Moonless

by Crystal Collier

  But Arik hadn’t seemed concerned by these. He had been so tender, so gentle in her hour of need . . . as he had been with her ailing mother, and with Bellezza.

  She closed her door and the realization dawned: He had come to protect her. Nothing more. He stood guard on moonless nights. He patted her hand or offered kindnesses as they were needed. He had provided her company when she most desperately required comfort.

  But his kiss . . .

  No, she had seen the bitterness and fear. Every time he touched her there was pain in his eyes, every nearness weighed on him, every kindness balanced with a degree of sorrow. She was a burden to him, one he bore out of obligation to her safety. It was possible to love more than one person, wasn’t it? After all, Father had—and Sarah knew his name!

  Not herself. Sarah.

  Alexia berated herself for not seeing it sooner, for allowing herself to believe in an illusion. Silly dreamer! She glared into the mirror across the room, at the mirage artists would venerate throughout generations. She pulled out a barrette and launched it at the glass. Shards shattered in reflective brilliance, ricocheting across the floor.

  Wrapping her arms around herself, she wished she could go back in time, that she could remain an oblivious child in Father’s home, or locked in that moment, that perfect, deceptive moment on the roof.

  Distant laughter carried through her door.

  Sarah was happy. She deserved it after all she’d endured for five long, lonely years.

  Alexia swallowed back the misery and laid her head against the wall. Her stomach cramped. She wanted to go home—but what home? Did she want to return to the silence, suppressed anger, and betrayal of too many years? Was there somewhere else she ought to or could go—like Arik suggested?

  A silent shriek tensed her body. There was only one possible solution: She would not love him!

  She sat long into the night, listening, trying not to think until Sarah dismissed her company with gracious flirtation. Alexia hadn’t eaten all day, but she didn’t care.

  She’d intended to speak with her aunt about Arik, but that ambition evaporated as she clambered up, undressed, and tottered dizzily into bed. She wanted to die.

  Tears started, stifled by her pillow.

  She hated him. That could be the only other outlet for such extreme passion. She hated Arik so deeply it moved her to weeping. She hated him with her whole soul! Hated, hated, hated him!

  The fit left her lethargic. She fell into a dream, a nightmare, but even that knowledge couldn’t make it less horrifying.

  She raced toward the road, heart thundering, needing escape but knowing the futility of her efforts.

  She froze.

  Crimson pupils glared from the darkness, seizing the scream in her throat. Her chest tightened. They glided toward her, hunger in their malevolent eyes. She tried to run. She wanted to scream. She wanted to fight! She couldn’t.

  In a blink, her dead body lay on the dusty night road, fingers crooked at her bodice . . .

  Alexia sat up. Sweat trickled down her brow, heart palpitating. She took several minutes before working up enough courage to breach the distance between herself and the washbasin. Glittering fragments of mirror grinned maliciously up at her, and her countenance gleamed like dead Alexia’s in the water.

  It had been a dream, nothing more! What was wrong with her?

  But it wasn’t her birthday. Why did it come apart from the yearly anniversary? What had awakened the horror?

  She stepped out to the hall. Cider would calm her nerves, and then she could sleep. Yes, let her sleep and forget, then leave and never come back!

  She’d become familiar enough with the estate she didn’t need a candle to travel, although it seemed unusually dark tonight. She trembled all the way down the stairs and into the kitchen, quickly retrieving what she’d come for. Why did she have the shivers even now?

  When she turned to leave, she realized: No moon tonight.

  Sweat broke out. She retraced her steps quickly, coming to a horrified halt at the stairs. Someone sat in the den, silent as death, profiled against the window.

  The glass in her hand shook, slipping from her grasp.

  The head turned.

  43

  Nightmares

  She froze, rooted to her spot, deaf to the peal of breaking glass and liquid coursing toward her slippers. Any instant those eyes would change, burn a sickly red. She was going to die.

  “Alexia?” His voice pulsed softly.

  “A-Arik?”

  He sped toward her in the darkness—faster than she expected. She retreated a couple steps, pulling her dressing gown closer, embarrassed by her inappropriate attire.

  “W-what are you . . . doing here?”

  He half smiled. Even in the absence of light, she discerned the flawless shape of his white teeth. “Watching.”

  The absurdity of his answer shook her off balance—fueling her dread—but no red pupils appeared. She swallowed dryly. “Watching for what?”

  His brow rose. “Ah, you know then.”

  She took two more steps back, stumbled, and caught herself on the rail as he reached for her. She shifted away from him, flustered and humiliated. “How did you gain admittance in the middle of the night?”

  “Sarah invited me to stay,” he whispered, still poised to rescue her from her own silly blunder.

  “Oh.” The flood of emotion poured over her again. She bit it back. She wouldn’t reveal the potency of the injustice he’d done her—and that she’d done to herself.

  He offered a hand. “Join me?”

  She stared at his fingers. Let the hopelessness grow? Encourage the hole in her chest? But she had to heed his invitation—even inappropriately dressed—or face the fears waiting in her isolated chamber.

  She reached for him.

