by Roh Morgon
Lieutenant?
“How… how did you…?”
“Nicolas was the captain of my unit. When his personal assistant was killed in a skirmish with the rebels, he needed someone with an aptitude for maps. I volunteered.”
“The rebels?”
“Lee’s forces. In the War Between the States.”
The Civil War. That was the 1860s. Nearly a hundred and fifty years ago.
“You’re saying that Nicolas fought in the Civil War. I… I didn’t think he was that involved in human affairs.”
“Nicolas abhors slavery of any kind, no matter who the master. He not only led Union troops, he ran sabotage operations behind the lines.”
“Did you know what he was?” I ask, trying to picture Nicolas on a human battlefield, surrounded by gunsmoke, bodies, and blood.
Colin frowns.
“Of course not. Though he had a habit of going for long walks during the night, and preferred to dine alone, I had no idea there was anything unusual about him. That is, until I was shot and lying on my deathbed. When he offered me the Choice, my only thought was getting well so I could continue to serve my captain and my country. I had no concept of how my life would change.”
A hundred and fifty years. Because of my familiarity with him, and that era of American history, Colin’s story resonates with me far more than Alina’s did.
“I can’t imagine knowing someone that long.”
Chuckling, Colin shakes his head.
“I tend to forget how young you are sometimes. With your ability to move about during the day, and the remarkable control you maintain around humans, one could easily believe you’re two to three hundred years old.”
Colin has never met with me before dusk. That someone of his age and demeanor, let alone his experience, still cannot rise until after sunset seems very odd to me.
“So what is it you do for him that requires you to not be a member of his lineage?”
He smiles.
“Let’s just say I keep an eye on things. Unbound are a little more difficult to track than those who belong to a lineage.”
It all fits together now. Our clandestine meetings with Alina, my interrogation, his knowledge of European geography and impressive fighting skills, the quiet existence he leads in the human suburbs.
Though I’d had suspicions, I wasn’t sure. Until now.
He’s Nicolas’s spy.
Alina called him The Chameleon.
With his nondescript appearance and bland mannerisms, I can see how he could lull anyone into not giving him a second glance. Yet his sharp intelligence and observation skills surpass anyone’s I’ve ever met, with the possible exception of Nicolas himself.
Looking at Colin with newfound respect, I nod.
“Well, it’s been a long evening.” He picks up the bottle, uncorks it, and tops off his glass. “Thank you for spending it with us, even though I know it was difficult. You made Jeanette happy—this is our first Christmas together as husband and wife, and our first in the States. She’s quite anxious to integrate into what she perceives as American life, and I do everything I can to enable that for her.”
“She knows what you are, right?”
“Of course. But I prefer to keep Chosen life as far from her as possible. Other than Nicolas, you’re the only one of our kind she’s met.”
“You told her about me?”
“Yes.”
“Why? Why risk me knowing about her?”
He stands, holding his glass.
“Someday she may be ready to face the Choice. I want her to know that I’m not an exception to the legends, that our kind can exist peaceably among humans. You’re a good example of a woman who’s successfully made the transition.”
I laugh.
Right. He should’ve brought her the night I woke up in the barn and ripped an entire herd of goats to pieces.
“You want this life for her?”
“I want whatever will make her happy. And whether she chooses to spend her life with me as a mortal or as an immortal is up to her. But it will be her Choice, not mine.”
That’s what Nicolas said to me. But he continually manipulated me to make the Choice he wanted. I wonder if that’s what Colin is doing to Jeanette.
“I’m going to leave the bottle for you to enjoy in privacy. Please stay as long as you like. There’s a spare bedroom down the hall should you wish to spend the day. But first—” Colin gestures with his glass. “I’d like to propose a toast.”
Picking up my own, I stand.
“To the success of your journey.” He raises his glass.
I touch mine to his and nod.
“To Nicolas,” he adds.
“To Nicolas.” I whisper.
