Aimee shoved the sandwich away. What kind of daimon was she if she couldn’t even bring a few minutes of peace to a dying old man?
She’d been sitting there another ten minutes or so, when she heard voices outside the door arguing.
“Who authorized it? Are you sure it’s okay? Did someone ask him for pa per work, something?”
The voice that answered was low, confused. “I don’t know. He must have had something. I know everything was in order…it had to be.”
Curious and done pretending to eat, Aimee dropped her dinner into the trash and walked into the hall.
A nurse and doctor stood outside. The doctor frowned and placed her hands on her hips. “Did he give you something?”
The nurse shook her head. “No, but I know it was okay, and it made Mr. Belding so happy.”
Mr. Belding. Not waiting to hear the doctor’s response, Aimee rushed to the older man’s room.
Her soft-soled shoes padded over the floor, quiet—too quiet to warn the visitor in Mr. Belding’s room he had an audience. Still, the man, his broad back to her, tensed. Then as she stood there, her breath coming quick from her race down the halls, he relaxed, leaned forward and placed a small white dog on the bed.
For seconds, Aimee forgot to breathe, just stood there staring at the scroungy-looking mongrel prancing atop the bed.
“Garbo.” Mr. Belding leaned forward into Aimee’s view. His out stretched hands shook, as if he was afraid the dog that was leaving tiny black foot prints on the otherwise white sheets wasn’t real, might disappear. He grabbed the animal under her front legs and pulled her close—until her nose touched his.
“How’d you…” the older man began, but as the dog began to wiggle from tip to tail, snuffling her nose over his face, he let the words fade—started talking to his pet instead.
Pulled forward by the scene in front of her, Aimee stepped into the room. The good Samaritan still stood with his back toward her. She reached out, wanting to meet the man who had succeeded where she had failed, to thank him.
Before her fingers could brush the material of his dark coat, he turned, and she found herself staring into the fathomless depths of Drystan Hurst’s eyes.
AIMEE WAS IN the room. Drystan had sensed her, felt his spirit lifting as she’d come to a stop outside the door. He turned before she could touch him, not sure what she remembered of their earlier encounter, not sure what he would do the next time her body made contact with his.
Her eyes widened when she saw his face. “Drystan, I…” She raised her hand, palm up, and gestured to the bed, and the reunion taking place there between Mr. Belding and his dog. “How’d you…”
Drystan. She’d said his name, hadn’t had to search for it—just knew it. The realization brought a second of joy. Then recognizing where his thoughts were going, the weakness he was exposing, Drystan curled his fingers into a fist and steeled his mind against the softness that threatened to take over when he was around her.
If she remembered his name so easily, what else did she remember?
“Mr. Belding’s an old friend. I was at the pound today, looking for a pet for my niece. She’s turning two.” He smiled, the lie flowing easily from his lips, reassuring him he was still in the game, not being sucked in by whatever strange softening power Aimee seemed to hold. “When I saw Garbo, I knew it had to be some kind of mistake. So, I paid her fee and brought her right here.”
“But it’s…” Aimee glanced at the clock “…after midnight and this is a hospital. How did you—”
Drystan shrugged. “I’m good with people.” He pulled a dog cookie from his pocket, held it up to the little mutt. Garbo let out a happy yap and plucked it from his fingers. “Dogs, too.” He smiled, willed Aimee to accept his words.
As he did, Mr. Belding made a sound, calling the dog back to him. Aimee opened her mouth, to ask another question Drystan assumed, but as she watched the old man murmur and coo to his pet, she let out a breath and all tension seeped from her body.
“Thank you,” she said.
A warmth crept over Drystan, made him smile some where deep inside, some where hidden, somewhere long dead or so he’d thought.
“That isn’t enough.” Aimee placed her hand on his sleeve. He could feel her fingers through the heavy wool, had to fight to keep from placing his hand on her back, pulling her close.
“What can I do to thank you?” she asked, her face tilted to his, her eyes free of all guile.
