“Ari?” he asked, the word an ominous growl.
“I think that was his name,” she said. “The man I hit in the eye?”
Briton nodded slowly. “He bruised you there?” he wanted clarified, his eyes shifting quickly to her bosom before settling on her face.
“I’ve got his paw prints all over me,” she acknowledged.
Briton said nothing but stepped aside for her to precede him down a long flight of steps.
“If the people from the herds could have free access to the bailey, perhaps they wouldn’t be so miserable.”
“What if they tried to escape?”
“Where would they go?” Khamsin asked.
“You have a point there,” Briton agreed. “And they all know about Prince Stavros. None would like to get caught by his herders.”
The further down the two went, the cooler the air became. Lighted torches flickered on the damp walls to give the narrow stairwell a claustrophobic effect on Khamsin’s nerves.
“I’ve never liked closed-in places,” she admitted.
“The lab is on your left at the end of the stairs.”
Brightly lit with torches, candles and leaping cauldrons of fire, the lab’s atmosphere went a long way in displacing the gloom of the old dungeon. Though the rusted iron bars still marked off the various rooms within the lab, there wasn’t the oppressive air Khamsin had expected.
They didn’t stay long for Christina was abed and Marcus—the only other special one at Modartha—was elsewhere in the sprawling keep. A few thralls were working in the lab but none paid any attention to Khamsin and Briton.
“They are the Lady’s workers,” Briton said when Khamsin asked why they were being ignored. “They answer to her.”
By the time the sun began lowering in the sky Khamsin had completed her tour of Modartha. She had been able to thank the cooks for her hardy meal earlier in the day, sit with them for the noon repast, and get a look at the immense library that housed thousands of books she itched to read. At least an hour had been spent scanning the titles and she was pleased to see so many masterpieces of writing in such excellent condition.
When they started up the stairs to Lucien’s chamber, Lord Petros was coming down the wide staircase.
“Did you enjoy your day, milady?” Petros asked.
“Very much,” Khamsin answered. She didn’t quite know how to act around the man Briton had informed her was the Lord of Security as well as the prince’s best friend.
“He’s taking a bath and will join us shortly,” Petros said. “I was to find you and take you to the dining hall.”
“I’ve already been there,” she said.
Petros frowned. “You’ve already eaten?”
Khamsin blinked. “Is it supper already?”
“Past time,” Petros commented.
“I guess I lost track of time.”
Petros turned to Briton. “You did your job well, Bri. The lady was so entertained she forgot herself here.”
Briton bowed. “I will leave you in Lord Petros’ very capable hands, milady, but if you should require my services, all you need do is ask someone to find me.”
Petros cocked an eyebrow at the guard but said nothing. When Briton was out of sight up the stairs, he turned to Khamsin. “You’ve made a conquest of him.”
Khamsin blushed. “He’s been very helpful.”
“I’m sure he has. Lucien would not have offered Briton’s assistance to you otherwise.” He held out his arm. “May I?”
Reluctant to touch the Revenant, Khamsin nevertheless laid her palm on his arm. There was no electrical charge as there had been when Lucien touched her and she relaxed.
“You are his mate,” Petros said. “Only his touch will ever excite you, milady.”
“Don’t do that,” she said. “Don’t read my mind.”
Petros chuckled. “It’s a hard habit to break, but I will make an effort for my prince’s lady.”
Khamsin’s mouth tightened as they walked. She wasn’t sure she liked the assumption everyone was making that she was already Lucien’s woman.
“The room is lovely,” she muttered as they entered the dining hall.
“It is what it is,” Petros quipped. “I don’t particularly like it but I have rather plebian tastes, I’m told.”
She said nothing—not even a thank you—when Petros held out her chair so preoccupied with her own dark thoughts as she was.
“He will be good to you,” Petros said as he sat down beside her. “This I can promise you.”
“And he always gets what he wants,” she mumbled.
