by Roh Morgon
“If you are ready to get dressed, we can talk in the library,” he says.
I’m relieved to see a brief flare of familiar red as he looks at me. But he quickly masks it, and without another word, leaves and closes the door.
This is really bad.
Dread tightens my throat and I dress and go downstairs.
Several bottles of bloodwine are sitting on one of the tables next to the fireplace, along with two filled glasses. I cross the room to where he’s standing as he stares at the low flame in the hearth.
He turns as I approach, gestures to one of the chairs, and takes the other.
My panic edges toward hysteria and he grits his teeth.
“Nicolas, please tell me what’s wrong. What have you found out?” I choke back a sob.
He says nothing. Instead he hands me one of the glasses of bloodwine and quickly downs the other. I do the same. As I finish my glass, he offers to pour more. I gladly accept and drink while he refills his glass.
By the second bottle, I’m starting to regain some composure as the blood and spices work to soothe my system. I can feel his tension relaxing as well.
We continue drinking in silence, scarcely daring to look at one another. At the end of the third bottle, I’m starting to get a real blood high. I close my eyes and focus on the warm pleasure the bloodwine brings, and feel a mutual calmness finally take hold of us.
“I’m afraid we have a rather serious problem,” he says.
I keep silent and beat down a flutter of fear.
“It seems with your current stage of Change, it will, ah . . .” He pauses and takes a breath. “It is not possible for us to bond.”
Yeah, I kinda figured that out.
“It also seems we may have upset the balance in your system between the blood of your Maker and my blood. Your instincts were correct. It was critical that you cleanse yourself of my blood, and if I had not been so panicked, I would have realized what was starting to happen.”
“Meaning?” I ask.
“Meaning that since your Change is unfinished, you are more susceptible to being taken over by another Maker, including me. The blood of your Maker has been strong enough to keep this from happening, at least until I took nearly all of yours. There was not enough left to resist mine for much longer, especially since you had so much of mine. If you had kept my blood, you would have become part of my lineage.” His jaw tightens.
The spasms in my clenched veins were the final warning, I realize. If I hadn’t vomited his blood, it would’ve overpowered my system. My veins would’ve opened and . . .
“And you would have become my Maker,” I whisper.
“Yes. You would be subject to the same influences as anyone in my lineage.” He frowns.
“Besides the control issue, how bad would that be?” As abhorrent as it seems, part of me is willing to accept whatever it takes to keep us together.
“We would no longer be equals. It would make our relationship very difficult.”
“That’s why it didn’t work out between you and Éva.”
“Yes, that is a large part of it.” The ghost of regret slips across his face and is gone.
I think about this for a minute and watch as he sips his bloodwine.
“Why didn’t my blood have a similar effect on you?”
Amusement flickers through his eyes for the first time in days, and his answer is accompanied by a brief smile.
“Because I am a 550-year-old Maker, and your blood is young and, in spite of its power . . . is second generation, for lack of a better term.”
Makes sense, I guess.
“So what now? What can we do?”
His expression becomes serious again, underlined by a crushing sadness that resonates deep inside me.
My panic bubbles to the surface and I nearly choke.
“Very little. I now fear the effect my blood will have on you. It was only because I could not bear for you to be in pain that I gave you any today.”
No. No. Don’t say that.
“And I am finding it extremely difficult to be around you and not touch you. I am afraid if I take hold of you I will never let you go, and will do anything to keep you with me. Including forcing you into my lineage,” he says, his face rigid. “And I could not live with myself if I lost control and did that.”
Anguish slips through his mask and twists his blood into knots throughout my body.
And I know what I must do. And I don’t know if I can.
“So that leaves only one option,” I whisper.
He visibly strains to keep his face neutral.
“If we are to be together, I need to complete the Change.”
He nods, and I feel the conflict in him echoing mine. Same conflict, different reasons.
I get up and walk over to the window, but rather than seeing the garden, I see my faint reflection in the glass. The details may have changed, but the general outline is the same.
Just like the Choice I’ve been facing since I met Nicolas. That hasn’t really changed, either—only the way in which I’ve reached it.
I’ve been sitting here in the library for several hours, watching the garden creatures tremble as a nighttime breeze plucks and pulls at them.
Nicolas has been gone for some time. He left when it seemed like we had nothing more to say to one another.
The library door opens, and he stops beside my chair, his expression unreadable.
“I have to go to the club and take care of some business. It is possible I may need to go out of town, and I must make arrangements to ensure things run smoothly while I am gone.”
Out of town? Is he the one running this time?
I stand, and the panic I’ve been fighting to control all day takes over, filling my eyes with unshed tears. My anxiety hits him and I feel him brace as he tries to deal with it along with his own.
“Sunny, Sunny. Come here.” He gathers me into his arms, hugging me close.
My chest heaves over and over as I weep. The cries of a wounded animal fill the air, and I realize they’re coming from my throat. Nicolas holds me tight and his hand trembles as he strokes my hair.
“Ah, my love . . .” His voice cracks.