Just twenty-four hours earlier, he’d known the answer as well as he knew his own name, as surely as he knew why he hated the Myhres, would do anything to destroy them. But as he looked into her eyes, saw the sincerity, the gratitude for something he had done—he found him self at a loss for a reply.
She smiled and squeezed his arm with a quick pressure of her fingers. “The inter view. I’ll make time for it tomorrow. You can ask me anything. I’ll tell you anything.”
But would she do anything? Would she help him exact his revenge? Would she leave Ben Myhre at the altar?
Drystan stared into her impossibly bright eyes, felt the longing being near her seemed to bring. The void inside him had never felt bigger. He placed his hand on top of hers. She gasped and the light in her eyes flickered.
She started to tug her hand away, but, almost desperate in his need to touch her, he held fast.
Suddenly he realized destroying the Myhres wasn’t enough. He needed what he felt when Aimee was near, needed to touch her, needed her. She made him feel alive, more alive than he’d ever felt—even before joining the undead.
She tugged again, pulled her fingers free, wrapped the fingers from her other hand around the one he’d held—stared at him—un certain, wary.
He knew the look, hated it. She was afraid of him, saw him as different, beneath her. The spot that had begun to warm inside him cooled, died. He might think he needed her, might want her, but she could never want him, accept him—no one could. Maureen Myhre had done him one favor by teaching him that.
Now he had to hold that truth close, keep from letting the magic Aimee wielded cloud his mind and keep him from seeking his revenge: destroying the Myhres and anyone who stuck by their side.
CHAPTER FIVE
AIMEE WAITED OUTSIDE the restaurant, her pashmina shawl, a gift from Ben, pulled tightly around her. It was a little too cold for just the wrap, just like it was a little too snowy for her three-inch heels, but Aimee had fallen victim to vanity—a vice she had never had before ignoring her daimon calling.
Chewing on her lower lip, she stroked the cashmere. It had been four months since she had walked away from being a daimon, had started ignoring the almost constant peals that chimed inside her head—a soul in need looking for his or her personal daimon—but in the past few days, she hadn’t heard a single chime, not even a hum.
No nagging from her daimon con science, and now falling victim to one of the most basic of human failings—vanity. Could she actually be turning human? It was what she wanted….
“Aimee.” Drystan Hurst stepped beside her, his head brushing the scalloped edge of the restaurant awning. Snow dotted his black coat. Without thinking, Aimee brushed the flakes from the wool. Drystan, his hands covered in leather driving gloves, captured her fingers and stared down into her eyes.
“Are you this solicitous with everyone?” His tone was light, but there was an intensity behind his gaze that made her want to pull her fingers away, like she had last night. This time she left them in his grip, tried for a light tone to match his.
“Hazard of my job,” she replied.
“I didn’t realize hospital aides took their roles so seriously.”
There was a sharp ness to his words and Aimee wondered for a second if she was supposed to take offense—if that would be the normal human reaction. But then he smiled and rubbed his gloved thumb over the backs of her knuckles.
“I doubt they all do. I think you may be…special,” he added then leaned down.
Her breath
catching in her throat, Aimee edged forward on her toes. Snow covered the tips of her kid-leather pumps, icy water leaked in through the keyhole design that deco rated their tops; she ignored the tiny discomfort, ignored everything except Drystan.
“Well, I guess we should get inside.” Drystan dropped Aimee’s hand, stepped away so suddenly she teetered backward. Seeing her predicament, he placed a hand on her shoulder to steady her, but his touch was impersonal, cool.
She flipped the end of her shawl over her shoulder, hiding the flutter of disappointment that washed over her, tucked her hand into the arm he offered and let him escort her inside.
The restaurant was full, but after a few earnest words with the maître d’, Drystan guided her to a table.