“Such is the way with princes, milady,” Petros remarked.
“Is she complaining about him already, Pet?” Christina asked as she joined them. Beside her was a tall older man with striking red hair. She introduced him as Marcus Gilbert, another special one.
“I am pleased to meet you again under better circumstances, Khamsin,” Marcus said with a slight bow. “We were so in need of new blood for the experiments.”
Khamsin winced.
“Always the tactful one, Marc,” Christina snapped. She allowed the tall man to seat her. “What the fool means is…”
“I understood what he meant,” Khamsin cut her off. The thought of having her blood drawn and fed to the Revenants disturbed her greatly.
“There is no pain to the blood taking,” Marcus assured her. “I was training to be a paramedic before the war and was very good at phlebotomy.”
Khamsin frowned. “At what?”
“Blood taking,” Christina supplied. “Marc is somewhat of an egotist, I’m afraid. He likes to use big words.”
Marcus shrugged but made no comment to Christina’s remark.
“I hear you have some suggestions for the herds,” Christina injected. “A way to make them happier?”
“No one likes to be penned up,” Khamsin said. “You feel like an animal. If they could roam freely over the grounds, perhaps they would not mind their captivity so much. A happier group is a healthier group.”
“Ah, yes,” Marcus said, tucking his linen napkin in his lap. “Free-range specimen—that might not be a bad idea.”
Christina rolled her eyes. “And by allowing them such freedom run the risk of having a stake driven through our hearts as we sleep, eh, Petros?”
Petros looked up. “That won’t kill us, Tina.”
“No,” the healer grumbled, “but it would sure hurt like hell!”
“They could set fire to your beds,” Marcus suggested.
“And run the risk of being punished?” Khamsin asked. “Do you think that likely?”
The servants came in carrying platters of steaming food, which they placed down the center of the long dining table. There was pheasant and rock hen, fish and lobster, pork and beef, and vegetables of varied size and color.
“You eat regular food?” Khamsin inquired, her forehead creased.
“Along with swilling blood by the goblet full,” Christina chortled. “Of course we eat food. We need nourishment, lass.”
“But you are dead,” Khamsin said.
“We are?” Christina asked with a gasp. “Who told you that?”
“She compares us to the old legends,” Petros said, ladling squash onto his plate.
Christina winced. “To vampires?” At his nod, she shuddered. “Egads, woman. What an insult! Vampires have no soul. They have no minds, either, if legend is true. They walk around chomping brains…”
“No,” Marcus disagreed. “Only zombies eat brains.” He stabbed a pork chop with his fork. “Revenants have their souls intact although some are as black as a starless night.”
“Like Stavros,” Petros commented. He shot Marcus a withering look. “And there are no such things as zombies. Lucien asked Francisco and since the legend of those things come from his part of the world, he would know.”
“Vampires are disgusting things,” Marcus observed.
“They can’t see themselves in the mirror,” Christ
ina lectured. “Sunlight fries them to a crisp and things like crucifixes and garlic and holy relics will stave them off.”
“Imagine Tina not being able to see herself in the mirror?” Petros chuckled.
“Get bent,” Christina snapped.
“They eat, lass,” Marcus explained, “to keep their bodies from deteriorating. In order for the muscles to maintain elasticity, the veins pliancy and the internal organs to refrain from atrophying, it is necessary for those bodily organs to be nourished. Without breathing air, their lungs would shrivel into dust. Without water, the flesh would dry like cracked leather and without…”
“She gets the picture,” Petros reasoned. “Just shut up and eat.”
Khamsin looked down at her plate and felt a bit queasy. “Aren’t you going to wait for Prince Lucien?” she asked.
“Hell, no,” Christina quipped. “He will come when he wants to. If we had to wait on him, we’d starve to death!” She stabbed a fork toward Khamsin. “Eat!”
Khamsin wasn’t hungry but her throat was parched. She took up her goblet of water and drank greedily.
