B00T3PMJTS EBOK

by Tracy Tappan

  His cell phone beeped. It was a message from Nurse Shaston. Pändra was back in her bedroom. Not even a Vârcolac could’ve recovered from major surgery that quickly, but such was the miracle healing power of Pändra’s ring. She still no doubt needed rest. He shouldn’t bother her. But as he started walking, a visceral, nearly violent, need to see her set his unsteady feet on a path directly for her door.

  He knocked softly on Budapest. A second later the door swung open, and he was met by the sight of his wife wearing a pair of deconstructed jean shorts and a blue tank top with thin pink stripes on it, her blonde hair caught back in a low pony tail.

  He nearly startled. Her face looked shockingly beautiful, without a hint that the middle of it had been concave a few short hours ago. But such was the healing power of Dr. Jess, who had mad skills in just about every discipline, including plastic surgery. ’Course the man had been studying medicine for nearly eighty years.

  Pändra gave him a blank stare.

  Before he could get something earthshattering out of his mouth like, “Hi,” she turned around and walked over to her bed, bracing her spine against the post and clasping her arms behind her back. A wave of heat flushed through him, most of it landing squarely in his cheeks. That was the position she took every time he came to feed—the position he’d demanded she take. Jesus, she was going to let him feed after everything she’d been through?

  “Please…” He stepped into her room. “Don’t. I just came to…I wanted to check on you, that’s all, see how you’re doing.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” Always answer a question with a question when stalling for time. He didn’t know what to say. Because I care, would sound unbelievable. He said it, anyway, and, yeah, Pändra’s eyebrows slanted.

  “Truly?” she asked. “All of a sudden, I’m your twinkle, am I?” She took a step away from the bedpost and tilted her head to one side, studying him as if he was a laboratory curiosity. “Nỵko told you about Jøsnic raping me, didn’t he?”

  What…? Thomal’s stomach jacked up into his chest to play bumper cars with his heart. Holy shit! What?!

  “His nibs can finally forgive me now that I’ve received a proper comeuppance for my sins, is that it?”

  The room spun away, disappearing into the eye of a twister. He groped behind him for some place to sit. Nausea exploded in the pit of his stomach. His legs stopped holding him up and he sat down abruptly on the carpet.

  Pändra gave him an astonished look.

  Her words made another round inside his head, resounding like a hard clapper against his ears. Black rage at what had been done to his woman surged through him with such force he was powering to his feet in the next blink and moving in a blur of speed for the door. “I’m going to kill him!” he gnashed through the points of his fangs, welcoming his anger, if not the reason for it. Fury was so much better than—

  “Thomal—stop.”

  Something in Pändra’s voice brought him up short. He turned back around, his breath hot inside his lungs.

  “You truly didn’t know about what Jøsnic did?” she asked quietly.

  “No,” he fairly growled. An animal rose inside him. If he wasn’t on his way to inflicting some extremely painful revenge on someone in about two seconds, this room was going to get annihilated. “And for the record, I would never wish rape on you as payback. I never wanted you dead, either, so that I could be free of you. I would’ve come after you in the Hell Tunnels, too, but I’m not a half-Rău, so I couldn’t.”

  She watched him for a long moment, more of that laboratory curiosity look, then sat on the edge of her mattress, hooking her insteps on the bedrail. Her bare feet somehow made her seem kind of vulnerable. Hard to believe her body had been crowded into a black leather slut suit earlier this evening. “I wasn’t raped,” she said. “Jøsnic was carting me off to do the deed when Nỵko arrived.”

  The admission jarred Thomal. Then her words sank in all the way. I wasn’t raped. He pressed the heels of his palms to his closed lids. He could barely think straight, but…but… Dropping his hands, he spoke around the thickness in his throat. “So you’re okay?”

  He heard her soft inhalation. “Oţărât wasn’t exactly tea with the fecking queen, but”—she shrugged—“more or less.”

  “I’m sorry.” That just fell out of his mouth, lamely and without the necessary elaboration; there was so much he was sorry for. But because this molehill actually was a mountain, he wasn’t sure how to begin to scale it.

