“You are alive,” he said while continuing to stare at me, his hands still on my shoulders. I gently escaped from his hold and pushed the duvet back as I stood up, wrapping my arms around myself. I was dressed in a long-sleeved Victoria’s Secret nightshirt that ended at my knees. Even though my nightshirt wasn’t terribly revealing (okay, I was showing a little leg), Sinjin beheld me with his wolfish stare from head to toe, making me feel as if I was as naked as the day I was born.
Then he smiled and it was a smile I remembered too well—a smile that could only characterize Sinjin—something racy and bold, yet secretive. “I could not believe you were alive though I felt your very life blood pulsing within me.”
Sinjin had drunk my blood months before when I was attacked by a werewolf and had nearly become hairy, myself. He sucked the poison from the wound and, while saving me from becoming lupine, he’d also given me about ten orgasms … Anyway, owing to the fact that he’d swallowed my blood, he could track me.
I shrugged, not knowing what to say. I didn’t know if I should wrap my arms around him and tell him how worried I’d been and how incredibly happy I was to know he was okay. In the end, because our relationship was purely platonic, I opted for a more casual response.
“Yep, I’m alive,” I confirmed, not knowing what else to add. Truth be told, I was still reeling from the fact that Sinjin was in my room and we’d just shared a very … good kiss.
“I watched your life end,” he said in a hollow voice that sounded pained.
“It did end.” At Sinjin’s curious expression, I continued, “The prophetess brought me back to life.”
In an instant his attention was riveted. “The prophetess, you say?”
I nodded, wondering why the prophetess held such interest for him—she always had. In fact, prior to the battle with Bella, Sinjin had been teaching me how to take on Ryder. In return, he only asked that I attempt to locate the prophetess telepathically. Of course, I hadn’t been successful at the time because she’d been stuck in 1878.
“What happened to you, Sinjin?”
“I am more interested in what happened to you, poppet. I have relived your death too many times—until I thought perhaps I would go mad.”
I shook my head, dismissing Sinjin’s flair for the dramatic. What I wanted to know was why the hell he’d just vanished like that. I could remember it like it was yesterday—Sinjin standing with his back to the battlefield—the tightness of his lips and the glossiness of his eyes.
“And thanks, by the way, for not doing a damn thing when I died.”
“What would you have suggested I do?” he demanded with narrowed eyes, his muscular arms wrapped across his chest.
I shrugged. “I don’t know—you seemed to have some tricks up your sleeve when that wolf attacked me.”
He nodded and glanced down for a second or two before his ice-blue gaze met mine again. His eyes weren’t quite so narrowed and his jaw had relaxed. “You were much closer to the gates of heaven, love, than you were when the wolf attacked.”
“You could have done something,” I insisted even though I didn’t entirely believe my own words.
He swallowed and his eyes suddenly steeled again. “All that was left to me was turning you into one of my own kind, and that is a choice I could never make.” He turned away from me and faced the window, allowing me to appreciate the expanse of his shoulders and back. His shoulders were broad and then tapered into an athletic waist and a tight rear that topped an incredibly long pair of legs. Sinjin was very tall—probably six-five or thereabouts. And as I’d come to expect, he was clothed entirely in black—a black sweater with a black undershirt and black slacks.
He turned toward me again and I couldn’t help but swallow, gulping down the thoughts of how incredibly beautiful he was.
“I would never condemn you to live this way,” he whispered.
Surprise echoed through me. If anything, I would have thought Sinjin would have no problem turning me or anyone else into one of his kind. He seemed to parade his vampire status around as if it was the be-all, end-all in the Underworld community—like driving the newest, coolest car in town.
“Where have you been, Sinjin?” I asked, no longer feeling comfortable with the direction this conversation was headed.
“Have you been worried about me, pet?” His tone reminded me of the old Sinjin, the joking and never serious, but seriously sexy, Sinjin.
“Yeah, I have,” I said without a trace of humor. “I’ve been wondering what the hell happened to you. Where have you been?” I repeated.