  The connection sent lightning up her arm, pulling a blush to her cheeks, and she scolded herself for it. He guided her toward the empty study as she reminded herself again: she hated him.

  He seated her on the couch and took the vacancy at the opposite end. His skin radiated a brilliance from within, sleeves rolled back to reveal half of his forearms—well-formed. His casual shirt flared open at the top, granting her a view of his flawless neck and just the hint of a bare chest, magnificence she would never know.

  Their eyes connected.

  “You are awfully brave.” He nodded.

  “Why would you say that?”

  A quiet smile. “Do you have the nightmare often?”

  “Once a year. Birthdays usually.” She didn’t mean to answer, but the way he’d asked—like an old friend—drew the words from her. She scowled.

  A pleat appeared in his brow. “These extremes are perilous.”

  She had no idea what he meant, so she ignored him. “How did you know about my dream? And you said the nightmare.”

  “So I did.” He frowned, his scar stretching.

  “How do you know it reoccurs?”

  His voice softened, head bowing. “Because I have the same one.”

  She stared in disbelief.

  He shifted, leaning closer. Her breath caught. “Alexia, there is something I want to tell you, something I am afraid you will not understand.”

  Here it came. He would confess how he cared for Sarah, and how that heavenly morning on the roof had been nothing more than a mistake.

  “Our lives form a circle, yours and mine.”

  She waited. Nothing more came. Relief! “And what is that supposed to mean?”

  He chuckled evenly. “We have the same dream.”

  “One that will come to pass?”

  His brows lifted. “Do you think it will?”

  “Feels like it.”

  He took her hand. Exhilaration raced through her, tickling up her arm and overwhelming her reservations. She wanted to wrap his arms around her, to quash this belief that his actions were motivated merely by duty.

  His eyes summoned hers. “I am here, and you are safe.”
/>   She pulled her hand back. “And what about Sarah? Is she also safe while you are here?”

  He shook his head and sat back, words flat. “This is not about Sarah.”

  She scowled. “Then what is it about?”

  “The Soulless.”

  A shudder shook through her. “Is that what you call them?”

  “It is what they are.”

  “Soulless?” Her voice sounded very small as she recalled shredded black cloaks, soaring toward her under the absence of a moon.

  He braced on his knees. “They hunt in an attempt to rekindle the flame of life.”

  “They looked quite alive to me.”

  He nodded. “They are cripples, corpses of beings who gave themselves completely over to madness. They recall what it is to burn, to feel, but they lack the ability. They would do anything to reacquire it, anything, and they find the most satisfaction in preying upon the Passionate.”

  She swallowed. “And do they regenerate through this hunt?”

  He looked away. “No.”

  She glanced out the window to be certain no movement broke the landscape.

  “They occasionally walk in daylight,” he whispered. “That is how they track us, but they do so at a price.”

  “What price?” She wasn’t sure she actually wanted the answer.

  “They must feed, or kill.”

  A silence passed between them as she processed the information. “If they can walk in the day, why have I never seen one?”

  “Have you not?” His eyebrow twitched. “They appear quite normal in the sun when satiated.” A hand landed overtop of hers, calming in essence, devastating in the longing it instilled. “They are adept to deception, and unbelievably intelligent—centuries of practice.”

  “Are you . . . one of them?” The words choked out.

  A grin broke his frown. “No.”

  “Oh.” Relief flooded through her. “How do we discern them?”

  “The eyes. The hunger can be seen in their eyes.” His thumb stroked over her knuckles.

  She caught her breath.

  He shifted closer. “The Passionate suffer a special fate when attacked.”

  “What happens to us?”

  “We join the ranks.”

  Become undead? One of these living corpses? She squirmed.

  His grasp tightened around her fingers. “I once caught one playing at clergy.”

  She nearly drowned in the blood now pulsing through her ears—the recollection of a preacher whose eyes harbored the greatest terror. “You are lying!”

  He watched her through his brows. “You know I am not.”

  She was at a loss. That day at the age of ten, she had actually witnessed evil? She could have been consumed by one of these empty shells? “I do not believe—”

  “I know.” He tugged her nearer, bringing her face within inches of his. She looked at him, truly looked at him for the first time tonight. A storm brewed in his aquatic spheres.

  She swallowed. The eyes. John had always been so careful not to let her see his eyes, but she had occasionally glimpsed the bloodthirsty hue. “John is he one of them, is he not?”

  His head bowed.

  “And yet you know him—and he, he said I had been touched . . .”

  His eyes widened. He released her and sat back.

  “Is that a bad thing?”

  He rose and paced away, driving his hands through his hair and covering his face. “He said that?”

  “What is between you? One moment he wanted to kill me and the next . . .” The realization dawned. She could have become one of the Soulless this afternoon—no, tonight!

  The reason Arik had come.

  “Could you have stopped him?” She turned to his rigid form. “Can you still?”

  Grief squeezed at his eyes. “I should have sent someone else.”

  “Someone else?” She paled. “To protect me?”

  “I am sorry, Alexia.”

  And finally it was confirmed: he did not want this. Even if he desired her, he would not choose her. He was only here to fulfill the duty of keeping her safe.

