by Jenna Barwin
“Why wouldn’t you tell her who bit you?”
“I see Karen has spoken of it.” He lowered his eyes. “I didn’t want others to know about Anne-Louise’s demand for tribute.”
Cerissa tried hard not to laugh. “That’s an old-fashioned word for it.”
He looked up at her again, his brow furrowed. “That’s what it’s called. A maker may demand blood from the vampires they sire.”
“Which leads to sex?”
Henry looked almost angry. “I did not sleep with Anne-Louise while I was with Erin.”
“Karen certainly thinks you slept with whoever left their mark on you.”
“Erin’s friends told her a neck bite had to involve sex—she believed them, not me.” He looked down at the wine cask again, and the anger on his face drained away, replaced with a look of shame. “She had every right to. I wasn’t honest with her. She assumed the worst, and I couldn’t dissuade her.”
“Why did she see the bite at all? Vampires heal fast.”
“The bite of another vampire doesn’t heal quickly. It takes the blood of another vampire to heal it.” Henry filled a glass using the wine thief and swirled the small amount of ruby-red liquid before sniffing it. “A friend was supposed to leave me a vial of his blood after Anne-Louise’s visit, so I could return to Erin with no trace of the bite, but my friend forgot.”
“Oh.”
“Karen kept harping loudly, insisting I’d been unfaithful. She didn’t help matters with Erin.”
He shouldn’t blame Karen for a problem he created. Rather than disagree, Cerissa asked, “Why does Anne-Louise demand tribute?”
“To maintain the connection between us, the bond. She has refused to let me go.”
“But—”
“Forget everything you think you know about vampires. There are some dirty little secrets among our kind, secrets not freely shared, not even with envoys.” He wheeled the cart to the next set of casks and unplugged the bung. “It is believed taking the blood of our progeny postpones a vampire’s descent into senility.”
“You mean it keeps the aging process from suddenly catching up with you?”
“That is the conventional wisdom.” He paused to taste the wine and make notes. Shaking his head, he didn’t give her the glass, and instead poured it out into the spittoon. “Once a maker releases her progeny, stops taking blood for a year or two, she ceases having power to compel them to return to her. But if she continues to demand blood, as Anne-Louise has, she may keep those she sires bound to her.”
“I thought the treaty required makers to release their, ah, progeny, after twenty years.”
“You are correct for those who were turned after the treaty was signed. The rest of us were grandfathered under the old rules.”
A chill rippled down her spine. He would never be free of his maker.
“But why?” she asked.
“For the same reason your people are concerned. The treaty strictly regulates the creation of new vampires. If drinking the blood of their progeny does prolong a vampire’s life, freeing their progeny would deprive them of the benefits, and they would not be allowed to sire new vampires to replace their source. Like any treaty, a compromise was struck to gain greater support for it.”
Okay, it made sense on a rational level. Still, she felt sorry for him. “So Anne-Louise has forced you to remain her lover?”
“Even those who were grandfathered have rights under the treaty. I refuse to be her lover when I am in a relationship with a mortal. If she tried to force the issue it would be rape, and she knows the penalty for that.”
Cerissa didn’t want to ask what the penalty was. With vampires, it could be anything. “Why didn’t you tell Erin?”
“And have Erin tell Karen, who would have repeated it all over the Hill? Only a few know the truth.”
“You let Erin leave rather than be embarrassed in front of your friends?”
The stern look on his face told her not to push for an answer. His reputation as a founder would be tarnished if others learned he was under his maker’s thumb. But why did he need their respect so desperately? He’d gone to a lot of trouble to hide the truth.
“I’m sorry,” she said, touching his arm. He’d let her see the “him” behind the founder mask he wore. It took more courage than she had. For all she’d revealed about her Lux origins, she hadn’t told him any personal secrets about herself. “Your maker holds on too tightly, and my mother never held on at all.”
“I don’t understand.”
“My amma abandoned me when I was three.”
He touched her shoulder gently, a look of empathy in his eyes. “What happened?”
She looked away. She couldn’t look at him and tell the story. “I still don’t know if it was the politics of the time or if she just grew bored living like a human.” She raised her hands in resignation. “The East India Company had a stranglehold on Surat. My pita’s family was struggling to keep their textile business afloat, to keep food on the table. They couldn’t compete with British factories. Everyone in the family was working long hours, doing whatever they could to turn things around.”
She snapped her fingers. “And just like that, Amma left. No goodbye, no explanation. I lived with my pita until he died, and then the Protectors brought me to the Enclave. Even then, my amma ignored me—she has my whole life. It taught me not to rely on others at a young age.” She shrugged. “I guess that’s a good thing.”
* * *
Henry shook his head in disbelief. How could anyone abandon a small child? He reached out and gently gripped her chin, turning her face so he could see her eyes again.
“Do not belittle your loss,” he said softly. “A child should not have to learn such a lesson.”
He wrapped his arms around her, and her warm scent enveloped him. He mentally shook himself; he was supposed to be comforting her, not getting turned on. He stroked her back and tried to focus on her words.
