Demon Moon

by Meljean Brook

  “Leave quickly, then.” They’d face the consequences of this together…tomorrow. “Keep your radio on until you are in the car and have engaged the spell’s protection.”

  Stepping into the gazebo, he met Michael’s eyes. The Guardian looked the ancient warrior with his ridiculous toga and impressive black wings, but he’d been the Healer that night.

  Both Paul and Varney were standing. In response to Colin’s observation that hazard pay might be necessary for Polidori’s employees, Varney danced a light-footed jig. Fia slanted Colin a grateful look before wrapping her arms around Paul’s neck.

  Satisfied that nothing more needed to be done, Colin continued on through, heading for the stairs. “You’ve a mess to clean up in here,” he told the Doyen.

  “Of your creation,” Michael said. “Do not impede us again.”

  “Impede?” With a disbelieving laugh, Colin stopped and swung around. “I’ve served your fledglings a venom-weakened demon on a silver platter.”

  “We cannot protect you if you hinder us.”

  “You can’t? Or you won’t?”

  Savi must have known Michael would hear her through Colin’s earpiece; Michael’s mouth tightened, as if her question reminded him that he could not interfere with Savi’s will—and she had been the one to hinder them.

  “Cannot.”

  “As comforting as it is to know you won’t abandon us, you’ll do well to learn to protect the community despite us. For it’s become quite clear that we lack—” Colin paused, searching for the word.

  “Underworld izzat,” Savi supplied. “Demons wouldn’t care for personal honor, but vampires’ lives must be given value in a currency the demons understand.”

  Colin nodded. “Yes, izzat—and that lack is more detrimental than the lack of protection. We are neither human nor a threat; but we must be one, or the demons and nosferatu will continue to kill us with impunity.”

  “Demons and nosferatu will never assign any value to a vampire.”

  Colin shrugged. “Then the honor will be for ourselves, so that we know we do not have to accede to the demands of pain and fear. That is how you can best help us; by allowing us to be a threat, and assisting us if we fail.” His jaw firmed as he studied the Guardian’s expressionless features. “When did you last ascribe value to a vampire? Do you slay this demon for killing us, or simply because he is a demon?”

  Michael sighed. “There is no difference.”

  Perhaps not to him. Colin had made this clear to the vampires, but now he had to explain it to the Doyen as well? Lilith and Hugh understood it. The vampires would follow the Rules, but they’d bow neither to the demons nor the Guardians.

  “If there is no difference, then you should begin amending those Scrolls. A redefinition of ‘vampire’ seems in order.”

  The house blazed with lights when Savi pulled into the drive. Most of her concentration had been on making it there without stalling the engine at each stop and shift of the gears, but now that she’d arrived, stark reality hit her with gut-clenching fists.

  Colin would feed from her. And give her—something—in return.

  There was no going back from this. There was nothing impulsive about her decision, and it wasn’t a means to a simple end or to satisfy her curiosity.

  And there would be no simple end; only a painful one. This could only make it worse.

  Colin waited on the porch, speaking into his cell. He’d showered and changed, his hair dark and wet beneath the lights. He closed the phone and tucked it into the pocket of his cream linen pants when she turned off the car.

  It was probably a good thing she liked pain, because she wasn’t going to run from this.

  Though the indefinable quality that had been missing from his portraits made her certain it was he, she allowed Sir Pup to exit the car first. Her legs were unsteady as she joined them, her pulse racing. He watched her with unconcealed hunger.

  “Was it—” She had to pause, clear her throat. Why was she so nervous? He’d fed from her before, and she’d survived. “Was it their blood you had to wash away, or yours?”

  “Theirs. Of course.”

  She gave a little headshake. “Of course.”

  His lips quirked, and he held out his hand. “Go on home, pup.” His fingers clasped over hers when she slid her palm in his. “I’ve just spoken with Lilith; Dalkiel evaded the fledglings.”

  “You’re joking.”

  The frustration in his gaze answered her before he did. “No.” He released her hand to set the alarm and activate the spell.

