A siren rang in the distance. Christian looked around. Lights in apartment windows were flicking on and in another moment, the street would no longer be quiet. He needed to move quickly.
Sliding his gloved hands under the man’s body, Christian lifted him up carefully, turned and sprang, gliding, weightless, to the roof of his building. Here, he could have privacy to put the man out of his misery.
Christian set the dying man gently onto his back on the graveled roof. He pulled off his gloves, his heightened sight distinguishing the dark stains of crimson on the sleeves of his coat. He put his fingertips to the pulse on the man’s neck. The tiny beat throbbed slowly, at the same sluggish rate as the pulse of the man in the hospital earlier. He sensed this man’s life ebbing away.
The siren drew closer, coming to a stop by the spot where the shooting had been. Christian ignored it, giving his complete attention to the man lying before him. The metallic scent of blood curled into his nostrils, teasing, rousing his hunger even though he’d just fed. He pulled open the man’s coat and gently tugged down the turtleneck collar of his black shirt.
Curling up his lips, he bent over and sank his incisors into the soft flesh on the side of the man’s throat. Pulling them out, he suckled blood from the punctures, his own body throbbing with arousal. The man’s skin had a feral, musky scent that spoke to Christian, deep inside. The salty sweet taste of his flesh mixed with his blood sang through Christian’s body. He drank deeply, inhaling the man’s sweet essence along with his blood. He was a good soul, Christian sensed, someone Christian could have loved.
The man’s heartbeat, loud in Christian’s ears, slowed to a dying crawl and halted.
Christian imbibed one last drop of blood and sat up, swiping his lips with the heel of his hand. He knelt beside the still body, staring down at the tranquil face, now more visible by moonlight. Christian’s ethereal heart ached, unable to house all the emotion and appreciation of the man’s physical beauty it felt. The man had a high forehead across which a small lock of dark hair had fallen. The eyebrows gracefully arched over dark thick fringes of lashes. His cheekbones planed down to beautifully sculpted lips and a cleft chin. The lightest shade of stubble growth covered his jaw and upper lip, giving him a rugged appearance.
Christian marveled at the beauty of his form, the likes of which he hadn’t seen since the days of Roman soldiers. Not that there weren’t handsome men in the world. There certainly were, but this man had something ... something Christian couldn’t identify, that mystified him and made him ache that he’d never know him.
Before he knew what he was doing, Christian reached out and tenderly passed his hand over the man’s forehead and hair, caressing as if to comfort him.
Sudden movement caught Christian’s eye. What the ...? Is that what he thought it was? The eyelashes fluttering? He drew back his hand, staring. The pouty bottom lip worked slightly, followed by the whoosh of an intake of breath.
Christian gasped. No! He hadn’t brought this man across, had he? He’d vowed centuries ago, when the CE’s had taken him in as one of them, that he would not sire ever again. He’d only sired a couple of times before that, regretting each one. Death had always seemed preferable to a soulless existence, and he hated damning another to that fate, no matter whether the person desired it or not.
Christian’s heart sank. The man was undoubtedly coming back to life and Christian didn’t bother to check for a pulse. The life that showed itself now was certainly that of the undead.
Dammit! As magnificent as this man was and as much as he’d stirred Christian’s desire to mate, Christian had broken his sacred vow. He’d fed from this man and rendered him immortal, doomed to bloodlust. Christian was responsible for him now. For eternity.
Tenderly, he slipped his hands underneath the limp body, now pulsing again with weak life. Lifting him up, Christian carried him gently through the roof entrance, into the house, to his bedroom.
He set his new charge carefully onto the rug in front of the fireplace and went to build a fire. The glow of flames and cozy warmth would ease his charge’s shock at waking and finding himself a vampire. The transition, of course, was gradual, but the man would no doubt be experiencing physical illness as his insides regenerated.
Christian built the fire, something he hadn’t done in a long time even though he kept the flue and chimney clean and ready, then turned his attention to the man lying on the rug. The soft glimmering of flames illumined the man’s features, making him appear god-like, showing off the olive tone of his skin. The dark fans of his eyelashes still rested on his tanned cheeks and his breathing had grown stronger, steadier, as life ‑‑ such as it was ‑‑ infused him.
