Night's Honor (A Novel of the Elder Races Book 7)

by Thea Harrison

  At the end of the meal, she glanced sidelong at Angelica and said quietly, “I haven’t really taken the opportunity to get to know you, and I’m sorry for that.”

  Angelica turned to her with a look of surprise that melted into a warm, crooked smile that deepened all the lines in her face and made her beautiful. “You’re a good kid,” the older woman said. “And you’ve been busy. We’ve got time.”

  She nodded without replying, because, of course, they had no time, and she would be gone before breakfast. After she helped clean up, she went upstairs to her room to make sure she hadn’t dropped any food on her shirt. Tidying her hair by putting it into a short braid, she brushed her teeth and headed for the main house.

  This time when she reached the dining room, it was empty. A small pile of old books had been stacked by one of the place settings, and a note rested on top of them. She picked it up.

  Written in a strong, slanting hand, the note said, Please begin reading these. I will join you in the ballroom at sundown.—X.

  Of course, he must be a very busy man, doing whatever he did for the Nightkind demesne. Setting the note aside, she examined the books. Most were written in English and dealt with the different etiquettes for several Elder Races, but a few were in French. He had remembered that she could read French.

  One book was much more modern than the others, a heavy trade paperback on biofeedback techniques.

  Choosing that book, she settled into a chair and began reading. Most biofeedback therapies were done in a clinical setting, with electronic and thermal sensors, but one section concentrated on exercises one could do outside of a clinical environment to change one’s thoughts, emotions or behavior.

  Funny, how it all came back to the same thing that Raoul had said to her—she had to change the conversations in her head. Deep, steady breathing could slow the heart rate. Focusing on things other than what produced a strong fear response could calm panic attacks. So could positive imagery.

  She poked her tongue into one cheek. Was it positive imagery to think of all the ways you could kill a Vampyre when you met one, or all the ways in which they were vulnerable?

  Well, she wouldn’t learn biofeedback with electrodes plastered to her head, so she ought to be able to think of whatever image worked for her too.

  Not that she would be around to practice, anyway.

  She read until the light faded outside and dusk darkened the page. Setting aside the book, she rose to her feet and went to the empty ballroom to look out at the ocean. On warm evenings, the tall, Palladian-style windows could be opened all around the room to allow for fresh air to blow in.

  She had to agree with Raoul. This room was the jewel of the house.

  Something ached. Was she actually sad at the thought of leaving?

  Frowning, she turned from the window just as Xavier strode into the room. Tonight, he wore all black, simple slacks and a thin sweater that looked as if it might be silk. The clothes molded to his lean, strong form and emphasized his natural elegance more than ever.

  Her pulse quickened, but it wasn’t from fear. While she certainly respected how dangerous he was, she no longer believed he would hurt her. So why did her blasted heart rate pick up again?

  She had no time to puzzle over it. As soon as he saw her, he gave her a small smile and a slight, archaic bow in greeting that seemed as natural to him as breathing. “Ah, good, you are here. Follow me, please.”

  He turned to walk out again. Caught off balance, she hurried to catch up with him. “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll see.”

  He led her up the stairs, bounding lightly up them two at a time and down the hall opposite the master’s suite to the first bedroom where a light was shining. Once there, he stepped back from the open doorway and gestured for her to go in.

  Puzzled, she complied. “What are we doing?”

  “You are changing outfits,” he told her.

  A large garment bag from Nordstrom lay across the queen-sized bed. A smaller Nordstrom bag rested beside it. In the smaller bag, she could just see the tip of a shoe box, and she turned to stare at Xavier. “You bought me a dress? And shoes?”

  Completely unmoved by her incredulity, he shrugged. “As I said to Raoul, people do not waltz in exercise pants. You need to wear the right outfit to learn how to dance properly, otherwise you will not know how to contend with the skirt or the shoes, and your poor partner’s feet will never recover.”

  “But—but—”

  “No buts.” He looked both cheerful and adamant. “Change. I will see you down in the ballroom.”

