Night Reigns ig-2

by Dianne Duvall

  Her pretty face paled. Lips tightening, she all but stomped out of the kitchen, then returned carrying one of the dining room chairs. Plunking it down facing the sink, she sat down and crossed her arms.

  His lips twitched. It would no doubt infuriate her if he admitted he thought her adorable when she was pissed.

  “Why do you loathe the network so much?” he asked as he filled a pot with filtered water and put it on the stove to boil.

  “I don’t loathe the network,” she responded, choosing her words carefully. “I just don’t like doctors. I don’t trust them.”

  He smiled. “Neither do most older immortals.” He crossed to the refrigerator, retrieved the pot of homemade pasta sauce they had prepared together earlier, and put it on another burner to warm.

  He started transferring organic vegetables from the refrigerator’s veggie bin to the counter beside the sink.

  Immortals were predominantly vegetarian. Foods that raised blood pressure and cholesterol and increased the risk of heart disease, cancer, diabetes, Alzheimer’s, and other illnesses in humans caused the same damage in immortals. The virus simply repaired it. Those repairs, however, necessitated greater consumption of bagged blood, which was generously donated by Seconds, their families, and network employees, and immortals didn’t want to take advantage of their magnanimity. Plus, immortals’ acute sense of taste enabled them to taste the chemicals in non-organic foods that humans couldn’t.

  “Why don’t they like doctors?” Ami asked.

  “If you knew how primitive medicine was in medieval times, you wouldn’t ask that question. Most illnesses and injuries were treated with leeches, shaving heads, and cutting or bleeding us to relieve the buildup of foul humors.”

  She looked appalled. “Do you share their sentiments? You’re considered an ... elder, aren’t you?”

  Again he smiled. (He did that a lot around her.) “It’s all right, Ami. You can say it. I’m old.”

  She waved her hand in a pshaw gesture and, with an exaggerated lack of care, said, “What’s 850 years, give or take a decade?”

  Marcus laughed and glanced at her curiously as he washed the vegetables. “It doesn’t bother you? That I’m so much older than you?” Did that question reveal too much?

  She shrugged. “No. Why should it? I’m older than I look. Does that bother you?”

  “Not the same thing, really, but I see your point.” He dried his hands on the dish towel, then retrieved the peeler and his favorite knife. “And, to answer your question, I don’t fear or dislike doctors because my mortal life was very different from that of most immortals my age, thanks to the influence of two very unique women.”

  “Was one of them the woman in all of the portraits?”

  “Yes.” The living room, his study, his music room, and his armory all boasted portraits, drawings, and photographs of Bethany with Robert and their children in the past, with her brother in recent times. Marcus was in many of them as well.

  “My father died when I was very young,” he stated baldly, his eyes on the carrots he peeled, the celery he chopped.

  “I’m sorry,” Ami said softly.

  “Less than a year later, my mother was forced to wed an abusive bastard who ultimately murdered her.”

  She gasped.

  “I knew my stepfather would kill me, too. He needed little excuse to deliver a beating that would lay me up for days at a time and despised what he called my madness, viewed it as a weakness.”

  “You mean your gift?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you ... Did you see someone at Roland and Sarah’s house tonight?” she asked.

  Surprised that she had noticed, he glanced at her over his shoulder. “I did. Bastien’s sister.”

  Her eyebrows flew up. “Sebastien Newcombe’s sister?”

  “Yes. Well, her ghost or spirit or whatever you want to call it. She’s been hanging around Roland and Sarah ever since Bastien nearly killed Sarah and Roland nearly killed Bastien. I’ve seen her at Roland’s place several times, but haven’t said anything because it tends to creep people out knowing someone they can’t see is watching them.”

  She considered that a moment. “Does she mean them harm?”

  “No. I think she’s just curious about them. And, perhaps, grateful to Roland for bringing her killer to justice and not slaying her brother.”

  She frowned. “I thought ghosts haunted places, not people.”