“And a toast that he and I always shared.” Colin’s eyes redden as he raises his glass once again. “To the Blood.”
Raising mine in a newfound understanding, I join him.
“To the Blood.”
And with a final nod to me, he leaves the room.
It’s been several hours since Colin went upstairs.
The bottle still sits before me, still corked. The wine in the glass is as he poured it.
Every so often, I pick up the glass and inhale its alluring aroma. Several times I’ve touched the edge to my lips, then lowered it, the wine untasted.
Weary of my indecision, I open the bottle and pour the contents of the glass back inside, then recork it. I grab a pen and a pad of paper from Colin’s desk, scribble a short thank you to him and Jeanette, and leave it next to the glass.
I stare at the bottle a moment, then tuck it beneath my arm, retrieve Jeanette’s present, and head home.
The sun is still an hour away from making its appearance when I arrive. I swing by the kitchen for a glass on my way to the bedroom.
The white, fluffy down comforter and pillows are a stark reminder of my nights at Nicolas’s estate. Though I’d splurged on them for the remembered comfort of those in his guest bedroom, tonight they take me back to my time there and all that took place.
Filling the glass with wine, I look at the bed, as pristine as newly fallen snow.
Screw that. I have a feeling this going to be messy.
I strip and head for the shower.
The water is steaming hot when I step in, glass and bottle in hand. I set the bottle on the shower shelf, move to the edge of the spray, and raise the glass.
Like it did at Colin’s, the darker blood drifts and swirls through the ruby-colored wine as though it’s a separate entity, almost as if it were alive.
Bringing the glass closer, I once again breathe in Nicolas’s scent, savoring every molecule, and then, pressing the glass to my mouth, tip it up ever so slightly.
Vibrant liquid softly splashes against my lips, like fine silk sliding across my skin. I recall the first time his lips touched mine, and the fiery promise they held. I treasure the wine’s caress a moment longer, then give way and allow it to enter.
The taste of him is almost more than I can bear. But worse is the feel of his blood as its fire dances across my tongue.
Steam fills the shower as aching memories of the first time Nicolas offered himself to me explode in my head, triggering the bloodtears the same as it did that night. I set the glass aside and, hugging myself, hold the wine in my mouth as I remember him slashing his upper arm, and me taking hold of him as he took hold of me, and the combined ecstasies as our blood became one.
The water beneath me turns pink as crimson tears stream down the drain. I finally give in to the craving within my body and swallow.
His blood etches its way down my throat, leaving an acid trail of desire in its wake. Its tendrils are entering my veins when I take another swallow.
Passion’s hunger ignites within me.
Oh God. I miss him so much…
Draining the glass, I hurl it to the shower floor. It shatters into a thousand pieces against the tile as I grab the bottle and yank out the cork.
His es
sence electrifies my whole body as it knifes through every cell, tantalizing me with forgotten sensations and ghostly raptures. The bottle pours its precious gift down my throat and I swallow and swallow.
But all it really gives me is Nicolas’s blood. None of his heat, his need, his love. Though it carries his vibration, it lacks his emotions and his body’s intimate caress.
My knees give way beneath the crush of sorrow, and clutching the bottle, I slowly sink to the glass-covered tile, icy pink water running over my breasts and unfulfilled hunger coursing through my veins.
Why? Why did I ever leave him?
Embraced only by the stinging cold shower, I bleed the bottle dry as the sun’s dark touch bleeds away the memories, and the longing and, finally, the bitter taste of soul-crushing regret.
THURSDAY
CHAPTER 78
I stare at the open suitcase stuffed to the brim with my belongings. Today is the fourteenth of February—Valentine’s Day—and I wonder if it will be my last one alone.
Tomorrow I leave for Europe to find Nicolas.
Only two things remain to be packed.
One is my passport, which will go into my jacket pocket, along with my current ID.