Christian gently pulled open the man’s black leather coat, noting that the garment, though sleek and attractive, was lighter than the season demanded. Underneath, he wore no sweater, only a black turtleneck, now in blood-soaked tatters from the shower of bullets. Christian went for a pair of scissors and carefully cut the shirt open, revealing the man’s torso. The firelight danced off the mass of damaged flesh and crusts of drying blood. The bullets had burrowed deep into the man’s body, no doubt piercing internal organs. However, even as Christian watched, the skin was healing, the bullet wounds sealing up, slowly expelling the mounds of lead like a film rewinding in slow motion.
For nearly an hour, Christian watched the man’s body heal. When the process had almost finished, Christian collected the bullets, dropped them into the fire and went down to the kitchen to pour a glass of cow’s blood for his protégé. Doubtless, he’d awaken with great hunger and thirst for blood, as was always the case. Christian brought the glass back upstairs, set it on the bedside table and crouched back down by his charge, his breath catching when he looked at him.
The flesh of the man’s torso had completely healed, revealing two round hard hillocks of chest muscle topped with smooth, cinnamon-colored nipples. A sprinkling of soft raven hair covered the muscles, then tapered to a sleek trail down the center of his flat hard stomach. His waist was lean and sculpted, the belly button deep and inviting for the swivel of the tip of Christian’s tongue. He was magnificent, this creature, the sight of his olive-toned flesh ending where his jeans covered it.
Christian stared down at his still unconscious protégé, his conscience unable to distinguish between affection and lust churning within him. Chris hadn’t had a lover in several years, when the strain of wanting to feed during sex overwhelmed him and made abstinence the less conscience-wracking course.
The man’s chest rose and fell steadily now, the hairs on his flesh glinting in the firelight with each inhalation. Suddenly, his eyes opened, the heavy fringes of lashes parting to reveal dark liquid eyes, huge and fathomless.
Chris returned the unblinking gaze, which alternately seduced and surprised him. His protégé’s pupils weren’t dilated at all with the glow of the undead, nor did they shine with the hunger of blood lust. Chris frowned. Something was different here ... off. Or, perhaps, Chris was merely out of practice at siring. Remembering the waiting goblet of blood, he retrieved it and knelt down.
“Are you thirsty?”
The man stared up at him, his dark luminous eyes not appearing to comprehend. In spite of that, he gave a tiny nod of his head.
“I thought as much.” Chris slipped a large hand into his patient’s coal-black hair, sleekly soft against his fingertips, and cradled the man’s head, lifting it the tiniest bit. Chris put the goblet of blood to the man’s lips and tilted it until some of the crimson liquid slipped into his mouth.
The man swallowed, then immediately choked, sputtering the blood out of his mouth as if it were acid. The blood ran down his chin, onto his neck.
Chris frowned again and set the goblet aside. He used the man’s tattered shirt to wipe the scarlet liquid gently off his skin. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, “Perhaps I gave you too much.”
The man was staring up at him, his chest heaving, the liquid depths of his eyes showing pan
ic. The expression touched off Chris’s own despair. What had he done? In the name of ending the man’s suffering, he’d turned this man into something he obviously didn’t want to be.
Tenderly, Chris lowered the man’s head back down to the rug and slipped his fingers out of the thick hair. Sorrow burned in Chris’s throat and chest for the poor, magnificent man ... vampire ... lying before him.
His protégé’s softly arched lips were working. A hoarse scraping sound came from his throat. He was obviously trying to speak. “Wa ... wa ...” He fell silent, speech clearly difficult.
Chris furrowed his brow, trying to understand what his charge needed. He lifted the goblet up to offer another try at sipping, but the man recoiled with the lift of his chin, eyeing the cup as if it contained the vilest substance imaginable. “No blood?” Chris asked.
He shook his head. “Wa ... wat ...”
“Water?”
The stranger nodded with surprising swiftness for someone in his condition.