  “Why the change in attitude toward me?” she asked.

  He ran a hand across his nape. Guess he was going to have to find a way. “I suppose this,” he said, pointing to his butterfly bandage. “Nỵko beat the pride out of me. Or maybe it was more like he was beating truth into me, making me acknowledge things I’ve known all along. About you.”

  She smoothed her palms down her thighs to her knees. “Like what?”

  “Like how hard you’ve worked to change. I should’ve given you props for it, Pändra, but I’ve been tangled up and not seeing things straight for a long time. I…I just couldn’t get past Arc’s hatred of you, and my own guilt. But I want you to know that I’ve put Arc out of my life for now so—”

  “No.” Her eyes flew to his face. “No, Thomal, I don’t want that. He’s your brother, and you love him dearly. The last thing I’d ever want is to come between you two.”

  “This isn’t entirely about you, Pändra—not at the core. It’s about me figuring out who I am outside of being Arc’s little brother. Until I get that squared away, I can’t redefine my relationship with him on the level it needs to be. If that makes sense.”

  She nodded, but her eyes were sad. “I still feel right gutted for being the one to upset that apple cart.”

  “Don’t.” He stepped further into her bedroom. “I’m coming to realize what a good thing it is…this stuff with Arc. It’s a son of a bitch to deal with, yeah, but…it’s necessary.” He exhaled. “Can we…? I’d like to move forward, Pändra. Put the past in the past. You’re my bonded mate, and I want to give our relationship a chance, if you’ll…” He shuffled his feet. “I don’t deserve a chance. I never gave you one. I’ve spent eight months blowing it, so I wouldn’t blame you if you refused to change things between us—kept it with me just coming to you for feedings and that’s it—but…” He swallowed, the tendons in his throat going taut. “I’m hoping you won’t.”

  She gazed into his eyes, so deeply that for a moment he saw the thin border of her pupils against the black of her irises. “I suppose that depends on if you can forgive me.”

  He twisted his mouth, probably his whole face, the idea was so stupid. “There’s nothing to forgive, Pändra.”

  She shook her head and began to speak.

  He cut in. “You didn’t rape me, okay? I volunteered for that mission.”

  “Thomal,” she chided softly.

  “All right, look, you were troubled at the time you did that stuff to me and Arc. I know that. But you’re not the same woman you were back then.” He shoved his hands into his jeans pockets. “Truth is, I didn’t come here to forgive you, but to ask you to forgive me.”

  She sat there in silence, her lips moving together and her hands rubbing her knees.

  He scraped his fingers inside his pockets, collecting lint under his nails.

  “Say, do you want to go out?” she asked him suddenly. “Neck a few pints at Garwald’s or something?”

  He paused, frowning internally, then his pulse bounced out of rhythm. She was asking him out on a date? He barely stopped himself from yelling, Hell, yes! “Are you sure you feel up to it?”

  Chapter Forty-one

  Garwald’s Pub was a bleeding wasteland.

  True, six hours ago the town of Ţărână had been under Om Rău siege, but shouldn’t the bar have been packed out because of that, all and sundry itching to get pie-eyed and forget the whole sordid hash? Just as well the place was deserted. Pändra didn’t fancy a cro
wd of folk gawking at the unprecedented of sight of her and Thomal out together, on a date, of all the blooming things.

  The whole situation seemed surreal.

  He seemed surreal, like a prince out of a fairy book or some such, the soft overhead lighting turning his hair to corn silk, the green in his shirt bringing out aquamarine highlights in his eyes, and the smile he kept aiming at her rather intimate. Even the wound on his face, now swollen angrily and heading from red to marbled black, worked for him, making him look more masculine.

  Thomal led her to an inconspicuous booth in the back, despite the lack of populace, and guided her into a seat. “Everyone’s gone to ground,” he told her as he slid into the side opposite. “The thing about Vârcolac, when threatened we fight like hell, but afterward we hole up with our loved ones. Males especially need to keep wives and kids in our line of sight, assure ourselves they’re all right.”

  “You’re a protective lot.” She smiled wryly. “I’ve noticed.”