  But you shouldn’t have spent the money. I’m not staying.

  The words tangled up in her head. She hadn’t planned on telling him she was leaving until after the dance lesson, and before she could decide how she wanted to respond, he closed the door and left her alone.

  She needed to go after him and tell him, if only she could find the right words to say.

  But her feet discovered they had a mind of their own, and they propelled her to the side of the bed. Her hands became independent thinkers also, as they unzipped the garment bag.

  Her mind followed suit, as she thought, Well, a quick peek wouldn’t hurt.

  Pulling apart the edges of the bag, she stared down at the dress. It was a beautiful, deep midnight blue gown ruched at one hip, with a long gauzy skirt. While the gown itself was strapless, it came with a fitted lacy bodice overlay in the same color.

  She pulled the shoe box out of the bag and opened it. Delicate, nude-colored sandals lay inside. In a daze, she pulled out one sandal and checked it. It had a bit of a heel, but it wasn’t too high, and it was her size.

  She couldn’t remember the last time she had worn pretty clothes, and this outfit was simply beautiful.

  Oh, hell.

  TWELVE

  Of their own volition, her fingers went out to stroke the gauzy skirt of the dress.

  She could try on the outfit, just to see if it fit. If it did, they could try a dance or two. If she tucked in the price tags but didn’t remove them, they could return everything to the store.

  And really, in the end, what did it matter if she went through one more dance lesson in her training outfit, or in the dress?

  Not giving herself a chance to dither any longer, she toed off her running shoes and stripped, then shimmied into the gown, strapped on the sandals and stepped in front of a tall oval mirror set in a stand in one corner of the room.

  If the dress was really hers and she would actually consider keeping it, she would make some changes. While it was the right size across the shoulders and hips, the waist was a bit loose and the length of the arms was a touch too long, but a good tailor could easily fix those issues. The color was simply lovely. It brought out a sheen in her dark hair and highlighted her healthy tan, and the whole outfit emphasized all the right curves in her body.

  And she adored the sandals. It felt strange to be out of running shoes, and she’d gotten out of the habit of wearing heels, but the sandals were light, comfortable and made her feet look feminine and slender.

  One part of her mind said severely, What on earth are you doing, Tess?

  She stuffed a gag in it, left the room and went downstairs.

  She heard music before she actually reached the ballroom, a single-note melody that sounded somehow pensive. Whatever it was, it wasn’t waltz music. When she reached the doorway, she found Xavier sitting at the baby grand, his head bent as he watched the keys, and she realized the music wasn’t a recording. He was playing, although not seriously, as he fingered out the notes with one hand.

  “I have no classical education,” she said as she walked toward him. “But whatever you’re playing sounds lovely.”

  He stopped, and his dark head lifted as he turned to the doorway. When he caught sight of her, he rose to his feet quickly.
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br />   The intensity of his scrutiny made her self-conscious. The severe part of her mind spat out its gag and snarled, The dress is only a prop, fool, and it’s not even yours. And why on earth would you care about his opinion anyway. . . .

  That was all it got a chance to say before she gagged it again. As she walked toward him, she asked aloud, “Will this do?”

  “It will do splendidly,” he said. His voice was warm, the expression in his gaze lit with something that looked like pleasure. “Now you can know what it feels like to really waltz.” When she came close, he held out a hand and she offered him hers. Instead of leading her out onto the floor, he bent to press his lips lightly to her fingers. “And you look beautiful.”

  The severe part of her mind broke free of its restraint and took control of her vocal chords. In a quiet voice, she said, “Which is completely irrelevant, of course, but thank you.”

  He looked up, over her hand, and gave her a slow smile that was remarkably sweet and sexy, and completely devastating. “I’m afraid I must disagree. A beautiful woman is never irrelevant. She can be the most compelling, most gloriously dangerous creature in all the world.”

  Sexy. With the last of her fear banished, for the first time she could see it, sense it, almost reach out and scoop it up in her hands.