“Nicolas, can’t we . . . can’t we keep trying to make this work? I mean, it has so far, sort of.” The words waver as they come out in a jumble, like the thoughts and feelings inside me.
His hands move to my shoulders and he eases me back. His green eyes are full of pain.
“I do not know. Because what I feel now when I look at you, when I hold you, is fear. Fear that in one way or another I will destroy you if we stay together.”
Yes, I know. Because that fear is dominating the love you usually share with me, killing it with sharp daggers of anguish and guilt.
“And how will you feel, Nicolas, when my blood fades from your system? Have you thought about that? Because I am ahead of you in that . . . in that process, and I can tell you it will be far worse than any other concerns you may have right now.” My voice quivers, and I feel myself shrink back from the thought of the looming emptiness.
He pulls me close again and says nothing.
“Please, let’s just give this a little more time. We . . . we just can’t let this go so easily.” I can barely choke out the words.
He still says nothing, but finally he nods in agreement.
“All right,” he whispers. “We will keep trying, if that is what you want.”
More than anything I’ve ever wanted.
He gently releases me, brushing the hair back from my face. His eyes flicker red and he steps back.
Still not trusting himself.
“But it does not change the fact that I may have to go out of town. The relationship with Europe has deteriorated this past month, and I need to meet with my allies and do what I can to repair it. Or we may be facing a Chosen war, which is something that cannot happen.”
I don’t even hesitate.
“Can’t I go with you? I mean,
I think separation right now is not . . .” I can’t even finish.
He takes in a sharp breath and frowns.
“The last place I want you to be is among my enemies. This is not a good idea.” His voice has an edge to it, and I feel his apprehension swiftly change to a bestial and primitive protectiveness.
“Then before you say no, please, let’s discuss it further. I’m sure we can figure this out.”
“Perhaps. But no promises.” He shifts his hardened gaze to the fireplace. “Now, I really do need to get to the club. Would you like to meet me there later?”
As he says this, the hunger breaks through the emotional chaos and starts to simmer in my veins.
“Yes. I’d like to shower and change first.”
“Call me when you leave.”
Yes, Nicolas. I’m relieved to see a little of the old bossy self come back to the surface.
“I will. I promise.” And I mean it. I need him to be him—not this tortured creature that’s lived in his body for the last two days.
He steps forward and, gently taking my head between his hands, kisses me on the forehead. He then quickly steps back and walks out the door.
I’ll take anything I can get right now, as long as it’s in the direction of normalcy. Whatever that is.
I call Nicolas when I leave the house, just as I promised. Our conversation is even briefer than usual, which doesn’t help my anxiety level. At all.
After parking the BMW beside his Jag, I enter the club through the side door. As I step into his office, he rises from the chair behind the desk and walks up to me. I wrap my arms around him, not giving him a chance to be distant, and can feel his relief as he hugs me back. But the relief is still laced with tension, and he takes my arms from around him and moves back.
Baby steps, I remind myself.
“Come, I have something a little special for you.” His face is unreadable. I get no sense of what he is feeling, other than the whirlwind of emotions that have been battering him since he . . . since I almost died.
I reach out my hand. He hesitates, then takes it.
Baby steps.
He leads me down the hall, into the empty lounge, and to the door leading to the private rooms.
“Bloodwine?” I ask. The hunger is feeling a little unmanageable, and the beast has been throwing itself around since I left the house.
“No, you will be fine. I will be there.” His steady and reassuring voice eases some of the tension squirming through me.
We walk into the third room down the hall, one I haven’t been in before. It’s different from the other two, darker, more somber.
“I will be right back. Make yourself comfortable.” And he exits the room.
The beast is in full rampage right now, and the hunter is alert and watchful. Something about this room has brought her out, and it puzzles me.
The door opens and a dark-haired young man walks in, followed by Nicolas.
“This is . . .” Nicolas pauses and looks at him.
“Dominic. My name is Dominic. I’m from New York. Éva’s my sponsor.” He strolls up to me and reaches for my hand as though to shake it. I’m shocked when he brazenly raises it to his lips. I snatch it out of his grasp, unkissed, and step back. He smiles insolently, his grey eyes mocking.
I can feel Nicolas raging. When I look over at him, his eyes are blazing red, his fangs bared as his lip curls in a snarl.
He looks at me and brings himself back under control. Barely.
“I will be back. I need to check on something.” He turns to leave.
“Nicolas. The liqueur?” I didn’t see the usual bottle and burgundy glass sitting on the bar.
“Ah. It won’t be necessary.” With a dark look at Dominic, he walks out the door.
Frowning, I shift my attention back to the man, who is still standing a few feet away, arms crossed as he blatantly appraises me. He’s mid-thirties, quite handsome, and quite arrogant. His clothing is high quality, his attitude one that belongs only to the rich and powerful.
He reminds me of someone I know, and probably reminds Éva of him as well.