  “That’s what most believe. But, based on everything I’ve seen, ghosts can attach themselves to places, people, or possessions. Furniture. Clothing. Toys. Jewelry. And inanimate objects don’t have to be antiques to be accompanied by spirits.”

  She glanced around uneasily. “Are there any ghosts here?”

  “No. The network is aware of the unique problem my gift presents and has been very cooperative. When I moved here, I was given my choice of several construction locations and allowed to carefully inspect them. This was the only one that wasn’t haunted. A lot of blood has been spilled in North Carolina.

  “The house was then built by men I handpicked to ensure no ghosts hitched a ride. And instead of inviting Roland, Sarah, or other immortals who might have unseen companions over here, I meet them at David’s place. That’s actually one of the things that worried me when Seth assigned you to be my Second. I didn’t know if you came with baggage of the spirit variety.”

  “I’m almost afraid to ask,” she said.

  He smiled. “You don’t.” He added organic pasta to the churning water, stirred the sauce beside it, and resumed preparing the salads. “Your furry friend now has both front paws in the bowl as he continues to stuff his fuzzy face.”

  Rising, she moved to stand beside him in front of the window and laughed.

  Marcus returned the unused vegetables to the veggie bin. “Salads are done. Why don’t we relax for a bit in the living room while we wait for the pasta to finish cooking?”

  “Okay.”

  Marcus set their salads on the dining room table as they passed it, then followed Ami over to the sofa and seated himself beside her. Turning, he stretched an arm across the back of the sofa and drew a knee up on the cushion between them.

  Ami did the same. “Did no one bring your stepfather to justice for killing your mother?”

  “It was an accident,” he said in a gruff, gravelly imitation of his stepfather’s voice. “She stumbled in the dark on the way to meet a lover and fell down the stairs.”

  Ami scooted closer and covered the hand he had rested on the back of the sofa with hers. “Did he try to kill you, too?”

  “I left before he could. I knew my stepfather was a coward at heart, fighting only those he could easily defeat. So, I went to one of the fiercest men in England and declared myself his new squire.” Marcus drew his thumb across her skin, marveling at its softness. “The Earl of Fos-terly was something of a rarity back then. Though powerful and feared by many, Lord Robert was a kind man. When I stumbled into his keep, half-starved, he took one look at my bruised and swollen face, accepted me as his new squire, and treated me as if I were a long lost relative. I loved him like a brother and admired him more than any other.”

  She smiled and gave his hand a squeeze.

  “When I was ... oh, sixteen or thereabouts ... some problems arose with an enemy, and Robert left to parley with neighboring noblemen, see if they were having the same difficulties. When he returned home, a woman—wearing blue jeans, a tank top, and one of Robert’s spare tunics—rode in front of him.”

  She tilted her head to one side. “Women wore blue jeans eight hundred years ago?”

  Her query raised more questions about her background. Even people who never cracked open a book knew clothing had been vastly different in the Middle Ages.

  “No,” he answered. “Jeans weren’t created until the nineteenth century. Bethany had traveled back through time from this century.”

  Her eyes widened. “I thought time travel hadn’t been achieved here ye
t.”

  Here as opposed to where? he wondered. “It hasn’t. Or rather it has, but only by Seth as far as I know.”

  “Seth sent Bethany back in time? How—”

  He held up a hand. “Another long story and our dinner’s almost ready, so let me get to the heart of it. I fell head over heels in love with Bethany. But she thought of me as a younger brother.”

  Ami grimaced in sympathy.

  “Beth fell in love with Robert, who absolutely adored her. The two married. And, because I loved them both and knew they belonged together, I never said a word about my feelings to either of them.”

  She was quiet for a moment. “And Robert is the man in so many of the pictures?”

  “Yes.”

  Her eyes lit up suddenly. “Are you the teenager in the older portraits?”

  He nodded sheepishly.

  She smiled. “You were handsome even then.”

  And damned if his spirits didn’t immediately lighten as the boy who lived in his memories poked his head out and shouted with glee, She thinks I’m handsome! She thinks I’m handsome!

