The restraint that Nikolena had implored him to have was wearing thin, but Marya was not the person he wanted to lose it on. The time will come, and soon, when I can abandon care and unleash the beast. Until then, composure and control held the reins. Still, Marya’s misconceived anger needed an answer. He sighed. “First of all, I would never betray Adelle’s trust in me by discussing her with a mortal, any more than I would discuss my relationship with you with another vampire. Secondly, I have no other lover who knows me for what I really am. I haven’t for ten years now. The others mean nothing. They’re entertainment for the vampire, nothing more.”
She slumped against the same wall that Philippe had thought to have her cornered against. “I’m sorry. I have no hold on you and no right to be jealous. There’s so much I don’t know . . . I don’t know what to believe anymore.”
He walked up to her and mimicked Philippe’s move, yet taking it one step further. He leaned forward, and splayed the fingers of both hands against the wall on either side of her, effectively boxing her in. Thankfully she didn’t look in the mood to shoot a knee at the bull’s-eye on his body. “Marya, listen to me. The Russian might be evasive, and the vampire might lie. But Alek Dragovich tells you the truth. There is no one else in my bed who knows what you know.”
He leaned even closer to her, and she bent forward to meet his kiss. All the passion and longing of her previous kisses echoed in the warmth and urgency he felt in her now. He pulled away just far enough to whisper in her ear. “Come, cherie. It has been a very long and frustrating evening. Let us hope there are no more interruptions to thwart our lovemaking.”
She smiled against his cheek, and the simple gesture almost undid him. He pushed away from the wall and took her by the hand, leading her into her bedroom. He unbuttoned his shirt by practiced feel alone, for his eyes as well as his thoughts were all on Marya. There was serious thinking to be done later about tomorrow, but that was tomorrow. Right now the only thing on his mind was easing the tension that had been building in his body all evening long. He threw his shirt to a nearby chair and beckoned Marya with his eyes. It wasn’t a compelling gaze—it didn’t have to be. She came to him of her own accord.
Her hands rode up and down his chest as he unzipped her top, warming him in places her fingers didn’t even reach. She helped him with her skirt, squirming out of the tight sheath like a snake shedding a skin. He helped her in turn with his trousers, but not much. Undoing his clothes was a skill he selfishly wanted her to perfect as much as possible on her own. There was so much he wanted to teach her . . .
He closed his eyes, chastising himself for his thoughts. He was assuming that he had time, as he had always had in the past, but it was now a luxury he might not possess for long. Time . . . the one thing the Undead take for granted more than anything else. He had always had it in abundance. Like too many rubles burning holes in his pockets, he had often squandered the hours of the day either in restless boredom or frivolous pursuits, but now that tomorrow hung so precariously, each moment seemed all the more precious.
Divested of their clothes at last, he pulled her to him, wanting to feel all of her body against his. And again, he pushed tomorrow away. He opened his senses to their fullest and moaned into her hair as the feel and sight and smell of her assailed him all at once. He pulled away long enough to step to the bed and stretch out on it. She was right beside him, her movements almost as quick as his.
He drank in her lustrous hair, flawless olive skin, and dark eyes. Especially her eyes. He saw desire—yes, a passion he had seen feeding many a woman’s gaze—but in Marya’s sable depths he also saw unfamiliar things. Vulnerability. Trust, something the vampire didn’t inspire. When was the last time anyone had trusted him? Revelin Scott, perhaps, at Fata Morgana and, of course, Adelle. Did Nikolena even trust him? He doubted it. How was it possible this girl trusted him after so short a time?
He kissed her long and deep, as if he could thusly draw an answer from her. But her warm, wet softness conveyed his mind and body further from rational thought, not closer. His hands played over her shoulders, arms and back, and her smooth skin and tender curves were chords to the song of heat and life that sang to him. When he cupped her breasts and felt her arch up to him, the bloodlust rose in him, hard and unrelenting.
“Talk to me, cherie.”
“Talk? About what?”
The surprise in her voice was no shock to him. Talk always seemed to be the last thing women expected from him. “It doesn’t matter. Just talk to me. Concentrating on the sound of your voice will help my control.” He wanted to make the moments with Marya last.
“The first time you made love to me I saw things. Pictures in my mind. Unfamiliar things that weren’t part of my past.”
“What kind of things, cherie?” He whispered the question in between kisses to her soft flesh.
She hesitated, and he didn’t know if it was because of the images she tried to remember, or because of what he was doing to her body.
“Some beautiful things. Wide rivers, rolling plains, deep forests, and tall buildings with golden domes rising above the trees. And art, beautiful art, with deep, dark colors, but very solemn and sad.”
“Icons.” He nestled his head between her breasts and tried not to think of all he had lost. “What else, cherie?”
He ran his hands down her back to her bottom, and she squirmed under him.
“Horrible things.”
He lifted his head and hands to her face, but she tried to turn away from him. “It’s all right, cherie, it’s all right.”