The other is the small wooden box, with the miniature antler flute necklace and its hidden treasure—and Taz’s ring, its shank bent and useless, the victim of my rage at his betrayal.
Since Christmas night when I woke up beneath an ice-cold shower, an empty wine bottle as my sole physical remnant of Nicolas clasped to my breast, I’ve thought several times that I should just throw Taz’s blood away. Though Colin may gain some benefit from an occasional reminder of Nicolas, it did nothing for me except re-awaken my remorse and deepen my loneliness.
I never want to experience anything like that again.
But I can’t quite bring myself to dispose of the wooden box, in spite of Taz’s duplicity. Something within me clings to it, to some reminder of another possible future. Frustrated with my indecision, I shove the box into my carry-on bag, next to the satin pouch containing Nicolas’s bracelet, and tug the zipper into place.
After closing up the suitcase, I grab the heavy postal tape to seal up the box I’m leaving with Colin. Inside it are a few unnecessary clothing items and some personal odds and ends, like my bear claw collection. Beside it is the dagger Taz gave me. It won’t pass through a security check, so I’m reluctantly leaving it behind, along with my .357 and ammo.
Colin thought the gun was quite amusing when I showed it to him—until I explained how I’d planned to use it against Éva. His expression grew thoughtful enough that it made me wonder if my plan would’ve actually worked.
The last thing I see as I close up the box is the little purple stuffed dragon whose twin is buried on a mountainside with the precious girl who made me whole.
Sandy. I don’t think about her very often, yet whenever I do, I can hear her final whispered, “I love you,” and it makes me want to be worthy of the admiration she had for me.
Thankfully she doesn’t haunt me the way I feared she would. Chosen life would be that much more horrid if we were all haunted by the stolen souls of those we’d killed.
A glance at the clock reveals it’s time to go—Alina wants to meet with me before I fly out. I grab my keys and the directions and head out to my car.
As I turn onto Highway 12 for Napa, it begins to rain, and I think back over the last three months. Just when I’d thought Colin had taught me everything I’d need to survive on my own, it turns out he still had a few tricks up his sleeve.
Including the carbon-fiber throwing knives that are now hidden up my own sleeve. He said they were far superior to the dagger, though I’m not sure about that. They work well enough, but lack that satisfying thunk of the metal blade. However, they will pass through security. The decorative carbon-fiber strips on my new jacket he’d had made offer the perfect decoy for the little knives, which are secreted within its hidden panels.
But the best trick revealed how Colin had earned his nickname, The Chameleon. Nicolas had taught it to him, and Colin said that in all of his years slipping through Chosen social circles, he’d never encountered another who could successfully pull it off.
Their secret weapon, and the key to their survival of many years among enemies, is the ability to mask their auras, the primary way Chosen identify one another and their lineages of origin. Though only able to mask for short periods of time, Colin credited the technique with saving his life on several occasions.
And when Colin passed the technique on to me, the reason behind my months of meditation practice became crystal clear. The exercises weren’t just about learning how to manage my emotions and physical reactions, but were really preparation for suppressing the mechanism that emits my aura—that personal stamp which advertises my lack of lineage connection and level of Chosen maturity.
Colin was surprised at how quickly I picked it up. He speculated that my aptitude was due to Nicolas’s blood influence on my half-Chosen state when we were together. That because Nicolas and I had shared so often and so deeply, nearly to the point of bonding several times, his potent essence was now tightly interwoven with my own.
Not to mention the impact of the night when Nicolas came close to killing me. Though I’d heaved up all of his blood I’d just taken in, the weeks of sharing left enough embedded within my system that it nearly usurped that of my unnamed Maker.
Nicolas almost re-Made me that night. He almost became my new Maker, which would have ruined any chance for us to have an equitable relationship. I would have forever been subject to his wishes, with no will of my own.
That was unacceptable to either of us.