  “Take your average, run-of-the-mill Vârcolac, and you’ve got a very protective guy. Remove all women from his life and his chance to procreate, then return the possibility of a family back to him in the form of extremely hard to find women, and his protectiveness shoots into the stratosphere.”

  Luvera arrived at their table with a friendly expression, nothing at all unusual about her, as if it was bog-standard to see Pändra and Thomal sitting together. No gawking from the bar mistress, at least. “I can’t believe someone actually showed up tonight,” she chuckled. “I was getting ready to close.”

  “Oh, hey, we don’t want to hold you up,” Thomal said in a conciliatory tone. “I know you’re probably tired.”

  Luvera was four months pregnant, an amazing turn of events, considering Ãlex—a non-Vârcolac who couldn’t scent his mate’s fertile time—had managed to get his wife—a Vârcolac female who only ovulated about twice a year—with child in under six months. Proud papa was certainly strutting his stuff around town over that accomplishment.

  “No, I’m fine,” Luvera said. “I’ve got some inventory to do, anyway.” She glanced between them. “Can we keep it simple, though? A couple of beers and pretzels, maybe?”

  “Brilliant for me,” Pändra said, even though a better decision probably would’ve been to abstain from alcohol altogether. Her Rău beastie was jiffling about inside her tonight, eager to come back out after being released earlier in Oţărât, then afterward, pumped up with enchanted surgery drugs and her nasty immortality ring. But, feck it, the day had been a ruddy pisser. She could let herself get half-cut, at least.

  “I’m cool with that, too,” Thomal said.

  “Great. I’ll be right back.” Luvera reached over and gave Pändra’s shoulder a soft squeeze. “Glad to see you’re fine, by the way.” She bustled off.

  “Okay, so are you ready?” Thomal asked, a mischievous glint entering his eyes.

  “Come again?” The playful expression on her husband’s face was nearly curling her toes. “Ready for what?”

  “We’re going to ask questions to get to know each other better.”

  “Are we now?” She cocked a single brow. “You mean like favorite food, favorite song, that sort of thing?”

  “No, that’d be boring. Things like, best childhood memory, worst date. Personal stuff.”

  “Personal? Gads, sounds like a mare.”

  “A what?”

  “That’s short for nightmare.”

  Thomal chuckled. “Come on. It’ll be good for us.”

  Soft music began to pour out of the bar’s speakers, a mellow song by some woman—Norah Jones, possibly.

  “You go first.” His chuckle settled into a smile that could’ve made angels weep. “Tell me a memory from your childhood, a good one.”

  “Well, lawks, there are so many to choose from.” She sighed, thinking back, then latched onto the first thing that popped into her mind. “I had a pony when we lived in England.” She perked up. That was a grand memory, right? Every kid wanted a pony.

  “Whoa, you lived in England?”

  She tossed him a sardonic look as she gestured to her mouth. “The accent?”

  “I just thought…” He shook his head. “Never mind. Where in England did you live?”

  “In a smashing mansion on the Sussex coast.” Sitting back in her booth, she traveled back in time and wandered the hallways of her childhood home, seeing the gleaming hardwood floors, exquisitely crafted furniture, flowered wallpaper, soaring mullioned windows with views of magnificent gardens and gentle green hills, long hallways with rows upon rows of doors…one door in particular. She halted before it. “Ah, here’s a memory.” In her imagination, the door loomed larger than life, like a portal Finn MacCool might use to come and go. “In that mansion, like in any other place we’ve ever lived, my father had a den, a room he kept all to himself, extremely private, entrance strictly forbidden. I was about eleven, pre-pubescent and full of my own invincibility, and I took a dare from my older brothers to sneak inside.”

  The sides of Thomal’s eyes crinkled with amusement. “Uh, oh.”

  “Mind, I didn’t get caught. I beetled it in and out, I was so scared.”

  Luvera swept by, dropping off two foaming beer steins and a basket of soft pretzel nuggets, then whisked off.