Chris stared at him another moment, then rose and went to the bathroom. He dumped the unwanted blood down the sink, rinsed the cup and filled it from the tap. Returning to his charge, he knelt down, cradling the thick head of raven hair gently and lifting it again. This time, when he tilted the goblet to the man’s lips, the liquid was swiftly sucked down in greedy gulps. The water itself seemed to restore the man’s strength to some degree and he continued to take long, heavy swallows until the water was gone.
When he’d finished, Christian lowered his head to the carpet. “Do you need more water?”
His ... protégé ‑‑ or was he his protégé? ‑‑ shook his head, still breathing heavily.
Christian set the cup aside and studied the now living breathing man who’d closed his eyes again, seeming to rest from the exertion of drinking.
* * * * *
Jesse heaved a deep breath. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Something had gone terribly wrong. The bullets shouldn’t have affected him this deeply. Since when had he developed a weakness for lead? He’d never considered that could happen, but it had. He’d known of other immortals developing such weaknesses. If he’d communicated a bit more with other immortals over the centuries, perhaps he would have known sooner.
Too late now.
Even in the haze of his wounded state, he understood that St. Cyr had fed on him and now believed him to be a vampire.
If he’s not a vampire, what is he?
Jesse’s eyes shot open. The voice had spoken strongly in his mind. Not his own voice. Not his own thoughts. He looked at the large blond vampire hovering over him, the firelight reflecting off his pale skin and deep blue eyes. The sight momentarily captured him. His gaze went to the scar on St. Cyr’s high-boned cheek. Not even the reddish jagged scar detracted from the vampire’s rugged, masculine Norse Viking beauty.
Strangely, the way he lingered on St. Cyr’s face caused a spot on his neck to tingle, reminding Jesse of the pleasure his body had experienced when the vampire had bitten him and suckled his blood. With the first touch of St. Cyr’s lips on Jesse’s neck, Jesse’s entire body shuddered deliciously, as if every nerve ending had exploded in orgasm. Though his skin had no doubt already healed, the ghostly memory of the feeding remained.
Perhaps he’s immortal.
Shit! St. Cyr again! The feeding had connected them. Jesse’s rejection of the blood had raised St. Cyr’s suspicions. It would only get worse when he found Jesse’s knife in the belt at his back. He had to kill St. Cyr as soon as he had his strength and get the hell out of here with St. Cyr’s head.
Can you hear me?
Jesse’s breath caught. St. Cyr was addressing him directly now. He couldn’t let on that there was a mind link between them. The difference between the mind links of vampires and that of immortals was that immortals had greater lateral access to thoughts and feelings. Vampires’ psychic connections were limited to telepathic communication only. Thank God for small miracles.
Jesse stared up at St. Cyr, as if there were no connection. He watched the corners of St. Cyr’s beautifully shaped masculine lips curve downward. He waited for the vampire to speak again.
St. Cyr remained quiet. He reached out a large hand and smoothed back Jesse’s hair. The vampire had a surprisingly gentle touch. His bite had been tender as well, so careful about how deeply he pushed his incisors into Jesse’s skin.
“You should rest now,” St. Cyr told him. His voice had a pleasing tone, deep and resonant. The vampire’s loneliness emanated from him and Jesse felt the emotion in his touch. He continued to caress Jesse’s hair, causing Jesse’s traitorous body to tingle and relax. Jesse’s eyelids shuttered rapidly with the pleasure of the touch. In centuries of life, he hadn’t felt another one quite like St. Cyr’s. Gentle, soothing. Kind and ... erotic, all at once.
Jesse’s cock stirred in his jeans. If he hadn’t been so enervated from the bullet wounds, he would have reached up and pulled St. Cyr down on top of him. His exhaustion was the only thing that stopped him.
Well, that and the fact that he was here to kill St. Cyr.
Jesse prayed that in a few hours he’d have the strength to carry out the task before St. Cyr discovered their connection. And he would figure it out. It was inevitable. They were linked for eternity now. Or until Jesse got the vampire’s head.
That is, if Jesse could bring himself to slay someone whose psyche was now deeply entwined with his own.