“He hasn’t taken your blood yet, has he?” Christina asked. She was chewing thoughtfully on a stalk of celery.
“No, he hasn’t,” Lucien answered for his lady as he entered the room.
“Just asking,” Christina said. “She seems awfully thirsty.”
Wiping her lips with the back of her hand, Khamsin turned her gaze to the man sitting at the head of the table. Her heart skipped a beat for Lucien was dressed in a white flowing shirt that set off the darkness of his long hair. He had left the wavy locks hanging loose against his shoulders. Leaning back in his throne-like red velvet chair, a jewel-encrusted golden goblet wrapped in the span of his powerful fingers, he was looking back at Khamsin as though she was the next item on his menu. She felt the heat of his gaze all the way to the pit of her womb.
“You’re doing it again,” Khamsin complained, looking away.
Christina swiveled her head toward Lucien. “What is it you are doing, Luc?”
A slow smile spread over Lucien’s lips. “Nothing,” he said, lifting the goblet to his mouth. “Nothing at all. Her thoughts are her own.”
Khamsin blushed and kept her head down. She could feel the blood pounding in her ears. “May I be excused, please?” she asked.
“You are not hungry, wench?” Petros asked. “The food is excellent.”
“Not for food she isn’t,” Lucien said softly. He sipped from the goblet, looking at his woman down the stem. When she glanced his way, he cocked an eyebrow in challenge. Lowering the goblet, he licked the wine from his lips and as her gaze strayed to his moist tongue, he watched her shiver.
“Go, Sweeting,” he said. “I’ll be along shortly.”
Khamsin could not get up from the table quickly enough. She fled the room, leaving behind her knowing looks.
“You’d best take her soon, Luc,” Christina advised. “She is ripe for it.”
“Before the night is o’er,” Lucien acknowledged.
* * * * *
Once in her room, Khamsin paced the elegant confines. Her palms were slick with perspiration and she was drawing ragged breaths into her lungs. She knew when next she laid eyes on the handsome prince of Modartha, he would exercise his right to her, and mixed emotions were roiling in her gut.
He was an exceedingly handsome, virile man beneath whom most women would love to lay. His hard muscles, silken hair and wide chest looked as though they had been cast from a master painter’s easel. There was nothing offensive about him…or at least nothing she had either seen or smelled. If truth were told, he had a sensual odor that hinted of cinnamon and leather.
“I promised to take you for a ride tonight.”
Khamsin swallowed nervously and turned. He was standing in the doorway, one hand braced against the lintel. Her eyes traveled down his tall frame and her attention locked on his black leather boots.
“Would you like to go riding in the moonlight?”
“I…” Khamsin shook her head. She was shivering and wrapped her arms about her.
Lucien strolled into the room, coming to stand before her. He reached out and lifted her chin with the crook of his index finger. Staring down into her troubled eyes, he ran the pad of his thumb along the edge of her jaw.
“Why do you fear me, wench? Do you truly think I would hurt you?”
She felt tears gathering in her eyes. “No, but…”
He studied her lovely face, peering deep into the swirling depths of her gaze and what he saw there made his heart ache.
“Who hurt you, little one?” he asked.
Tears fell slowly down her face. “Please, Lucien, I…”
“Give me his name and I will tear him apart with my bare hands,” he said through clenched teeth.
Khamsin knew he meant what he said and it was a good thing the man who had taken her innocence was far away, long gone now. “He’s dead,” she said. “He won’t ever hurt anyone again.”
Lucien’s eyebrows drew together. “When did this happen? Where?”
“On the cruise ship,” she answered. “I was thirteen.”
Cold fury hardened Lucien’s green eyes and he reached out to draw Khamsin into his arms—putting his hand on the back of her head and pressing her cheek to his chest.
“I am sorry, wench,” he said.
She felt safe in his strong arms, her palms pressed to his rock-hard pectorals. Beneath her cheek, she could feel his heart beating and something gave way inside her soul.
