipped words coming out on quick, heated breaths.

  Gideon absorbed the latest venom directed toward him with a blink of lengthy black lashes. They kept their gazes locked, each seemingly waiting for the other to look away.

  “You have never forgiven me,” he said suddenly, softly.

  “Forgiven you?” She laughed bitterly. “Gideon, you are not important enough to earn my forgiveness.”

  “Is your ego so fragile, Legna, that a small slight to it is irreparable?”

  “Stop talking to me as if I were a temperamental child!” Legna hissed, moving to jerk her head back, but finding his grip quite secure. “There was nothing slight about the way you treated me. I will never forget it, and I most certainly will never forgive it!”

  Keep an eye out for Jacquelyn Frank’s next book,

  coming in the summer of 2008

  from Zebra. Here’s a sneak peek at

  DAMIEN: THE NIGHTWALKERS.

  “You risked your life for mine as if you had no responsibility to an entire race of people! It was a foolish and ridiculous thing to do!”

  “It would have been my mistake to make,” Damien countered sharply. “I am not used to people criticizing my actions, Syreena.”

  “Well perhaps they should! I would never have allowed Siena to do such a foolish thing!”

  “Oh, really? Just as you prevented her from almost dying for the sake of her husband?”

  It was a twisting knife in a very tender spot for her, and he knew it instantly by the expression in her eyes. It was only then
that he realized she did indeed blame herself for her sister’s near encounter with death the recent October past.

  “Was I supposed to let you bleed to death, Syreena?” he asked quietly, trying to take back the pain he had caused her, with the balm of his words. “Why are you so eager to value my life above your own?”

  “Because I am not so special that an entire people should be deprived of their monarch for my sake!”

  “Lucky for you I disagree with that assessment.”

  Damien understood, however, that there was baggage beyond her statement other than the immediate disagreement. Still, it did not measure up for him. She had never struck him as the type who devalued herself.

  She looked at him as if he were completely insane for a long moment, her confused eyes searching over him for an answer and a logic that just was not within grasp. Then, without knowing why, she leaned forward and kissed him.

  Damien was shocked for a moment at the forward and illogical act, his hands reflexively circling her arms as her warm mouth pressed gently to his. Her unbandaged hand came up to lay against the side of his face, her contrary eyes sliding closed for a long, painful moment.

  He felt, and then tasted, the salt of her tears.

  She pulled away, only a couple of inches, her body trembling beneath his hands as he looked into her eyes with a confusion of emotions and sensations struggling through him.

  “Why did you…?”

  “Because,” she interrupted with a sob catching at her words. “Because it is a fairy tale, Damien. And in a fairy tale, the Princess always kisses the Prince that rescues her.”

  It was an enchanting and ingenuous thing for her to say. She was a woman of great learning, amazing strength, and a sense of logic that negated any illusion of naïveté, yet she was willing to expose herself as a hopeful idealist in order to express her gratitude. He realized that it was a precisely protected streak in her makeup that very few people were allowed access to. It subsequently meant more to Damien than the most profuse and eloquent words of any language.

  “Syreena…” He paused to clear the coarseness in his throat. “I am no hero,” he told her with rough quietness. “You should not make me into one.”

  She defied the statement by forcing it into silence with the cover of her mouth.

  This time Damien saw it coming, but it made him no better prepared. This time it was not a quick and simple expression of impulsive gratitude she was reaching to express. This was a little different, and on an instinctive level he knew it.

  Completely in spite of the soundness of reason that rang stridently in his head, Damien allowed himself the luxury of the feel of her lips. Caught less off his mark and having had a moment to think about it, he returned the intimacy with equal warmth and measure. From one heartbeat to the next, his hands found their way into the hair at the back of her head, his fingertips sliding onto the heat of her scalp with careful languor, mindful of all she had suffered and been through and in no way wanting to cause her a moment of further pain.

  Syreena was also sliding her fingers into a position which held his head to her, just in case he thought to argue with her any further about her desires in this matter. His darkening eyes were looking directly into hers, seeking for things beyond both their comprehension. She met his searching gaze with eyes full of surety and strength. She knew what she wanted; amazingly enough without a single doubt or second thought. This moment, those fascinating eyes messaged to him, was to be precious for them both. The next moment would come soon enough. But this moment…

  This moment was for thanking, for gentility, and, most of all, for feeling something that had no pain, struggle, or immediate ramifications to it.

  It simply would be what it was.

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  Copyright © 2008 by Jacquelyn Frank

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  ISBN: 1-4201-0497-7