Yet, I now wonder if the craving I feel for him is more than that for a lost mate. That my body is mourning the absence of its almost-Maker as well, and what drives me is a need to reconnect with both lover and lineage.
Is it possible that, despite my efforts to maintain my independence, Nicolas stole it anyway? That I’m bound to him in more ways than one?
The thought disturbs me beyond all reason.
I fight back the flash of rage surging through me. Whether or not it was his intention, the idea that he might control me even after our lengthy separation has rekindled the doubts that continually plagued me while we were together, and ultimately drove us apart.
But they make no difference. I have to find him. Not just for Colin and Alina and the lineage, but for myself.
Now that I’m completely Chosen, and have learned how to survive among others of my kind, I need to know if what we had is still possible.
And if I still truly want it.
I’m deep within vineyard country and the rain has faded to a light mist when I pull up to a white wrought-iron gate. A fence-mounted camera whirs to life when I press the call button, and after several seconds, the gate swings open. Rows of dormant grapes frame the wet driveway, their leafless canes tied neatly to the trellis wires as all await the first bloom of the approaching spring.
Lights up ahead indicate I’m nearing the house. As the sprawling, Spanish-style mansion comes into view, my suspicions are confirmed.
This is the house where Colin took the photographs of Taz and Alina.
But fortunately, the motorcycle is nowhere to be seen. Blocking the unwanted thoughts spurred by the months-old memories of those pictures, I park and get out.
The house is two stories in white stucco with a red-tiled roof. Traditional mission-style arches grace the front, centering on a pair of heavy, dark-stained oak doors carved with trailing vines and clusters of grapes. Lush foliage drips rainwater from hanging pots and flower beds lining the brick walkways.
Anxious to practice my new-found aura-cloaking skill on someone who knows me besides Colin, I do a quick internal check as I walk up to the entrance, then knock.
The door is opened by an attractive Hispanic woman in her late forties, her shoulder-length dark hair offset by a teal blue sweater and black slacks. She smiles and s
teps back.
She’s human. The scent of the blood within her veins reaches me, and beneath it is Alina’s. As with Jeanette, I feel no reaction to it.
She must be one of the donors of whom Alina spoke.
“Miss Martin? Please, come in.”
The sound of trickling water from an Old World fountain greets me as my boot heels ring out against mahogany-colored ceramic tile. The fountain occupies the center of a high-ceilinged entryway, its white walls along the floor lined with large greenery-filled clay pots. A massive, black wrought-iron chandelier above sheds muted light from candle-flame-shaped bulbs. Arched doorways on either side admit glimpses of an elegant dining room and what appears to be a formal sitting area.
A huge portrait, painted in rich oils and mounted within an ornate gold-leaf frame, covers the wall at the end of the entryway. The subject, an aristocratic young noblewoman crowned with snowy lace in her Spanish-colonial wedding dress, is posed sitting against a waterfall of bougainvillea, its paperlike flowers in fuchsia, salmon, and pale coral. Petite hands resting in her lap, her violet eyes carry a spark of mischief above a delicate nose and lips curved into a knowing smile.
Alina made a beautiful bride, and I wonder how long ago the painting was done, and who her husband is. Or was.
“Isn’t that a stunning portrait?” The woman turns to me, the flush of embarrassment spreading up her face. “I’m sorry. My name is Reina. I should’ve introduced myself when I answered the door.”
“No problem. You can call me Sunny.” I smile to put her at ease.
“We’re in the parlor. If you’d like to come this way…” Reina gestures and I follow her lead through the archway.
Rather than the bright shades usually associated with Spanish mission décor, the muted tones in this room better reflect Alina’s introspective nature. My boots sink into plush carpet the color of fresh milk, and floral patterns in pale blue, dove grey, and touches of soft taupe cover the sofas, chairs, and draperies. Potted plants dot shelves and small tables, and on the far wall, flames flicker and curl within a stately white brick fireplace, adding to the warmth and serenity of the room.