“I shouldn’t complain,” she said. “My amma was part of the first generation who tried to live with our human parent. You see, many Lux view humans as lesser than themselves. The Protectors had a theory—raising Lux children among humans would make us more empathetic with them. It wasn’t easy for Amma, either—no electricity, no indoor plumbing, no computers, and stuck in the kitchen with the other women.”
He heard her heart speed up, and the sour smell of anxiety rose from her. His own heart felt heavy in return. He wanted to comfort her, but how?
“I was born during the Great Cyclone of 1782,” she continued. “Hurricane-force winds toppled home after home, debris and rain crashed down, the Tapi river flooded over, all while my amma was in labor—we were lucky our home still stood the next day. My pita’s family never let me forget it. They said I was born of Kali, the goddess of destruction. After everything that happened, I’m surprised Amma stayed as long as she did.”
He released her so he could look into her eyes. She was smart and courageous, and deserved better. “It still doesn’t justify how your mother treated you,” he said.
“Well, I’ll do better when my time comes.”
“Your time?” he repeated. He’d forgotten—at some point, she’d have to bear children by a mortal.
“In a hundred years, I’ll move into my fertile stage.”
He watched her face closely. “Would you consider raising your child among vampires?”
“Huh?”
“You’re building your lab here. You want to live here. In a hundred years—”
“A lot can happen. I’ll figure it out when I get there.”
Maybe she was right. He’d rarely had a relationship last longer than a few years. And there was always artificial insemination if they stayed together. He froze. What was he thinking? One kiss and he was worried about what they’d do a hundred years from now. He turned away and motioned at the casks. “That was the last one.”
He wheeled the cart back into the lab, and she followed. “My employees wil
l take care of this tomorrow,” he said, dropping his notes into an “in” basket on the counter.
He walked to the other side of the wine lab, where a table with bottles stood. “The wines are tested here. Once opened, they cannot be sold, but we usually have one or two recorked with an inert gas added to preserve it, and set aside for guests.”
He poured her a glass of wine and handed it to her. “This is one of our reserve blended wines,” he said. “What do you think?”
She swirled the glass. He could smell the aroma it released from where he stood. She held the glass up to the light and then took a sip. “Excellent. The flavor is superb, and so smooth for a red.”
“I am quite proud of this vintage. We’ve had good sales from it.”
“It’s your blend?” she asked, and took another sip.
“Yes. I’m told I have a good nose for wines. It’s apparently true, as mortals are willing to a pay a high price for ours.”
“To know your work is appreciated must be satisfying.”
“I am glad to produce a beverage that makes them happy. After all, they produce a beverage that makes me happy,” he said, smiling at her.
“Speaking of that beverage…” She returned her wineglass to the counter and opened the bag she’d brought.
He watched her take out three glass containers. Each container held a ruby-red fluid. He picked up one jar, the glass warm to the touch.
“These samples are from three different clones,” she said.
“How do you keep them from spoiling without refrigeration?”
“I use a special method to fill the jars.” She opened the cabinet where wineglasses were stored and took out three. “Just like winetasting,” she said, pouring the samples into three separate glasses. “Go ahead, try one.”
He picked up the first glass, and studied the color. Dark wine—an appropriate euphemism. A quick sniff and his nose told him fresh blood. He took a sip. This was the real thing, much better than stale banked blood, which always left a sour aftertaste from the added chemicals and preservatives.
He polished off the first sample. “What keeps it from clotting?” he asked.
Her face lit up—she looked pleased by his question. “I filter out the clotting factor, so I don’t have to add a chemical to keep it from clotting. Does it change the taste?”
“Absolutely. For the better.”
He picked up the second one. It smelled just as fresh. He held the ruby-colored liquid to the light. Then he sipped it, lingering over the flavor. Something was slightly different. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but it was richer. He tried explaining it to her, but was frustrated. He could describe all the various notes of a wine, but he had developed no language for discussing the taste of blood. After stumbling over his answer, he asked, “How much blood can you take from a clone?”
“They’re engineered for two pints of harvest per day. If I go beyond two pints, I’ll have to introduce extra iron, which might change the flavor too much.”
He studied the color of the last sample, then sipped it—a magnificent nectar of the gods. He rolled it in his mouth to savor it longer, and felt a sudden rush of desire when he swallowed. To hide his arousal, he turned toward the counter.
“The last sample had the highest concentration of red blood cells,” she explained. “I used a process called apheresis to draw a higher number of red blood cells from the clones, returning some of the plasma and other blood components back to their bodies. We’re still limited to taking two pints a day, but with apheresis, the higher draw doesn’t harm them. What you’re tasting is the different ratios of red blood cells to plasma.”
He studied the empty glass for a moment before rinsing it out in a nearby sink. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her remove a computer tablet from her purse and jot something down. He bent to rinse his mouth with water, then dried his lips with one of the paper towels from the nearby dispenser, gripping the counter with his other hand. He kept himself anchored there for a moment. He couldn’t give in to what he felt for her. No, it is just the blood. It is just the—
Without warning, he stood in front of her, wrapping his arms around her. Like a dry twig, his last bit of resistance had snapped. The blur of his movement seemed to catch her off guard, and she dropped the tablet on the counter.