“No . . . there’s fire and blood and death all around . . .” She shook her head, but he knew she was battling the images, not him. He held her tight. “Shhh. It’s all in the past, far, far away. It can’t hurt you, cherie. No more talk now. There’s only pleasure now, no pain.” He turned her face back toward his and kissed her mouth, his fingers feeling the tears that crawled down her cheeks. His ploy for maintaining control had backfired. He wanted her more than ever. He gave up any further attempt at restraint and buried himself in her warmth, letting the sensations of sheer ecstasy banish all thoughts of loss and suffering. Her warmth and life enveloped him and nourished him, but it was more than mere sustenance. Her unique combination of human and vampire blood that he had once thought of as tainted now thrilled him with its intoxicating mix of innocence and perception.
She moaned against his cheek, and her fingernails dug into his back, but he felt no pain. The vampire, unbound, emerged and took his fill of all he could, save her blood. But everything else was his, and he took it—her energy, her sweetness, and her unspoiled youth. He drowned himself in her until he could take no more. With a final thrust, he took his release. She cried out and clutched at him, then slowly relaxed, her own tension liberated as well.
He sagged to the mattress next to her and held her, waiting for the beast to submerge once more, sated in all but blood. With the release of his body, his mind drifted, at peace, thinking no thoughts of yesterday or tomorrow, but merely sunning, like a creature at ease, in the warmth of now.
Her voice stirred him. “Those images I saw. How did you do that?”
He thought a moment, readjusting his mind. “Your heritage, I think. It gives you a measure of control against the vampire. You have the ability to resist bespelling, yet at the same time it gives you the gift, if you so choose, to be open to our thoughts. It was the reason Scott was able to possess your mind so readily, and also the reason I was able to inject a part of myself into your memory. Like it or not, cherie, you are open to us as few mortals are. You have had this gift your whole life, I suspect, hated though it may have been.”
He felt her head nod against his chest. “Yes. It was one of the reasons I was certain I’d be flagged for termination. It was a true shock that you gave me life. It still is.”
He smiled. “It was a shock to a grea
t many people, I fear.”
“It’s what started this whole thing, isn’t it? And you still have a price to pay for it, don’t you?”
“Yes. It’s far from over.” Thoughts of the next day were already seeping back into his mind. “By the way, what did my friend Philippe say to you that had you ready to do battle with him?”
She scooted up on the bed so that her eyes were level with his, and she propped herself up on an elbow. “He’s a prime example of why I’ve always hated your kind. He kept asking what I thought about you and what my feelings were. He also asked if I knew how you truly viewed me.”
He hoisted himself on an elbow as well. “And how did you answer him?”
She smiled, her mouth and eyes alike dancing with a wicked delight. “I lied.”
He laughed. “No more than what he deserved. What did you say to him?”
“I told him I hated all vampires, and that I was only pretending to go along with your fantasies out of self-preservation.”
His mirth faded. “A lie very close to the truth, I think, cherie.”
She looked at him steadily, her eyes not even blinking. “Once, maybe, not so long ago.”
He reached out a hand and smoothed a wayward strand of hair.
“Drago, tell me something. Why were you so mad at Philippe? When he first arrived, I mean.”
He fell back to the bed, drew a deep breath, and stared at the ceiling. “Because he brought Adelle into danger.”
“She said it was because Philippe disobeyed your order.”
He smiled, but it was a somber gesture. “Adelle knows me too well.”
“Something was all wrong tonight. I could feel it in the air.”
“Your perception is even more acute than Adelle’s.” He rolled to his side and looked at her. “Get some sleep, cherie. You’re tired, and I have much thinking to do.”
“I don’t want to go to sleep.”
It was late. He could see the weariness in her, and yet she fought to stay awake. For him. She knew, as well as he did, that this was their last night together. He told her the lie anyway.
“Rest then. I’m not going anywhere.”
The vampire could lie better than any mortal could.
Seventeen
MARYA FINALLY fell asleep in his arms. He looked at the bedside clock. Almost three in the morning. In less than twelve hours he would be meeting with Philippe. He would have to sleep, but first he would have to prepare his mind for the encounter.
He let his eyes drift shut. He was tired. It wasn’t just the exertions of the past couple weeks, damaging as they were. He was tired of the game. In days and years past he had only thought about winning and pleasing himself in the process. His confidence had perhaps been arrogance, but he had never considered losing. He had never thought about what he had lost when his life had been taken from him so long ago. He had never mourned his humanity or his soul, had never lamented living the half-life of the Undead. Until now.
Marya had described the images she had seen that had come from his memories. The icons. The memories would always be present, but that’s all they could be now. Memories. The reality was gone forever. It was the same way with the churches. They represented the antithesis of everything he was. The thought now of all he had truly lost hit him hard. For when he had passed through the mirror to the Other Side, he had left the essence of being Russian behind with his soul. In life, the icon had been an ever-present companion, the visualization of everything the Russian held most dear—compassion and love, the prevalence of justice, and the triumph of Good over Evil. But he was the Evil now, and all that the icons represented were gone forever to him.
But none of that was as important as what he could lose now—Marya, Adelle, his position in the Directorate, even his life, such as it was. The possibility of losing the game had never before been a consideration, but now it was the only thing on his mind. Maybe it was a sign he was getting too old to remain on top.