  I’m in serious trouble here.

  “The pasta is ready.” Rising, Marcus strode to the kitchen.

  Ami followed. While he drained the pasta and turned off the burner beneath the sauce, she retrieved two plates from an upper cabinet. As she stood beside him, holding a plate for him to fill with spaghetti, her stomach growled loudly.

  Both grinned.

  “Smells good,” she said.

  Amused, Marcus piled her plate as high as his own. Fighting vampires burned a hell of a lot of calories and fat. Nothing wrong with a healthy appetite. And Ami’s rivaled that of Sarah, who—even as a human—had eaten as much as Roland and Marcus at every meal.

  He couldn’t help but wonder if Ami possessed other appetites that would rival a warrior’s, then cursed himself for letting his thoughts again stray in that direction.

  Once both of their plates boasted steaming pasta topped with fragrant sauce, Ami carried them into the dining room. Marcus followed with utensils, two glasses, and a pitcher of green tea.

  They spent the next several minutes in companionable silence as they tucked into their meal.

  Even quiet was comfortable with Ami.

  “So, you never met anyone else? You never felt that way about any other woman?” she asked when the ragged edges of their hunger had at last smoothed.

  Not until now. A terrifying thought he swiftly banished.

  “I mean, you were so young,” she added.

  He sighed. “There were ... women in my life.” He took a sip of tea. “But none were much more than acquaintances. Companions I sought out when the loneliness became too much to bear.”

  “You never loved them?”

  He shook his head. “I felt mild affection for some. But, in a way, being with them left me feeling just as empty as being alone. It was a bit like someone who eschews healthy foods attempting to satisfy a craving for rocky road ice cream with a carrot.”

  She nodded slowly, eyes on her plate.

  “I loved Beth until she died an old woman. When no other woman made me feel that way in the ensuing decades, I suppose I lost hope and satisfied myself by simply waiting patiently until I could see Beth again when she was born centuries later.”

  “And eight years ago she went back to the past?”

  “Yes.”

  “She won’t be returning?”

  “No.”

  “Do you miss her?” she asked, voice soft.

  “I miss all of them,” he said, and looked over his shoulder at the portrait that hung over the hearth in the living room. It featured Robert, Bethany, their four children, and Marcus as a twenty-something-year-old man. “Beth. Robert. Their children. Their grandchildren. I miss them all. They were my family.”

  “But you miss her the most,” she persisted.

  He let his gaze rove over Ami’s pretty face, her drying hair, which was kinking up in the usual fiery disarray. “I did.”

  Her gaze held his for a long moment, then slid back to her plate.

  Marcus resumed eating, wondering if she had gleaned his meaning. It was difficult to tell sometimes with Ami. Her lack of verbal response could reflect understanding and polite rejection of the message he had decided to not so subtly send or it could reflect obliviousness. Her fascination with things most adults had seen so often they no longer even noticed wasn’t the only thing that lent her an almost childlike innocence. She also sometimes took things literally, the colloquial meanings eluding her.

  Perhaps English wasn’t her first language. Though she sounded American, he had run into similar misunderstandings with immortals and Seconds in other countries. He had, in fact, made similar mistakes himself while learning new languages.

  Silence descended upon them once more, still comfortable.

  Ami helped Marcus clear the table. After that, however, he insisted she rest. Thus far, he had seen none of the adverse symptoms that could accompany significant blood loss. No rapid pulse, except for when he had kissed her. (And, since his own heart had been thump-thump-thumping away, he discounted that.) No dizziness or weakness. Her skin didn’t feel clammy. She exhibited no confusion. At most, she looked a bit pale.

  Because of her quiet introspection, he half-expected her to retire when he monopolized the dishwashing. Relief and pleasure suffused him when she instead carried her chair back into the kitchen and sat down to keep him company.

  “The opossum is gone,” he told her.

  A second later a plaintive meow sounded at the back door.