  God. She could just imagine what Lilith had said to him.

  Savi automatically bent to remove her shoes, and braced herself against the wall as she unlaced her boots and yanked off the left. The marble was cool and hard beneath her bare foot. “It’s not your fault, you know.” She dropped her right boot to the floor.

  “I rarely blame myself for anything; I’ll not begin with this.”

  She froze, her heart thundering in her ears. His voice had deepened to a soft growl. She straightened and turned to face him.

  He was staring at his hands. They trembled, and the blood that beaded on his thumb began a thick slide. He raised his eyes to hers; they burned with need.

  So did she.

  “Are you frightened?” His tone begged her to say no.

  “A little.” He’d know the truth of it when he took her blood; she wouldn’t lie to him now. She shrugged out of her coat and grasped the hem of her top. Her neckline was too high. “But mostly excited, and really really turned on. You like to hunt; what happens if I run?”

  A voracious smile spread over his mouth; his gaze fell to her breasts as she bared them to his view. “I chase you.”

  “How far do you think I’d get?”

  “Not far; I’m dreadfully hungry.” Colin’s response was as playful as hers had been, but there was no mistaking its truth. “I’ll allow you a handicap.”

  “A head start? That hardly tips the odds in your favor.” She covered her breasts with her hands as she edged along the wall of the foyer, toward the stairs.

  As if the movement was a true attempt to escape, some of the humor left his expression, replaced by predatory intent, the bloodlust taking hold, despite his apparent aim to ease her fears through this game.

  “Run, Savi,” he rasped.

  She didn’t; she walked backward, and watched him stalk after her. His every step was a thing of grace and beauty. His focus narrowed on her throat, then drifted down. And down. His lips parted; his teeth gleamed.

  Oh, god. Her nipples tightened beneath her palms; moisture slicked her inner thighs. Her heels hit the bottom riser. She dropped her shields.

  And he was on her, his care as he cupped her head and protected her from the impact against the floor at odds with the rip of her panties, the ravenous sounds that rose from his chest. He shoved her skirt up.

  She clutched at him to pull him inside her, but he slid out of her grasp. “Forgive me,” he said, and his mouth was on her, his tongue in her. Her back arched, her gaze skimming across the ceiling decorated with fat cherubs and lazy gods. She looked away. That wasn’t Heaven.

  This was. The sharp slide of his fangs into her flesh. His blissful moan, reverberating against her. He surveyed her from his portraits, laughing and cruel and beautiful, and she thought, Look at me. Look at what you do to me.

  But they were the parts, the sum much less than the whole—and what she thought had been exquisite pleasure had only been Colin.

  There was more.

  His hands tightened on her hips, holding her in place as he tore through her blood, ripped a scream from her throat. This was beyond ecstasy, beyond momentum, out of control and spinning her along with it, falling and ascending and impossible to feel like this without dying.

  And her brain couldn’t process it, but her body knew what to do—rid itself of it, it was too much, and she twisted and clenched and tried to keep hold, but it slipped away with the orgasm, blindi
ng bright and extinguished as soon as Colin lifted his head.

  Already, she raced along her memory, pulling each thread and examining it for what she’d missed the first time: the cold marble beneath her, the brush of his hair on her thigh, the suction of his mouth, the sound of his pleasure as she rocketed into hers.

  He’d not taken much; when she came back to herself she found him watching her with the need still hard upon him. He licked his way up the length of her torso, and she wrapped her legs around his waist, reached down to guide him.

  “Oh, Christ, Savi. On the floor.” He pressed frantic blood-scented kisses over her mouth, down to her neck. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t apolo—” But she didn’t finish.

  He sank into her, filled her. Rapture streaked along her veins, greater than before, as if his physical pleasure fed it, increasing with each heavy stroke, suspending her between the thrust of his body and the fire in her blood.

  This couldn’t be real.

  He stiffened, his anguish pushing into her with the euphoria, and she realized she’d spoken it. Or he’d heard it within her. It didn’t matter; he’d misunderstood. Angels and demons and vampires weren’t real, either.