He nodded but didn’t say anything for a few seconds. “I have been everywhere and I have been nowhere, love.”
“Don’t screw around with me,” I snapped. “Where, specifically?”
“I have been traveling, poppet. You could say I have been doing some soul searching.”
“And is Varick going to be upset with you?” I asked, remembering how irritated Varick had seemed the other evening. I didn’t know if there was something overly protective about me but for some reason I did tend to be a mother hen where Sinjin was concerned.
“I care not, love.” He approached the window, his long and slender physique highlighted by the moon. “I understand congratulations are in order?” he asked, blinding me with his incredibly charming smile.
“Congratulations?” I repeated. At my bewildered expression, he merely bowed slightly, so formally that I felt like I was back in 1878.
“You are Queen, as I understand?” he asked, standing up straight again.
“Well, I haven’t exactly …,” I started, about to argue the point that I hadn’t abandoned myself to my apparent calling.
“I am your loyal and faithful subject, my Queen, to do with as you please.”
And the way he said it dripped with sensuality.
“Thanks,” I said, but wasn’t sure I meant it.
JOURNAL ENTRY
Mercedes Berg. The prophetess …
It’s almost as if I can see her power emanating from the very letters of her name.
I can’t help but think back to the day of the battle, when Gwynn ran her blade into my gut and then I blinked and found myself in the middle of a snowbank and was like WTF just happened? It was so cold, I nearly froze to death and would have if it hadn’t been for Mercedes. She was the one who dragged me in from the snow. Of course, she knew I was coming all along since she was the one responsible for bringing me there in the first place, but I guess I still owed her gratitude for preventing me from becoming a Jolie Popsicle.
At the time, I sure as hell didn’t regard the scullery maid with the beautiful green eyes as anything extraordinary. Of course, I had to wonder when she lifted me over her shoulder and carried me into the house like she was some sort of woman wrestler souped up on steroids. And if that wasn’t enough, she was also able to restore my frostbitten toes to their former glory just by wrapping her hands around them. So the clues had been there; I just hadn’t possessed my full faculties to really add everything up. (I mean, I had been on the brink of a very cold death. Who can really blame me for not paying much attention to anything else?) And even if I had added everything up, I would never in a million years have reached the conclusion that I’d just met the prophetess.
A few months ago I wasn’t even convinced the prophetess was real. She was more like an urban legend that everyone halfheartedly believed in, some more than others. Any disbelief stemmed from the fact that pretty much no one could boast that they’d ever set eyes on the prophetess, until now.
Sure, Bella has always been convinced that the prophetess exists. Looking back on it now, I’m convinced Mercedes was the reason Bella wanted me on her side to begin with—so I could reanimate the prophetess and Bella could benefit from her power. As a matter of fact, Bella forced me to try to reanimate some old woman whom she believed to be the prophetess, but of course, the old woman wasn’t.
Nope, Mercedes Berg is the prophetess. And even though she’s this omni
scient being, I can’t say I completely trust her. It’s not as though she’s ever done anything that would make me not want to trust her, it’s just that with all-powerful beings, you can’t help but wonder what their deal is. I keep asking myself if Mercedes really exists merely for the good of our society. Couldn’t it be possible that she falls victim to the same vices we all do—fame, power, and greed, to name just a few? What does Mercedes get out of making sure I unite all the creatures of the Underworld and become their Queen? Maybe it’s just a sign of my sinful humanity that I’m even doubting her in the first place.
Truth be told, Mercedes worries me—her power is so extreme, no one really seems to know how strong or how powerful she truly is. And I believe Rand questions her for the same reasons. I guess I shouldn’t doubt her, since she’s never done anything other than insist I’m the savior of our kind. Most people would probably be incredibly grateful to her. Just call me an ingrate I guess.