Fucking shit. Being immortal not only sucked much of the time, now it was a downright curse.
Jesse opened his eyes again and looked up at St. Cyr, panic rising deep inside as exhaustion overtook him again. He thought of the knife in his belt, concealed only by his body lying on top of it. All St. Cyr had to do was slip his hand underneath him and find it. The vampire’s innate intelligence and suspicion would help him put the truth together, if he hadn’t already begun to.
Damn this fucking lead to hell! The weakness the substance had produced in his body exceeded his own healing powers. His skin was no longer broken and his body had expelled the bullets. However, this latent weakness of his left him unable to rise and finish what he’d begun. By all appearances, he wouldn’t be killing St. Cyr anytime soon. Especially with his eyelids growing sooo ... heavy.
Must ... not ... sleep. Jesse thrashed his head back and forth, struggling to keep his eyes open. He was losing the battle. The lead had done something inside him, prolonging his complete healing. If he tried to kill St. Cyr now, the vampire would easily overpower him and kill him. He needed his full strength in order to go against a vampire, no matter how compassionate the vamp seemed to be.
Compassion wouldn’t win out over survival, to be sure.
Losing the battle against his illness, Jesse released a long shuddering breath and surrendered to the call of sleep.
Chapter Four
Chris watched the man sleep. The dark-haired god, for that was how he appeared to Chris, had seemed to fight the sleepiness that overcame him, but then succumbed. He needed a bath desperately to wash away the encrusted blood covering his healed body, but he’d obviously been too tired, so Chris had simply watched him lose the fight against his exhaustion.
Fine. If he’d healed in one hour from a shower of bullet wounds, most likely, he’d be ready for a bath when he awoke.
In the meantime, Chris was content to gaze on him, to watch the dance of the firelight on his skin and hair and to imagine what those voluptuous Roman lips would taste like. What manner of man is he? The question in his mind made Chris smile, as it was phrased in the Elizabethan English of centuries ago he’d loved so much.
The man wasn’t a vampire. That much was certain. A vampire would have sucked down the goblet of blood before even realizing what the substance was. Scent alone would have roused his hunger to a pitch. Chris, remembering his own moments of awakening as a vampire, had responded precisely that way to his first whiff of blood.
That left two choices. Werewolf or immortal. Chris reached for one of the man’s
hands and gently lifted it, examining it in the firelight. He searched for the telltale crook’d thumb that weyres had while in human form. This man’s thumb was perfectly shaped, as were all his fingers, the digits sensuously thick and rugged, made for stroking and caressing a lover.
Sooo ... His Roman god was an immortal.
Chris sighed his relief, even as his insides tingled. He hadn’t sired the man into a vampire. Praise God. And ... well ... though vampire-immortal pairings were exceedingly rare because the two groups were often at odds and always suspicious of each other, the few brief affairs Chris had had with immortals had always been the most delicious he’d ever known. The blood of immortals regenerated, just as this one’s had, enabling the vampire to feed on his partner whenever it was desired without the risk of death. And then, if the two were to fall in love, death would never separate them. Christian sighed. A long time ago, he’d run from his last lover, hating his own desire to feed for pleasure. Now, sitting here, gazing on this beautiful Roman immortal, long-slumbering desires for a mate resurged, making Chris ache.
In any case, he was letting his hopeful imagination get away from him. What were the chances that this particular immortal was available for such a mutually enjoyable pairing? They had literally been passing each other in the night when a car had sped by, the driver shooting the immortal full of bullets.
Wait a second. A tiny warning voice ... a niggling, intelligent voice borne of centuries of existence began to speak deep in Chris’s mind. In his memory, he ran through the incident over and over, wondering each time at the extraordinary timing of the shooter.
Perhaps it wasn’t so extraordinary. Perhaps the bullets had been meant for him? Lead wouldn’t have killed him but it would have incapacitated him long enough for someone to ...
Christ. Chris had collected enemies over the centuries. However, none of those enemies was an immortal, not even among the few with whom he’d gotten romantically involved. No bitterness between himself and any weyre as well. He’d always lived peaceably with his fellow kith. That left vampires.
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