  “I won’t forget,” she said to all of them staring down at her, begging her to see him, to remember. Or she thought she did, but he must have heard her—the pain vanished. I’ll never forget, she promised.

  Tremors shook him. Stay with me, she thought she heard him say.

  Yes. For this. For now.

  She dared not hope for more.

  Colin apparently didn’t know that most blood donations only netted juice and a cookie. Food enough for a village had been delivered from the local grocer, most of it perishable; she’d barely made a dent in it that afternoon.

  “Why does a vampire have a gourmet kitchen?” Savi wondered as she turned away from the enormous glass-front refrigerator, unwrapping yet another package of fruit.

  “I’d an obsession for The Food Network; I briefly entertained the notion of learning to dice and sauté.” He leaned his hip against the counter, watching as she washed a small pile of strawberries and transferred them to the cutting board. “But this is just as pleasurable, and far less effort.”

  The berries’ sweet fragrance released with each slice of her knife, the juice as red—if not as thick—as blood.

  “What does it taste like? When you drink from someone.”

  “Never as I expect,” he said. “I don’t believe I truly taste it—it’s nothing like the few times I bled when I was human.”

  “Metallic? Salty?”

  His gaze fell to her throat. The punctures had closed by the time she’d run upstairs to change into her little T-shirt and pajama pants; they’d stopped itching before she’d come down again.

  “The texture is the same, but the flavor is…” He shook his head. “There’s nothing with which I can compare it. I daresay it’s more of an experience than a taste.”

  “A bloody glorious one?”

  His laughter rolled softly through the kitchen. “Yes.”

  “It was,” she admitted, and his delighted grin sent a delicious quake through her stomach. “Though it wasn’t near five minutes. More like two. Does everyone taste the same?”

  “No. Elements of the flavor are similar, but it’s influenced by temperament, by mood. Animal blood—and human blood taken outside the body—have no flavor at all.”

  Nor could they sustain a vampire for long; perhaps the physical properties of the blood weren’t enough.

  “So the taste is probably psychically based.”

  He made a sound of agreement. “Much like your scent, though no one else perceives it that way.”

  “Except for the wyrmwolves.”

  “Yes.” His face hardened slightly.

  “How deep can you get? Into my head, I mean,” she quickly added the last.

  Though amusement softened his voice, he only said, “Not as far as I’d have liked. Your shields were down, so perhaps it is the structure of your memory that prevents me.”

  “But you heard me. The surface thoughts.”

  “Yes.” With an expression almost achingly tender, his gaze roamed over her face. “And they gave me more pleasure than your blood, your taste, or your scent. I could not have hoped for more, Savitri.”

  She had to speak through the tightness in her throat, the swelling in her chest. “I heard you, too.” A berry liquefied under her knife, and she fought to control her frustration.

  It wasn’t as if she wished for forever—just the rest of her life.

  “I’d no idea you could,” he said quietly, and she realized he wouldn’t have asked her to stay if he had known. Was he trying to protect her? Far too late.

  He tilted his head to the side, and added, “I suppose I’m a right cad. I typically don’t think at all during the feeding, let alone stay to chat about it afterward.”

  She bit her lip against her laugh. With the flat of her blade, she scooped up the strawberries and dumped them into her yogurt bowl atop blueberries and mango slices. When she turned back around, Colin had an orange waiting.

  She shook her head. “I can’t eat that much.”

  “It’s my favorite.” His ridiculously charming—beguiling—smile made its appearance.

  “Oh, god.” She wiped her fingers onto a paper towel, leaving a bright pink stain. “You’re trying to stuff me with food. Nani does this to me.”

  “I have good reason. You’re eating for two.”

  She braced her palms against the countertop, her body shaking with laughter. “That’s the worst joke I’ve ever heard,” she said when she could breathe again.

  “You lived with Castleford too long for me to believe that.” He fluttered his lashes. “In any case, you’ll forgive me.”

