Demon Moon

by Meljean Brook

  Finally he pulled back to stare down at her. “Are you well?”

  She nodded. “I can still turn into a wolf.”

  His thumbs brushed over her cheeks, her brows. “Your shields are up. Can you lower them without transforming?”

  “Yes.” Her throat tightened. “Did you see the mirror?”

  “That you’d covered it? I do like to perform morning ablutions without the screaming.” Despite his light tone, his body tensed against hers. “Why?”

  “Will you go look at it?”

  His jaw set. “Why? What are you not—”

  “You can taste,” she said. “I think I got something of yours, too. I can still see myself,” she added quickly when he paled, his skin drawing taut over his cheekbones. “Just go look.”

  His fingers threaded tightly through hers; he led her back to the bathroom. Her heart was in her throat as they stood before the mirror. She’d tacked the shower curtain across it.

  His bare chest rose and fell on a deep breath, and he ripped it down.

  He wasn’t there. Still not there. She tried to pull him out. He didn’t move. “I’m sorry…I’m sorry.”

  “What did you think it would be, Savitri?” His brows drew together, and he tilted his head as if studying his missing reflection.

  “I didn’t know. I dropped my shields, and I saw it—”

  He whipped around to face her. “Chaos?”

  “Yes. But only when my shields are down.”

  “Bloody hell.” He stared at her for a moment, his throat working. “I’m sorry, Savi.”

  “Don’t apologize. I’m okay now. More than okay.” Whatever price she had to pay, it had been worth it.

  He glanced at the mirror again, his lips parting slightly as if in wonder. “So am I.”

  Her breath caught. “You can see yourself?”

  He shook his head. “No. Just you. The shower behind me. Not Chaos.” His voice thickened. “Like the reflection in glass, or water.”

  “What if you lower your shields?”

  The scent of papaya, of orange; he cringed, and it disappeared. “That is not as pleasant,” he said softly.

  She looked at the mirror. “But still…” He wouldn’t have to be alone in it. Wouldn’t have to suffer it, except by choice.

  He pressed his lips together as if to hold back tears or laughter, and nodded. “But still,” he agreed.

  Surprisingly, Michael followed Savi’s suggestion—though they didn’t use a nuclear bomb, uncertain of the effect of such a powerful weapon.

  In and out within seconds, and she watched in the Room as Michael and Colin appeared at the top of the mountain. The charges had been prepared; Colin simply had to set them against the rocks and start the timer.

  Fifteen seconds later, Colin was in the Room with her, holding her hand as the explosion obliterated the symbols, a good chunk of the mountaintop, and a few curious wyrmwolves.

  “It’s done,” he announced, and held her gaze as he pressed a kiss to her fingers. She raised her shields a moment after he did; she reflected infinitely in every mirror, each successive image decreasing in size. Dizzying.

  “Well,” Lilith said from behind the glass. “Despite all of your whining, that wasn’t bad at all.”

  Colin rolled his eyes; his fangs flashed with his grin. “Sod off, Agent Milton.”

  Flying, Savi determined, was still much safer than teleporting. Especially when one hired a private jet, and the pilots didn’t raise a brow when Colin demanded they fly west around the globe, rather than taking a shorter route east.

  And Beaumont Court looked exactly as it had in his paintings—if slightly darker, lit by moonlight.

  “I’d rather not tell her I can turn into a wolf,” Savi said as they pulled into the drive. “I think having a vampire for a granddaughter is a big enough shock.”

  Colin slanted her an amused glance. “You’ve dashed my hopes, Savitri; I’d imagined you entertaining my family for hours, chasing a stick or some such nonsense.”

  “Oh, god. Is that all of them?” There must have been fifty people wating near the entrance, but it was the slim dark woman in the bright turquoise sari that drew her gaze. “She looks really good. Relaxed.”

  Three hours later, Savi couldn’t determine how it was possible to be refreshed when so many children vied for Nani’s attention, when they chased Colin around the drawing room with crucifixes and garlic, and she had to explain several times over that her education wasn’t nearly as haphazard as her translation of Hugh’s book suggested.

  She wasn’t at all ashamed when she finally fled to Nani’s rooms with Colin in tow.

  Colin stood by the window, looking out over the gardens as Nani examined Savi’s face, her hair, her teeth.

  The henna and the platinum ring.

  “Oh, naatin,” she finally said. “You will make me cry. This is not how things are usually done.”

  Colin smiled, leaned against the sill. “But the way things are usually done is so tedious, Nani.”

  Her own eyes starting to burn with tears, Savi shook her head. “Don’t cry. Watch. Watch.” She had to concentrate, recall everything she’d ever read about hair follicles and growth—but it was an image of her mother that made it simple: a moment later, her hair fell in a heavy cascade down her back. “I said it would be long for my wedding. I kept my promise.”

  Nani covered her face and began to shake with laughter.

  “I think we’ll have one wedding here,” Colin said. His gaze slid the length of her hair; his eyes were heated when they met hers again. “One in Bombay, and one in San Francisco. We shall shock all of your friends and relations with the extravagance and expense of it.” He scratched his jaw and added with studied innocence, “It is the bride’s family who traditionally pays for such things, is it not?”

  Nani pursed her lips. “Yes, beta. But the way things are usually done is so tedious.”

  “I fear,” Colin said minutes later as they exited the room and Savi followed him to his suite, “that I shall soon be a poor man.”

  He pulled her inside his rooms, tossed her onto his bed, landed on top of her. Wrapped her hair around his fist, and inhaled its length. “Good God. I love it short, but…good God. I shall slide it all over me. Tell me what I need to do for you to keep it this length for a month.”

  She licked his jaw, his throat. “I want a spaceship for my five thousandth birthday.”

  “Done. I’ll begin budgeting for it now.” His breath caught, then stopped as her fangs sank into him. “I shall traipse across the heavens with you, Savitri. You’d best start working on your accent; British public school is best for colonizing, even in space…oh, bloody hell, sweet, how I love you.”

  That’s the one thing that I’ve never doubted, she whispered through her skin. That I never had to ask.

  She’d just had to look at him.