  Ami rose with a smile. “Slim must have been waiting for it to leave.”

  “He’ll never admit it, but I think opossums intimidate him.”

  Her laughter trailed after her, drawing another smile from him, as she unlocked and opened the back door.

  Slim trotted in, jibber-jabbering in that funny feline way of his that sounded like the teacher speaking in the Charlie Brown cartoons. The scratches the crazy kitty had suffered shortly before Ami’s arrival had healed, leaving pink marks and bare patches of missing fur that would take longer to grow back. If they did.

  Slim brushed against Marcus’s calves while Ami locked the door and returned to her chair. As soon as she sat down, Slim leaped up into her lap and leaned against her breasts.

  Lucky bastard.

  Rumbling purrs filled the kitchen as Marcus washed the dishes. He and Ami chatted, exploring a variety of topics, contemplating the latest global news.

  Through it all, Ami stroked and petted Slim, seeming a bit distracted.

  The dishes done, Marcus popped open a can of salmon cat food for Slim and dumped it in his bowl. As Slim jumped down and feasted upon it, Marcus peeled off the label, rinsed the can, then tossed it into the recycling bin under the sink.

  “It’s been a long night,” he said, washing his hands and drying them with a towel. He turned to face Ami. “I think I’ll go ahead and turn in.”

  “Oh.” She rose. “Okay.”

  He hesitated. Ami tended to hide her emotions about as successfully as she lied. And right now her features reflected disappointment.

  She turned to pick up the chair.

  “I’ll get that,” he said, hurrying forward to take it from her.

  “Thanks.”

  She followed him into the dining room, watched him return the chair to its place at the table.

  Together they strolled to the hallway, where Marcus paused and looked down at her. “Good night, then.”

  She opened her mouth, hesitated, then offered him a slight smile. “Good night.”

  He stood there for a moment, feeling about as awkward as he had when he had bedded his first woman. And that had been pretty damned awkward.

  Frustrated with himself, he turned and headed for the door to his basement quarters. As he reached for the handle, Ami spoke.

  “I like kissing you,” she blurted out.

  Marcus spun around so fast he probably
blurred. His pulse spiked. His heartbeat quickened. And his body went rock hard. “What?” he asked hoarsely.

  She licked her lips, shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

  Slowly, he ambled back toward her.

  Chapter 10

  Ami’s courage faltered as heat bloomed in her cheeks.

  Why had she just said that? Marcus looked ... flabbergasted.

  What if she had misunderstood him? What if he hadn’t been trying to tell her he was ready to move past his grief and begin anew. With her. Why would he want to start a relationship with her? She was a mess, fighting to overcome new fears instilled by old demons. Monsters who visited her in nightmares if given the slightest invitation.

  She wasn’t the woman she used to be. The woman she wanted to be. Strove to be. And feared she never would be again.

  And she wasn’t the kind of woman Marcus preferred: bold and full of fire like Bethany.

  Ami had barely managed to admit she liked the brush of his lips, his body pressed to hers. She was innocent. Completely. She could never be like the women she saw on TV who thought sex a fun pastime to share with men they had just met or, if you believed those horrid Valentine’s Day commercials, that sex was merely a means of procuring shiny baubles.

  Marcus had given Ami her first kiss, something she would always treasure. Marcus had been the first man to hold her in a nonbrotherly fashion. To make her heart race madly. As it did now.

  “What did you say?” he asked, interrupting her harried thoughts as he stopped a breath away.

  She swallowed hard. He stood so close Ami could feel the heat from his body. “I like kissing you.”

  His eyes flared amber.

  “And touching you.”

  The amber grew brighter still, glowing like the moon. “I like kissing you, too,” he murmured with a look in those iridescent eyes that made everything within her go liquid. “I like kissing you and touching you so much that I want to do it again and again until I’ve memorized every inch of you.”

  And she wished he would, though it went against everything she had been taught. “I’m not who you think I am,” she confessed with a touch of desperation.