I also realize I’ve seen him before, out on the dance floor. He prowls through the dancers, collecting women, diverting their attention from The Chosen. He acts so much like a Chosen I wondered if he was in the midst of the Change, or perhaps being considered for it.
He would be perfect.
And he would be perfect to introduce to the Game. Ambition fairly radiates from him.
He could also be a threat.
As all this races through my brain, he clears his throat and reaches for my face.
I’ve leapt back nearly ten feet before he even registers that I moved.
He smiles, full of himself.
“Game player, huh?” He saunters over to the wet bar, rummages through the bottles, and pulls out a Chivas. Finding a glass, he fills it and recaps the bottle.
He takes a drink, looking at me over the rim of the glass, his expression smug.
Not so much like that other someone, I see now. Obviously lacking in basic manners. Too much into himself to consider the needs of another.
“So. I haven’t seen you before. You must be . . . new.” His eyes once again rake my body.
I remain silent as the beast crouches within.
“Éva’s promised me whatever I want once I finish the Change. Perhaps I’ll ask for you.”
Oh really. Nicolas might have something to say about that.
“Would you like something to drink?” he asks after he takes another sip.
Fine. I’ll play his game. The hunter steps forward, ready, anxious to hunt in this new way.
“Not anything out of a bottle.” I give him a feral look.
His face lights up and he smiles.
“Oh. Do you like to play rough?” And his eyes narrow, his smile becoming suggestive.
Rougher than you can handle, you arrogant prick.
“Why don’t you come over here and find out,” I growl.
He smiles and takes another drink. Setting his glass down on the bar, he takes off his expensive-looking watch and sets it down as well.
He steps away from the bar, puts his hands in his pockets, and stands there.
Expecting me to come to him.
And I am there, and breathe into his ear, and am back across the room before he can even blink.
His cocky expression momentarily shifts to one of surprise, then to one of lust.
Gotcha.
He takes his hands out of his pockets and saunters across the room. I let him get within an arm’s length, then step several feet to the side. I lean in, caress his throat with the back of my hand, and lean back, again before he even realizes I’ve moved.
He sharply inhales, his expression bright as he steps forward again. I step back and wait. We move toward the bedroom, the hunter eagerly enticing her prey. The hammer of his heart grows louder and faster as his excitement increases.
My skin ripples in savage anticipation. I’ve not had a donor like this before.
I allow him to back me toward the bed, his face twisting into a sneer as he strides forward. His confidence is exhilarating—I can almost taste it.
Stopping at the edge of the bed, I let him catch me. He reaches out and grabs me by the shoulders, hard, and leans in to kiss me.
But I avoid his lips and shift his focus when I reach down and tear his shirt open. His finely chiseled chest, honed in the gym no doubt, swells as he takes a breath.
He tries again to kiss me, and again I duck away. Frowning, his fingers slide up to clutch and tear at the straps of my dress. I reach up and knock his hands away as my excitement shifts to anger.
“You bitch,” he says, his voice and his expression becoming ugly.
Oh, you have no idea.
Without warning, his hand swings up to slap my face. The beast roars and everything turns red as I catch his arm and hold it. He tries to wrest it free, but my grip is iron and I am so much stronger than
he. And instead of this scaring him, his eyes fill with hate, and his fist swings up from the other side toward my face.
Woman-hitter, are you? The Chosen allow you to behave this way?
Not me. I don’t care who you belong to.
I catch his other arm, and holding them both outstretched, press forward. His head whips from side to side as he struggles, cursing.
And his throat flashes, one side and then the other.
And both the hunter and the beast take over.
I jerk him to me and I sink my teeth into that flashing throat and I draw. Hard.
He screams and struggles vainly to pull away. I feel myself responding as any predator would.
I slam him backward against the wall and, releasing one arm, grab his hair to steady his head, and I draw again. He screams and shudders, knees buckling. We go down as the first of his blood rushes through my system. I pull again, and he groans as he beats me on the head and tries to push me away.
Loosening his hair, I grab him around his shoulders, pinning his arms, and rock back onto my heels, dragging him with me. I wrap myself tighter around him, savoring the domination of predator over prey.
And I pull, and pull again, and again, and give myself over to the sweet waves of a crimson sea.
He moans, and I feel him go slack, and I don’t care, and I pull again.
And Nicolas is there, and he’s kneeling down on the floor behind me, his hands on my shoulders.
And he is not stopping me.
The realization startles me back to myself and I freeze in horror.
I’m killing this man, and Nicolas is not stopping me.
He is not stopping me.
I release my hold and the man collapses onto the floor. I shove backward against Nicolas and lunge to my feet, turning toward him in fury.
“YOU PROMISED!”
He stands, the body of the man lying on the floor between us.
“It’s supposed to be my Choice! My Choice!”
“Take him, Sunny. Finish it. Make the Change.” He reaches out and grips my shoulders. “For us. For me. Please . . .”
I hear him, and I hesitate. He’s right.
And then my daughter’s face, and my granddaughter’s sweet smile, blossom in my mind, and I realize that they have been absent from my thoughts for a long time now.