And speaking of this whole savior stuff, Savior is a really big title to wear. And so, for that matter, is Queen. Really, if Rand would just stop playing the part of revolutionary, he’d make the perfect King. He’s kind, honest, and just. What more could you want in a King? Oh, and he’s incredibly hot. Hmm, and if I married him, that would make me Queen by default. Wonder if Mercedes would go for that …
Who am I kidding? Rand would no sooner become King than befriend Sinjin. So where does that leave me? The same place I’m always left when it comes to this subject—square one. And square one is getting old fast. Regardless, Mercedes seems to think I’ve accepted my fate as Queen because she keeps going on and on about my lessons and when I’ll be Queen this and when I’ll be Queen that.
I just have this gut feeling that if I do follow my “calling” and become Queen, I’ll lose Rand. And that’s a big gamble to take.
I opened my front door, shivered in the night wind, and beeped my remote, unlocking the doors of my silver Range Rover Freelander. The SUV had been a gift from Rand after my relocation to England.
But back to my present mission. There was lots of important stuff I needed to discuss with Rand—chiefly, when to start reanimating our legion. It seemed like it was taking Rand an eon to compile his list of the deceased. Really, I was itching to get started—to be able to give back to the soldiers who had given their lives for our cause.
I drove the two miles to Pelham Manor in silence. Once I arrived, I didn’t make any motion to undo my seat belt; I just sat there instead, staring up at the stone edifice. I almost felt intimidated by the ancient walls. I turned off the headlights and melted into the darkness, shivering despite myself. I stepped outside to face the wide stone staircase that graced the front of Rand’s majestic home, leading to a pair of dark, heavy, wooden doors.
With the weight of the Underworld on my shoulders, I trudged up the stone steps and rang the doorbell. A few seconds later the door flew open and Christa appeared in her cowboy-and-Indian PJs, a pint of ice cream in one hand and a spoon in the other.
“Hi, Chris,” I said in a somewhat dejected tone.
“Hi, Jules, what’s up?” She rammed her spoon into the hard ice cream and seemed to wrestle with it before a smile of victory lit up her mouth, which she then opened wide to make room for the heaping spoonful.
“I came to see Rand,” I said as I walked in through the open door.
She nodded but said nothing as she spooned another heaping bite of what looked like chocolate ice cream with red cherries and hunks of fudge into her mouth. There was probably a third left. “He’s outside trying to finalize the list of dead guys,” she said, not bothering to swallow first.
“Is the list almost ready, then?”
She shrugged and dug in for another mouthful. “I don’t know but hot damn, it seems like it’s taking forever.”
She didn’t wait for my response but turned around and headed down the hall to the kitchen, which led to the back gardens of Pelham Manor. I couldn’t help but glance around Rand’s house, wondering if anything had changed since I’d moved out. Everything seemed to be in the exact same place. I wasn’t sure why, but for some reason that little familiarity made me happy.
Even though the outside of Pelham Manor boasted its seventeenth-century beginnings, the inside was the epitome of modernity. A large black leather sofa dominated the living room, which had oriental rugs on the floor and abstract oil paintings on the walls. But the most outstanding centerpiece of the room, and the feature most commented on, was Rand’s fireplace, which was easily as tall as I am. What I loved most about Pelham Manor, though, wasn’t the priceless art or the ginormous fireplace, but the way it smelled—it shared the same clean spiciness that put me in mind of Rand.
“Did you hear Sinjin is back?” I asked, in an effort to force myself to think of another subject.
Christa glanced over at me in surprise, pausing only momentarily before she dived back in again, looking like an archaeologist chipping away at a fossil. She’d probably come across a nut.
“Where did you see him?”
I knew my answer was going to sound bad but there really wasn’t any way around it. “He showed up in my house last night.”
She nodded, not daring to pry her attention from the excavation of an almond. “Did you get it on?”
I just shook my head—I knew that would be the first thought to cross her mind. “You seriously think about sex way too much.”
She freed the almond and spooned it into her mouth, smiling at me as she did so. “And you think about sex way too little.”