  He was sexy.

  Shaken, she withdrew her fingers and gave a little laugh. In an attempt to deflect that devastating, intent scrutiny of his, she reminded him, “You didn’t say what you were playing just now.”

  “It is a Chopin piece, one of the Nocturnes,” he said. “I think it’s one of the most beautiful pieces of music he wrote. But I wasn’t really playing it, just picking out the melody. Would you like to hear the real thing?”

  Pleasure was a deadly thing. It weakened the resolve and skewed one’s motives. But she couldn’t resist. She found herself saying, “Yes, please.”

  He inclined his head and sat, sliding to one side on the bench in a clear invitation for her to join him.

  Oh, hell. How had this evening turned into such a slippery slope?

  Gingerly, she eased onto the seat beside him. There was no sheet music. Whatever he played here, he knew by heart. He gave her a sidelong smile, positioned his long-fingered hands over the ivory keys and began.

  The acoustics in the ballroom were wonderful. Haunting, exquisite music swelled to fill the space.

  Her emotions careened all over the map. The long, unwinding strings of sound reached into her heart and plucked out its own melody. Somehow, by one of the strangest set of circumstances she’d ever heard of or experienced, she had come to this place and time.

  The details lay scattered in her mind like a strange necklace of pearls strewn over an unknown woman’s vanity. She wore a beautiful dress on a serene moonlit night, sitting in the jewel of a gracious house, and a Vampyre who was both dangerous and kind played Chopin for her ears alone.

  Once she left the estate’s cloistered protection, she would probably be dead within the week. For now she set it aside, threw all her barriers down and opened herself wide to surrender to this singular experience.

  When the last notes faded from the air, she wanted to grab them and demand they stay, but even if she heard the song again, it could never be quite the same as that first time, filled as it was with the unique newness of discovery and the surprise of pleasure that had been previously unknown. Those strings in the heart could be plucked only once.

  The moment fled into memory. She thought, when I die—if he dies—no one will ever know what just happened. Beside her, he sat still, waiting patiently.

  She opened her eyes and looked at him, and it didn’t matter that her gaze was damp with tears and he was the one who had done that to her. Instead, she wanted to thank him for it.

  Those old eyes of his, set in that noble, young face. She shook her head and gave him a small, twisted smile. “I don’t know how to reconcile in my mind everything I know about you.”

  Instead of asking what she meant, he looked down at the piano and touched one ivory key but didn’t press it. “You asked me once if I had done everything that had been attributed to me, and I said yes. May I tell you a story?”

  She nodded as she looked away and wiped one cheek. Of course he knew to go there. He was a very clever man.

  He pressed the key, and a single note sounded. It seemed forlorn and incomplete without its companions. “My mother died having me,” he said. “It was a tragedy, of course, as such things always are. My older brother and sister had come some years before me, but still, she was too young to die in such a way. She had been the light of my father’s life, and he was heartbroken.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. It seemed inadequate, or out of place somehow.

  He gave her a sidelong look and a smile that made it all right. “Thank you, Tess. My sister, Aeliana, was thirteen, and for all practical purposes, she became my mother. My father withdrew emotionally and preoccupied himself with managing his estates, and my brother was absent more often than not, but Aeliana raised me and let me know in a thousand ways that I was safe, wanted and loved. Unfortunately, she looked quite a bit like me.” This was accompanied by another sidelong, self-deprecating smile. “But all the same, she was lovely. She had a strength and sweetness that shone out of her like a beacon, and people were drawn to her because of it.”

  His sister wasn’t the only one who had that quality.

  His sister, the one who had been murdered by the Inquisition. She knotted her hands together in her lap. Despite a somewhat innocuous beginning, he was not telling an easy story.