He looked down at Marya. She would not want him to give up, and he wouldn’t. He would fight whatever battle fate had in store for him, but for the first time in his life he would do it for someone other than himself, for something other than his pleasure.
He fell into sleep at last with his arms wrapped around the only future he cared about. A future that would last no more than twenty-four hours.
HE AWOKE TO find the lamp on and Marya sitting a few feet from him, a large sketch pad in hand.
“You moved,” she scolded with a smile.
He didn’t know what to make of it. No woman had ever tried to draw his portrait before. On the other hand, it was already past ten, and he could ill afford the luxury of a sitting now. “I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with what you already have, cherie. This promises to be a rather busy day.”
She tilted her head. “It’s all right. I’m almost done anyway.” She closed the pad. “I just wanted to see if I could capture something on paper before you woke.”
Now he was curious. “Capture what? And come, you cannot hide it away without showing me what you did.”
She shook her head. “No, it’s . . . it’s personal. Besides, I don’t know if I got it quite right.”
He smiled. “I’ll make you a deal. A kiss for a look.”
She smiled in return. “You play dirty. You get both—the kiss and the look.”
“I do what it takes. I’ll tell you what. If I live through today, you can draw all the pictures of me you wish. Do we have a deal?”
She sighed. “You always get your way, don’t you?”
He let his smile drop. “Not always. But today I hope I do. Come, cherie. It’s a fair deal. We both get what we want.” It was, in fact, a poor substitute for what he really wanted, but he had to take what he could get.
“Very well. Here.” She opened the pad and turned it so he could see.
It was just a vignette done in pencil showing his head and upper torso against the pillow, but the contrast of light and shadow was dramatic. More subtle was the juxtaposition of life and death she had somehow managed to capture in his features.
He looked at her, but her gaze was on the floor, and her cheeks were full of color. “It’s quite remarkable, cherie.”
She raised dark, gleaming eyes to his. “I was inspired. Come on. My turn.”
He reached over, took her hand, and pulled her to the bed. “I am yours.”
She leaned into him, and he parted his mouth for her. She caught his lower lip and sucked on it as though it were indeed a prize. “Mmm. Does that mean you’re offering more than a kiss?” she whispered at last.
It was tempting, and though he was willing to offer himself, time was not his to give. “I would like nothing better, but I can’t, cherie. Not now.”
She sat up straight on the bed. “So, what’s going to happen? You’re just going to meet with Philippe?”
“Umm. Something like that.”
Her lips pressed together in an acknowledgment of the vague answer, but she pursued in her quest for answers nevertheless. “Where?”
“I don’t know yet. Not here, certainly, and not in some hotel room.”
“What about Revelin’s office? Isn’t that what’s it for? Meetings like this?”
He stood and went to the windows, pulling back the curtains and opening the blinds. “Ordinarily, yes. But this is no ordinary meeting. I’m getting close to the truth now, and whoever wants me dead knows it. Unexpected company may show up, and I don’t want any mortals nearby who might interfere by calling the police or becoming hostage bait.” It had been a lesson he had learned the hard way many times in the past, and as recently as earlier this month in New Orleans when the death battle of two enforcers had encompassed a myriad of human complications.
“It sounds like you don’t trust Philippe.”
/> He turned to her. “Now, cherie. What did I tell you about trust?”
Her smile reached him from the bed, as warm and sunny as the light that spilled in through the windows. “I get it. But where else does that leave for a meeting place?”
He sat next to her again. “I will need your help with that. I’m going to shower and dress. While I do, think of a place for me—quiet and out of the way.”
She nodded. “And I’m coming along, right? You’re not leaving me here.” A note of harsh determination had crept into her voice, a reminder that she, like the sun, could be relentless.
He reached over and stroked one finger down the side of her face. He had already plotted this part of the plan. “No, I’m not leaving you here. But don’t think you’ll have any input or control over what happens. Revelin Scott will be keeping you safely away from the proceedings.”
She flicked her gaze up and down his body. “Interesting. You don’t trust Philippe, whom you’ve known for years, yet you trust Revelin after knowing him only a few days.”
That extraordinary perception again. “It’s not that I mistrust Philippe, but whoever wants me dead has had some connection to my office in order to so perfectly counterfeit my orders. As for Scott, he could have very easily left me to die at Fata Morgana. So, yes. I trust him.” He stood up. “Go now, cherie. I have to make a call and get ready. Think of a good meeting spot for me, will you?”
She rose, and he kissed her once more before she left. He picked up his phone and called Scott.
“Scott.”
“It’s Drago. Are you ready for more games, mon ami?”
“I am. Are you?”
Even if he wasn’t recuperated from the Arizona ordeal, he would never admit such to any vampire, even Scott. “I’m ready. Philippe Chenard is in town. I’ll be meeting with him this afternoon. I’m working on the exact location now. I want you there with me, mon ami. Philippe has brought my servant, Adelle, from Paris. I instructed him that our meeting was not to include her, but I’m sure he’ll disobey my orders. Marya will be there as well.”
Afterimage Page 26