I wasn’t sure if that was true but I also wasn’t in the mood to argue. Instead I stayed silent and followed her through the hall and into the kitchen.
“So where the hell has Sinjin been?” she asked, dropping the empty ice-cream container in the trash can on the way to the back door. How Christa could eat the way she did and yet manage to keep her awesome figure was beyond me. I teetered on the line between “athletic” and “could stand to lose five pounds”; it was a constant struggle. I did find, however, that living within the Underworld had taken about ten pounds off me. So I guess I was off the diet seesaw … for the time being, anyway.
“He refused to tell me,” I answered, remembering how Sinjin had deliberately avoided the subject of his location.
After our reintroduction, I’d sent him on his way so I could get some shut-eye. I was convinced he’d just hung out in my house, though, because I kept waking up to strange sounds I couldn’t place—sounds that had probably been coming from the TV. I hadn’t really minded. Somehow, with Sinjin in my house, I actually felt safer, as ridiculous as it sounds, since he could easily rip my throat out.
Before I had the chance to comment any more on the subject, I noticed a pool of mist appearing just over the staircase. The more I watched it, the more it morphed into the shape of a man, resplendent in nineteenth-century breeches and a waistcoat.
“Um, what are you looking at?” Christa asked and turned in the direction of my gaze. Of course she couldn’t see the ghost, Pelham, the original owner of Pelham Manor.
“I’m looking at Pelham,” I answered as I smiled and waved at the ghost in question.
Ah, you have decided to return and grace me with your beautiful presence. I could only hear Pelham’s voice in my head.
“Hi, Pel,” I said with a warm smile.
Christa glanced at the staircase, back to me, and back to the staircase again before letting out a deep sigh. “Spooky. Anyway, Jules, why don’t you tell your invisible friend that we were in the middle of a conversation before he interrupted us?” She folded her arms against her chest and tapped her fingers on her elbow as if she was irritated.
“He can hear you,” I said and threw her a frown.
Pelham just smiled at me and tipped his head as if to say yes, he could hear her and he apologized for interrupting us.
“I’ll come and visit soon, Pel,” I announced.
Very well. I have missed you. Then he just disappeared into the
stairwell.
“Do you still want to see Rand?” Christa asked.
“Yes,” I said and followed her down the hallway to the kitchen, which, in turn, led to the back garden area.
“There’s your man,” Christa said with a smile as she pointed at Rand, who stood beside Odran and Trent. All three of them were staring at a piece of paper on a picnic table. I assumed the paper in question was the ledger of names of the dead soldiers who needed to be reanimated.
Behind them, as far as I could see, were the tents of our legion. The glow of their campfires cast shadows and flickering lights against the tents, making it look like a campsite of ghosts.
“Thanks, Chris,” I answered with a grin before starting forward. The three men were probably twenty feet or so from us, all hunched over the table, scrutinizing whatever was on the sheet. At my approach, all three looked up, but it was Rand who smiled first.
“Is everything all right?”
Christa mumbled something about it being too cold outside and returned to the house but I didn’t turn to watch her leave. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from Rand. I smiled and nodded even though the answer to his question was a definite no. If anything, it felt like my world was crumbling down around me and it was all I could do to grab hold of a loose brick or two.
“Yeah, I just wanted to find out when you thought we should start the reanimations,” I said.
Rand nodded and glanced at the sheet of paper in front of him, flicking it with his long index finger as he stood up straight and beamed at me. “I think we’re ready.”
“And I am quite certain the dead soldiers would thank you if they could.”
All four of us turned to the sound of Sinjin’s voice as he stepped out from behind a massive pine tree. My heart leapt into my throat and I wasn’t sure if it was because Sinjin had just appeared out of nowhere and scared me half to death, or because he was standing in front of Rand. The two hadn’t seen each other since the battle and whenever they came within a few feet of each other, it was a prescription for conflict.
Witchful Thinking (Jolie Wilkins #3) Page 8