  His quiet voice continued. “I was the third child and a second son, and I would never inherit. It was always understood that I was destined for the Church. My father believed I would make a fine statesman, perhaps bishop one day, or if God allowed, even cardinal. With the right piety and championship from senior officials within the Church, along with generous contributions from the family, God could afford to allow quite a bit of good fortune to fall on the del Torro name.” He shrugged and smiled at her. “It was how we thought at the time.”

  “Did you mind?” she asked.

  “No, not at all. So many modern stories focus on the angst of this kind of thing and glorify one’s right to choose one’s own path, but truly, I was fine with it. I liked to learn, and at that time the Church was at the center of human education. So, I was raised as a typical young nobleman and taught to hunt, and fight and fence. I was good at all of it, and I enjoyed it, until it came time for me to join the Church, where I found the discipline and study suited me. I came to realize I loved God, and I committed to the life and said the vows. And I meant them.”

  Now that she had caught glimpses into his personal life, she could picture him as a young, earnest ascetic. Fingering one of the keys herself, she asked, “You didn’t miss any of those other pursuits?”

  His mouth took on an ironic twist. “The reality of it was, I didn’t have to give very much of it up. I was not a poor country priest. God really could afford to allow good fortune to fall upon a rich nobleman’s son. I was housed in a comfortable, monied monastery near our main home in Valencia, and I became secretary to the bishop at that time, and I saw my family, especially Aeliana, regularly. It was a good life. I . . . believed in it. I believed in dedicating myself to a life that was filled with the holy scripture and mixed with politics. I was not rebellious or insincere. In many ways, I really was very much a product of my time.”

  “I find that hard to believe,” she murmured. If he had been so typical, he wouldn’t be so feared now, nor would he be sitting here, telling her the story of what happened centuries ago.

  He quirked an eyebrow at her but didn’t pursue that. Instead, he said, “Then there was the Inquisition. At the time, the Inquisition had turned its focus onto matters of Power, and magical creatures were declared an anathema. Those of the Elder Races wer
e to be pitied, because they were godless, soulless creatures, but Vampyres were a different matter. Vampyres chose to become what they were, and thus they fell from God’s grace and were damned.”

  She shook her head. Hadn’t she done something very similar, when she had called all Vampyres “monsters” in her mind? “What about those who might have been turned against their will?”

  “That didn’t matter. They must have done something to have deserved it.”

  “They blamed the victim?” Outrage stirred. Even though it had all happened so long ago, his words had given it an immediacy that made it seem current.

  “Cause and effect. God blessed those who were good and punished those who had sinned. The Church could forgive most sins and bless the petitioner, but some sins were mortal offenses.”

  “It’s barbaric,” she muttered.

  “Of course it was. Meanwhile, things happened to the del Torro family. My father died of some kind of lung disease, perhaps pneumonia, and my brother, Felipe, inherited the title—it was just a minor lordship, mind you—and the estate. Still, Felipe was an explorer and was gone much of the time, while Aeliana remained home and managed the estate. Then Felipe died when his ship went down somewhere near the Canary Islands. There was only Aeliana and me, and Aeliana had fallen in love with a man who was a gentle soul, who also happened to be a Vampyre. That was the beginning of the end.”

  She touched a black key and whispered, “It was bad.”

  “I’m afraid so.” He touched her hand briefly. “But I don’t need to make it so, for you.”

  Needing to see how much he felt of the old pain, she turned toward him and searched his gaze. He met her scrutiny with the same quiet dignity with which he told the story.

  “Everything happened quickly after that, over a span of about four months. I may have been book bright, but I was a young, naive fool. I didn’t want to leave the Church, and while Aeliana couldn’t inherit the title, I thought she deserved the estates. I had met Inigo, the man she had fallen in love with. He was from a nearby community of twenty or so Vampyres. While I . . . liked him, I was troubled by the fact that he was a Vampyre. At that time the Inquisition had not made any moves against Vampyre communities and I didn’t see the danger until it was too late. I couldn’t see him as damned, but I didn’t have time to agonize over the morality of the Church’s opinion or how I felt about it. Worried, I talked to my bishop about it in the confessional.”