He wanted to make it gentle, but the blood drove him. Pressing his hand against the back of her head, he crushed her lips to his. Her lips parted and he thrust his tongue into her, exploring her mouth deeply, her tongue meeting his with equal passion.
When his lips left hers, he could hear her breathing hard, feel her heart pounding against his chest, and smell the salty-sweet scent of her arousal. He held her close and said softly by her ear, “The blood has that effect.”
“Effect?” she asked.
“It excites the passion.”
Her body stiffened against his. “Oh. I see.”
He closed his eyes, drinking in her alluring scent. He wasn’t being honest with her. Yes, the blood had spiked his passion, but it didn’t propel him to kiss her.
The story of her childhood, the sadness that at times seemed to palpably roll off her, the sense of her being alone in the world—she needed someone to love her as only he could. There was so much more he had to learn about her, but she had lit the wick of his long-banished passion. He wanted her.
* * *
She rested her face against his shoulder, his arms holding her close. Each breath she took brought in the fresh scent of his spicy cologne. Part of her wanted to stay wrapped in his arms forever, where she felt protected and understood.
He pulled back, and she let him. She looked up into his eyes—such intense, dark eyes, framed by ebony eyebrows. She felt compelled again to touch his lips with hers.
When his lips parted, she gave an inaudible sigh, letting her own lips open. His tongue sought out hers, more gently this time, as if the passion spent on the first kiss allowed him to regain control, and she once again tasted blood mingled with the scent of cloves. She followed the rhythm he set, the silky feel of his tongue making her insides turn to molten silver.
She surrendered to the feelings, melting against him, until Ari’s words, “seduce him or stake him,” echoed in her mind and she abruptly broke from the kiss.
“I need air,” she said, and ran up the stairs to the door leading outside.
She hadn’t meant to use her aura to seduce him. She had dialed it back on the bike. Hell, I shut it down completely when he started the winery tour.
So maybe the blood samples had sparked his kiss…or could it be something more?
She stood near the motorcycle, her back to the door, her head woozy. The scent of his cologne stayed with her, the dry, spicy smell now entwined in her mind with the sensations his lips and tongue created.
She heard him lock the winery door behind her, followed by the light clink of jars. He had brought her bag with him.
“Cerissa,” he said, his footsteps drawing near.
She turned to him. “I’m sorry. I liked the kiss, I did. But I—I just felt overwhelmed.”
“It’s all right,” he said, putting the bag and her purse on the ground. His arms went around her, and he held her lightly. “We can take this slowly, whatever is comfortable for you.”
“Thank you,” she said, her cheek resting against his chest. Smelling his cologne again caused several tingles to spark within her. She looked up at him. His deep browns pulled her in once again.
“The next formal dance is in one week,” he said. “Would you like to go with me?”
She smiled shyly at him. “I would like that very much.” Then it occurred to her. What she’d said to Ari. She couldn’t go to the dance with him, not under their rules. “Ah, what about the Covenant? I mean, we can’t date within the walls.”
He gave a lopsided grin. “I’ll clear it with the mayor. It would be boorish for him to refuse, to force you to attend the dance unescorted.”
“Then I gratefully ac
cept,” she said, stepping back to curtsey.
“Very good,” he replied, bowing to her. When he rose, he said, “I have to be out of town for a few nights. I trust nothing will happen while I’m gone?”
She stepped in close again and flattened her palms against his chest. “Henry, please don’t worry. The Lux aren’t a threat. They aren’t going to invade while you’re gone.”
“It’s not that. I don’t want you to leave—I’ve decided to support your project. I want you to build it here in Sierra Escondida.”
Chapter 35
On the outskirts of Sierra Escondida—the next day
Cerissa stood at the center of a vacant property on the public side of the Hill’s wall. A good location—only twenty minutes north of the main gate, it bordered the freeway, providing easy and fast access.
The late afternoon sun sat above the western mountains. She rotated slowly to see the views in each direction. The mountains behind Henry’s house were visible to the southwest of where she stood. The northwest mountain range, forming the other leg of the Hill’s valley, tapered off before the wall. A few commercial buildings interrupted her view in both directions—her office would be on the fifth floor, so it didn’t matter.
She turned again. Beyond the I-5 freeway, Mordida sprawled along the entire east side of the freeway, with the international airport fifty miles to the southeast. Empty lots lining the Mordida side offered perfect locations to build new housing and amenities for the scientists she would hire.
Sixty acres was a bit small for the type of research campus she wanted to create, but it would have to do. It was the largest available undeveloped parcel in Sierra Escondida. There were a couple of smaller empty parcels adjacent to it. Maybe she could buy all of them before construction began—if she kept the project secret from the other property owners, it might keep the price down.
Only problem is, I don’t have enough money to buy any of it, not without new investors.
She trekked back to where the real estate agent waited by their cars. She took her time, carefully picking her path to avoid tripping over a rock or the low scrub brush dotting the uneven, dried dirt, baked hard by the sun.