“I believed all the old tales,” she said softly, her fingers caressing him through the fine white linen of his shirt. “I was taught Revenants were evil things, dead things who butchered their herds and…”
He slid his hands to her upper arms, and pushed her gently back from him and looked down into her face. “Some Revenants are that way. Stavros’ coven is but neither mine, nor Gideon’s nor is Francisco’s. We are honorable men.”
“I thought you were dead things,” she repeated, shivering. Her fingers plucked at his shirt.
“I know,” he said softly. “A rotting corpse was what you expected, wench, wasn’t it?”
“I still don’t understand the differences between you,” she confessed. “What are vampires and where did they come from?”
“No one knows from whence either of us came,” Lucien said, “but it has been suggested that neither Revenants nor vampires are native to this world. Some even say there is a third race called Reapers but I’ve never seen one. If that is true, I imagine vampires are the bastard children and Revenants are the rightful race.”
“What of the Reapers then?” she asked, seemingly fascinated by the tale.
Lucien shrugged. “If such things exist, I imagine they are but a pale imitation of Revenants.”
She smiled slightly. “Why could it not be the other way around?” she suggested.
Lucien snorted. “Vampires drain the blood from their victims, change the victims they want to keep into either mindless thralls or into beings like themselves who kill without conscience,” he continued, apparently unwilling to contemplate such a thing so dismissing it. “They do not merely take enough blood to survive—they take it all, killing without remorse. They cannot abide sunlight because evil has always been shown for what it is in the light of day. The gods cursed them in such a way that light will destroy them, send them up in howling flames, and anything holy—like water blessed by a priest or a crucifix, anything pertaining to the religious life—will cause them terrible pain. Their souls are so hideously ugly they cannot see their reflections in mirrors for then they would see the evil they had become. They can’t cross running water nor can they consume food. They are truly the undead.”
“But Revenants are undead,” she said, confusion showing in her eyes.
“We are,” Lucien agreed. “The differences between Revenants and vampires are vast. As I told you, we are not harmed by sunlight as the vampires are. It simply drain
s us, depletes us. On the other hand, the night revives us, fills our souls. Religious things do not harm us and we can look into a mirror and see ourselves as we really are, although…” He sighed. “I doubt Stavros can.”
“Are there other similar traits between Revenants and vampires?”
“A few,” he replied. “We both make fledglings in a similar fashion—by injecting a venom from our blood into the new one. Vampires must share their blood, though, in order for a victim to become like them. When Revenants bite, we bite for a reason, not just at the whim of our bloodlust. Though we inject venom just as the vampires do, we can control the amount we inject. Being bit by one of us doesn’t necessarily mean you’ll become a Revenant. Chances are if one bites you without the intention of turning you, you’re on your way to being drained and it’s a moot point.”
“What happens when one Revenant bites another?”
“Such is not likely to happen, wench,” he replied. “Rarely do we exchange blood—even between lovers.”
“Why not?”
“Because you can track those you are seeking through their DNA. Vampires fancy themselves so powerful they don’t mind one of their newlings to know where they are. Revenants feel differently. It is not to your advantage to have someone capable of tracking you wherever you are. I don’t know if such is the way with the so-called Reapers but I know I don’t like the notion of anyone being able to know where I am at all times.” He frowned. “It’s bad enough Sibylline does!
“It would have to be a very special circumstance for me to offer my neck to anyone,” he said.
“That explains why Revenants do not take blood from other Revenants,” she said. She cocked her head to one side. “What happens when you run out of blood from those you keep in the corrals?”
“It won’t happen,” he said.
“Why not?”
“We’re very careful in how we take blood as Marc told you, Sweeting. We use methods like the blood banks from before the Great War, harvesting blood and keeping it to be consumed later. We never indiscriminately bite someone’s neck like the vampires do. We only bite when we want to make a fledgling and that doesn’t happen that much anymore.”
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