  “Not likely; it was really bad,” she said, but reached for the orange and sliced it down the center. His lids lowered fractionally, and he inhaled—he truly enjoyed the burst of fragrance. She found a glass, set it in front of him with both halves of the orange. “Squeeze the hell out of it.”

  He arched a brow.

  She arched hers. “I’ve earned my juice. And you’re stronger than I am.”

  “It seems that I am not,” he said as he pushed his sweater sleeves over his forearms and picked up the orange. “How have you manipulated me into performing manual labor? I shall have to weaken you, put you wholly under my glorious vampiric power. Oh, good God, this smells incredible.”

  She stared at his wrists, his flexing fingers. “Did I mention that the sight of your hands drives me absolutely insane?”

  He looked up from the pulped orange, his gaze heated. “Then I shall pulverize fruit by the ton.”

  She rolled another toward him. “Six ounces will do. I’m easy.”

  “Sweet Christ, you will grind me beneath your heel. I love nothing so much as easy women who worship my hands.”

  “And lips,” she reminded him.

  He tossed the orange carcass into the sink with a flick of his wrist. “Let us see if I can put both to good use.” Her heartbeat quickened, but he only cast a wicked grin her way before lifting her glass and bowl from the counter. “Come along. I intend to drive you mad.”

  “With hunger?” She trailed after him, admiring the line of his back. He began climbing the stairs, and she sighed with pleasure. Every bit of him was gorgeous. “Do you mind if I objectify you?”

  “Please do,” he said over his shoulder. “Particularly my knees, as they are oft-neglected.”

  “Maybe if you ever got your pants off, they wouldn’t be.”

  “It hardly matters, sweet; once they’ve come off, the attention isn’t likely to center on my absurdly handsome knees.”

  She almost tripped over her feet laughing, and was pleased when she noted Colin wasn’t too steady, either. “We’ll have to experiment tonight, and see what draws my attention,” she said as she followed him into the music room. “I promise not to remove any variables.�
��

  He grinned in response, but it ended on a slight grimace. Turning away, he set her bowl on a side table that flanked the wide bay window.

  “What is it?” She accepted the juice and sank into the window seat. Pulling up her feet, she leaned back against the cushions. A view of the street and front landscaping stretched out to her right. Colin sat at the piano.

  What could her remark have reminded him of? “Was it something Dalkiel did?” She hadn’t seen most of what had taken place in the gazebo, only heard it. “To Osterberg?” His screams had sent chills down her spine.

  He sighed. “No.”

  Of course not; Colin wouldn’t be overly concerned with that vampire’s death. Savi found she hadn’t been, either—not in comparison to her relief that the others had made it out alive. “To Paul and Varney, then. That’s why you mentioned hazard pay. Michael healed them?”

  “Yes.”

  She was silent for a moment; her imaginings might have been worse than the reality—but they might not be. “Dalkiel won’t allow us the advantage of the venom next time, will he?” And his humiliation would make him all the more determined to kill them both.

  “No.” His profile was starkly drawn against the piano’s black veneer.

  “Perhaps I made a mistake; I should have called the Guardians in immediately.”

  He turned to face her; his gaze was fierce. “No. If he’d sensed the Guardians’ approach instead of being distracted by ours, he’d have killed Paul, Varney, and Osterberg—and still he would have fled. Only his certainty that we posed no threat and his desire to torment us kept them alive. You acted exactly as you should have, Savitri; Castleford taught you well.” His throat worked before he seemed to shake himself. He flexed his hands over the piano keys. “I take requests.”

  She sighed and dug her spoon into her yogurt. “Nothing depressing.”

  “My exquisite fingering and magnificent voice will lift your spirits,” he said, and launched into a jaunty rendition of The Beatles’ “When I’m Sixty-Four.” When she protested she couldn’t eat for laughing, he segued into a lively minuet.

  She was scraping the bottom of her bowl when he abandoned the piano. He opened a violin case and lowered himself onto the opposite end of the window seat, his posture mirroring hers. The moonlight played over his features; he closed his eyes, tucked his chin against the instrument, and tore open her heart with a simple, poignant melody.