  His head shook. “But do not fear. I shall see you through this, somehow.”

  She’d returned to hating him. “Do not bother. I am leaving for home in the morning.” She stood. Her vision shuddered wildly. Pounding echoed in her ears.

  She probably should have eaten something today.

  The floor rushed up.

  44

  Agony

  Kiren tucked the covers up around her chin, unable to resist brushing a hand over her raven locks.

  No. He pulled his fingers back.

  He groaned and sat. The chair beneath him was solid, much more so than his resolve. How long could he do this—how long while his lips burned to possess hers?

  “You are wise to hate me. I wish that I could be so wise.” His nails bit into his palm, and he closed his eyes.

  45

  Torture

  Alexia woke in her bed, the covers violently twisted in her fingers. Pale morning light shed its sanity on her still staggering mind. Shards of shattered light smiled up from the floor.

  Had it been another dream? A dream within a dream?

  She tossed her blankets aside and dressed.

  Pausing at the foot of the stairs, she crouched down to draw a finger over the smooth wooden floor. No sticky trail remained from her shattered glass or its contents, yet another confirmation to her delusion. She moved into the parlor.

  The warmth of sunrise spilled peachy light over the empty couch. She drew a hand across the sofa’s scrolled lip, desperate for some evidence to prove her wrong.

  “Alexia?” Sarah appeared in the doorway. “Dearest, it is time for breakfast.”

  She nodded, realizing her absence yesterday must have confused and worried her aunt. They arrived in the dining room only to meet a set of stunning blue eyes.

  Alexia gasped.

  He rose and Sarah beamed. She turned to her niece. “Arik has accepted an invitation to join us for the holidays. Is that not wonderful?”

  Wonderful for whom? Alexia thought acerbically.

  46

  Concern

  Alexia stepped out of the dining room, and Sarah pulled Arik aside. “She has not guessed that I dragged her all over the countryside at your behest, has she?”

  “She has not.”

  “You assured me you can cure her of this,” she shook her head, “this disastrous depression.”

  His overwhelming eyes met hers. He placed a hand on her arm. “And I shall.”

  Sarah could not stop the heat that rose to her cheeks. He was touching her. Never mind that she’d made her decision—much more of this and she was likely to reverse it.

  She blinked away from him and noticed Alexia, frozen in the doorway.

  47

  Avoidance

  It certainly wasn’t easy convincing Sarah to let her go home.

  “But the Christmas invitations are sent! We have friends coming—”

  “I know dearest, but I—” Alexia swallowed back her jealousy. “I grow homesick with so much distance and time. I miss Father and Mother . . .” She faltered at the aching memory of her surrogate parent. “. . . a-and everything.”

  “Is that why you have not been eating?” Sarah scowled. “And the broken mirror—”

  Alexia looked away. “I am not well.”

  Her aunt frowned.

  “But it is not your doing!” Alexia reached out. “I simply miss home.”

  “I missed it too.” Sarah’s smile wavered and steadied. “The stable hand informed me this morning the carriage axle is broken. We will send you off when it is fixed, unless you have changed your mind by then.”

  “I will not.”

  Her aunt sighed.

  “Thank you, Sarah.”And she slipped away to find solitude.

  ***

  Alexia couldn’t escape him, no matter how she tried! When she retired to the library, Arik entered to
consult the wall of books, Sarah babbling frivolously at his side. When she hastened to the kitchen, he stood, testing the cook’s latest concoction. When she stepped out to the freezing yard, he shuffled by, her aunt in tow, and when she finally resorted to holing up in her room, he penetrated by means of “a tour.”

  She then turned to distraction, carrying a book she’d read three times, but none of it would sink in. His lovely eyes, so incredible, so deep, followed her constantly. She ignored them, focusing on the first word of each page until it stuck.

  Cards occupied that evening around a study table and she could not meet Arik’s stare from across the table. How dare he be present! How dare he act charming! Alexia’s inner lip began to bleed half way through the night for how often she bit down.

  When at last they retired it was past midnight. Sarah curtsied and wished Arik a good night, while Alexia spun on her heel. She could not expel her agitation, even after she and Sarah settled in her aunt’s room.

  “That dear man is the most pleasant of company!” Sarah giggled.

  “Is he?” Alexia drew the brush through her near-sister’s locks. “And what about . . . John Radcliffe?” She shuddered at her own suggestion, remembering those menacing red pupils.

  “Ah, John.” Sarah’s cheeks turned scarlet.

  Alexia gasped. “What happened after I escaped on Sunday?”

  “Oh, Lexy!” She covered her enflamed face. “I know you two have not become acquainted, but he promised to try. He will come to visit again soon.”

  Alexia didn’t know if she should tell her aunt the truth or be happy for her. She swallowed. “Is John your favorite?”

  “I very much like him.”

  “But which do you prefer?”

  Sarah turned, brows drawn. “Can you really ask? It is like comparing Apollo and Poseidon.”

  Alexia wrestled her aunt’s tresses back through her comb. “How long have you known Arik?”

  Sarah smirked. “You have taken a liking to him.”

  “If you mean by that a dis-liking, then yes, very much so.”