“I’ve never been here.” She glanced around, avoiding Drystan’s eyes, and tried to slow her heart, which seemed to be skittering inside her chest. The maître d’ had taken Drystan’s coat and her shawl. As Drystan walked to his chair, she looked up, took advantage of his turned back to study him. His dress shirt hugged his body, showed off the V shape of his tapered waist and broad shoulders. Candlelight danced on the table. He pulled out his chair, and caught her gaze for a second, his eyes seeming to flicker with the flame. A shiver danced over Aimee’s skin, made her wish she’d kept the wrap, had something to pull around her, hide behind.
“Really? Your fiancé never brought you here?” The question should have been innocent, but the words seemed to fall between them, land on the table like stones, hard and unyielding.
At the mention of Ben, a mantle of guilt settled over Aimee.
She pinched the stem of her water goblet and stared at the ice cubes floating inside. She had no reason to feel guilty. She hadn’t specifically told Ben she was having dinner with a reporter, but if she had, he would have been thrilled—which was why, she told herself, she hadn’t bothered. Besides, a feature article would be the perfect wedding gift. Maureen Myhre had been perfectly clear that media coverage was of utmost importance—more important than the wedding itself, if Aimee read the older woman correctly. Which, of course, she did.
Aimee sighed. How she wished she didn’t always read others’ motivations so clearly. She’d like just once to be blind sided by someone’s nature—surprised. Maybe that was why she’d agreed to this dinner. Drystan was a puzzle, a void of dark need but with a strange light that seemed to flicker in and out, like a flame struggling to come to life.
She looked up; Drystan’s gaze was still on her. “Ben and I don’t go out much—at least not to restaurants.”
“Oh.” Drystan laid his hand on the white linen cloth, his fingers curled toward the table.
“What?” she asked. His gesture had been dismissive, as if her response were to be expected and pitied.
“Doesn’t it bother you that your fiancé doesn’t take you out, just the two of you?”
Something began to wind around Aimee, something she couldn’t see or hear, but could feel—a coaxing that made her body want to sway, her mind want to agree. Her head started to nod, then, realizing what she was doing, she frowned and focused on Drystan’s question. “I don’t mind,” she replied.
In fact she preferred it. She and Ben hadn’t spent a great deal of time alone yet. Once she actually married Ben, she would have to, and she’d face another problem, one she hoped wouldn’t bother her once her daimon life was completely in her past. Physical intimacy without love was a lie to Aimee. Daimons didn’t lie. As far as Aimee knew they were incapable of it—even daimons of the dark.
Of course, daimons of the dark probably didn’t see the human act of sex as a declaration of anything. Just another base desire to use against humanity.
If Drystan was a daimon, was that how he saw it? She touched her fingers to her lips. She had wanted to kiss him outside. Was that why? Was he using daimon powers against her?
“But you have to admit…” he placed his hand over hers, curled her fingers into his palm “…this is nice.”
His fingers were cool against hers—too cool for a human, but not un pleas ant, actually to Aimee quite the opposite. She hooked her fingers around his, let warmth pass from her body into his.
The exchange was tiny, warmth, nothing more, but it made the daimon inside Aimee lumber from forced sleep. Made Aimee want to flood Drystan, body and soul, with light, hope, love—but she couldn’t. That’s what she had done to Kevin—unharnessed the almost des per ate love she felt, her hopes for what he could become—and he’d staggered under the weight. No more able to bear that burden than the ones life had already given him. Yes, he’d seen what he was doing was wrong—not the solution—but rather than taking time to assess, to rethink, he’d taken the quick way out…pulled the trigger.
Aimee jerked her hand away, broke contact, then stared at her menu, refused to glance up at the man she couldn’t quite read, who scared and intrigued at the same time.
AIMEE PULLED HER hand so quickly from Drystan’s that even with his vamp senses he didn’t have time to react, but he felt the loss—her hand warming his…and something else, something sliding from her to him, making him feel…safe.
He fisted his hand on the table. Safe. It was a ludicrous thought. Of course he was safe. He was a vampire—who did he have to fear?