  “While I was inside,” Pändra went on, “I saw on the shelf behind my father’s desk a framed photograph of a toddler girl, sitting on a lawn and holding a red ball: Tonĩ—I knew it instantly. Only her. None of Raymond’s other children had the honor of making it into his precious man-lair.” Pändra took a sip of her beer, licking the foam from her upper lip. “It was then that I knew I wasn’t my father’s favorite, after all.”

  Thomal’s chin went down. “That’s your good memory? Seriously?”

  She picked up a pretzel nugget and nibbled on it. “Aye, it took all the pressure off, see. Right-o. My turn to ask. Best kiss?” The name Hadley appeared before Pändra’s eyes in fat balloon letters. Hadley was sweet and nice and affectionate. She would’ve been a great wife, a fantastic mother to my children. Pändra wanted to pop the letters. With a knife.

  “No way.” Thomal laughed again. “I’m not answering that. A gentleman doesn’t talk about other women with his wife.”

  “You’re a gentleman now, are you?”

  His lips slanted. “I have my moments.”

  She snorted. “I’ll let that one go for now. Here’s another. Most embarrassing memory?”

  “Ah, hell.” Thomal sat back, rolling his eyes. “Okay. When I was ten, my dad caught me in the bathroom trying to jack off, sweating bullets, my face all torqued up in pain.”

  “Jesus wept—ten?”

  “I know, I know.” He made a face. “Dad obviously thought he had a few more years before he needed to explain the Vârcolac dick blockage sitch-o to me. I got the lecture right then and there, of course.”

  “Cor blimey, did you even have pubes, yet?” She tossed the pretzel nugget into her mouth and licked the tips of her fingers.

  Thomal watched her closely. “Um…you know, I’m not saying. Back to me. How’d you get the scar on your belly?”

  Her hand froze in the act of reaching for another pretzel, her fingers twitching over the basket. Raymond sauntered toward her, the tap of his Gucci loafers pounding through her teeth. What a perishing disappointment you turned out to be, Pändra. She felt the slimy ribbons of her intestines snaking through her hands, and— Flushing, she set her palm back down on the table. “Pass.”

  “No passing.”

  “You passed on the kiss question.”

  “That was different.”

  “Bollocks.”

  “I didn’t want to offend you.”

  “Awww, I didn’t know I was so sensitive.”

  His eyes danced. “You are. Definitely. Now, c’mon. I’m trying to get to know you, right?”

  “By rooting about for a bad memory?”

  “Looking for both sides of your story is al
l.”

  “Aren’t you flaming generous.”

  “I am. Feel free to unload on me. Ease your burden.”

  She sniffed. “I’m not burdened, mate.”

  “Ah, ha. Then the story about your scar should be no big deal to tell.”

  She glanced down, the lure of Thomal’s teasing, handsome face filling her chest with an unexpected pressure: eight months’ worth of cobras squirming around to get out, no doubt. “Very well, you want a bad memory?” She raked her focus back up to him. “Here’s one: I was eleven, snuck into my father’s den on a dare, and found out that I wasn’t his favorite after all.” A fluttering tightness rolled up her throat.

  Thomal’s eyes darkened to cobalt, the gold around his pupils like rings of fire. “Sounds like a helluva day,” he said softly.

  She trembled with the sudden urge to wipe the tenderness off Thomal’s face with her fists. An expression like that could cultivate too much hope inside her chest, tempting her to let her cobras escape, to be free of them at long last. She’d be a prize idiot to do that. There wasn’t anything about this night, him, that she could trust. How many times had he barged into her bedroom, fed on her without a single word, then turned around and walked right back out? For crying out loud, a handful of hours ago, she’d been Dirty Pändra to him.

  She trembled again. Everything that writhed inside her, every emotion that hurt and injured and plunged her soul into defeat, ate through the spaces between her ribs and tore out of her. “You want more of the nasties?” she asked sharply, a snarl reverberating inside her head. “Here’s a stand-out memory: remember the time you told me you hated me for ruining your happily ever after with Hadley? How about that one?” she spat.

  He startled, a muscle in his cheek twitching.

  “I know I deserved your anger and hatred at the time, Thomal. But now here you are, asking me to dive headlong into intimacy with you, spill my guts, when I know I’ll always be your second choice. How can you even—?”