“It’s good not getting to be alone with your fiancé doesn’t bother you,” he murmured, hoping to bring their conversation back where it had been, to find an opening to drive a wedge between Aimee and the Myhres. “He certainly takes you enough public places.” He picked up his glass, took a sip of water. “Of course, now that I think of it…” he frowned “…all those places are political, aren’t they?”
Aimee glanced up, gazing at him with the clear beauty of her eyes—innocent, sweet. “He’s a state legislator.”
“Who wants to be governor,” Drystan added.
“Yes.” Aimee gazed at him, her face open, expression frank, as if waiting for him to continue.
“That doesn’t bother you?” Drystan dropped his hand to his lap, balled his napkin in his fist.
“That he wants to be governor? Why should it?”
She seemed sincerely confused now. A line formed between her brows and she blinked as if truly struggling to make out his meaning. “There are much worse ambitions, and being governor…that could be good, no, great. Think of all the things you could influence, the people you could help.”
“You want to be married to a governor?” Drystan felt as though he’d swallowed a lead ball. Despite the happy glow that surrounded her and her work at the hospital, Aimee wasn’t the angel he’d thought her to be. She wanted the same things the Myhres wanted—power, influence, a political office for her husband if not herself.
She dropped her gaze to the base of her water goblet, twisted the glass back and forth on the tablecloth. Then, without warning, she looked up. “Is that wrong? To want to do something that would give you real power? Power to help people like patients who don’t fill their prescriptions because they can’t afford it? Or mothers who have to choose between shoes for their kids and a mammogram? Is that wrong?”
Drystan swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. If anyone else had been asking him these questions, he’d have known they were attacking him—and been justified. His tone had been laden with accusation and judgment. But Aimee still had that same damn look of receptiveness, like she truly wanted to hear his opinion. Was what she was doing wrong?
He wanted to yell yes, to tell her nothing could justify marrying into the Myhre family, that the quest for power no matter the motive behind it was wrong, hurtful. He wanted to hurt her, make her cringe and agree to stop her plans. He opened his lips. “Not wrong. Not wrong at all.”
Her lips curved into a smile, lighting her face, her eyes, the space around them. Drystan’s annoyance with his own honesty faded before it could even materialize as a frown.
“I don’t think you could do anything wrong,” he murmured. “Not intentionally.”
Her smile disappeared; the glow
behind her eyes dimmed. “Intentions don’t matter. Outcome does.”
And that was it. The conversation was over like someone had sliced through a phone line. Suddenly, desperately, Drystan wanted to bring the joy back to her eyes.
He placed his hand on the table, not touching hers, almost afraid to touch hers.
“Intentions do matter—a lot.” If Maureen Myhre had taken him in, trotted him out at every media event, but her intentions had been true—to share something with a boy who needed a family, who needed love—would he have wandered off the path? Would he have acted out in a ridiculous attempt to gain her attention?
Perhaps. But he wouldn’t be able to blame her then, wouldn’t hold the hate that festered inside him.
“Some times,” he continued, “intentions are everything.”
There was sorrow in her eyes now, deep and intense. Drystan pressed his fingers into the linen, felt the lines of the cloth, stopped himself from grabbing her hand, telling her everything would be okay—he would make it okay.
“Intentions didn’t save Mr. Belding’s dog. You did. I intended to help him but failed.”
“But I wouldn’t have saved him, if I hadn’t seen—” Drystan stopped the flow of words. He’d almost given himself away.
“Seen what?”
It was too much, he’d come too close. The conversation was getting them nowhere—or nowhere Drystan wanted to go. It was time to up the stakes, to take Aimee some where he could work on her alone—before his intentions were lost, before he fell under her spell and forgot who he was, what had been done to him.
He placed his hand over hers, captured her gaze with his and began to weave a cloak of beguilement around them. He’d take her back to his apartment, work on her, make her see the cost of marrying into the Myhres was too high, that she could help others without selling her self…losing her soul.
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