by Aja James
But when the warrior looked into his dark, bleak eyes, he felt strangely as if he were looking into a mirror.
And there it was. After thousands of years of existence. That infinitesimal connection to another being.
A connection the shadow warrior didn’t understand, but one that would change him forever.
Chapter Thirteen
“You’re back,” the Creature greeted as it ushered its visitor into the sound-proofed, windowless chamber, its own private domain, behind the all-hours dance club.
“That is obvious,” she replied and made herself comfortable on its gigantic bed, the only piece of furniture in the room.
It eyed her carefully, trying to gage her mood, but as usual, she revealed nothing, simply regarding him closely in return.
“I received word of your fruitful excursion,” it said silkily, its haunting voice carried like a distant echo by the darkness between them.
Its chambers were usually pitch black, but it had no trouble seeing in the dark, unlike its occasional human visitors who never knew what hit them.
Or bit them, as the case might be.
Tonight, it left a single candle flickering by the head of its bed, illuminating enough of the surrounding area for the female to see the Creature’s glowing red eyes.
Hmm, it needed to feed.
She inclined her head humbly, as if capturing the white knight and successfully ensuring the exchange of goods and intel between Antonov and the Chinese were no big deal. All in a day’s work for such a skilled strategist and manipulator as she.
“Where is the Mistress keeping her magnificent new piece?” it asked, idly curious.
“Close at hand,” she replied, which wasn’t really a reply at all.
“No trouble with the induction, I take it?”
“The Mistress has perfected her technique since the Sentinel. She doesn’t need to turn them into vampires any more,” the female said, noticing the ongoing game of chess on its board by the foot of the bed.
She scooted closer to the chessboard and picked up one of the knights on the sidelines that had been removed from the game.
It watched in fascination as her usual self-possession cracked a little, her lips turning down at the corners as she gently rubbed the face of the discarded knight with her thumb.
Not for the first time, it wondered why she was allying herself with the Mistress and those under the Mistress’s command. She proved herself useful on many occasions, and she was ruthless when she needed to be. But it wondered whether she was ever bothered by remorse or regret.
She was a Pure One, after all. Weren’t they made to be goody two-shoes? Weren’t they inherently incapable of the blackest evils, though they might stray into darkness once in a while?
She set the knight back on the sidelines, picked up the white knight on the chessboard that had been cornered by a black pawn, and replaced it with another black pawn.
As she looked down at her handiwork, she asked without raising her eyes to the Creature, “Why did you choose to sideline the Paladin in particular? He is not the strongest of the Elite warriors. Both the Protector and the Valiant are tougher fighters in different ways. If you take the Protector, his Mate would be much weaker and wouldn’t be able to heal others as effectively, which would create a domino effect within the Pure warriors and their human Chevaliers.”
The Creature’s eyes glinted with appreciation. He loved a fellow chess player. The Mistress was a master at scheming and maneuvering, but she never discussed or shared her strategies. It had to guess at the moves she’d make, and occasionally, it guessed wrong.
The Pure female was also an avid player. It sensed that she enjoyed the game as much as it did. It was beginning to feel an affinity with her that went beyond the blood she provided it.
“We made an attempt on the Protector before, remember?” it reminded her, though it was certain she remembered perfectly well.
This was not the first time she brought this up. She seemed determined to get the Protector out of the way. It would have to file away this tidbit for later consideration.
“He survived,” it continued. “As to the domino effect, given that the Healer has lost her Gift, weakening her now would not have the same impact as before. And while capturing the Valiant would certainly be a coup, his conversion would not unbalance the Royal Zodiac as much as the Paladin’s betrayal, take my word for it.”
She looked up at it, her gaze assessing and shrewd.
“You know something about the Paladin. What is it?”
A wicked smile spread its full, red lips.
“What would be the fun in telling you?” it taunted. “However, if you would like to share your own tale of how you came to befriend the Mistress, I’m all ears. Perhaps I shall even reveal a secret of my own in return.”
She sighed, as if disappointed in its tit-for-tat.
“I am but a lowly pawn,” she replied. “I have nothing noteworthy to share. We are all pawns in the end. Even the Mistress.”
The Creature regarded her intently, trying to make sense of her words. The Mistress was the ultimate chess master. How could she be a pawn?
“The shadows are awaiting orders at the facility, per your request, and Antonov has been dispatched to other ventures that need our attention,” she informed it.
“These are the last of the shadow assassins, I take it?”
She cocked her head assessingly.
“What happened to the ones that were stationed with you?”
“Lost, I’m afraid,” it answered with real disappointment. Well-trained vampire shadow warriors were hard to come by. Practically extinct.
She waited several beats. Then, “You’re not going to tell me how you managed to ‘lose’ three powerful assassins?”
It shrugged. Unless the Mistress herself questioned it specifically about this, it wasn’t going to share any more information than absolutely necessary with anyone else.
It might not even share Lord Wind’s betrayal with the Mistress. Ignorance was bliss, after all. And for the Creature, knowledge was power.
The Pure One considered it a few moments more before letting out a small sigh.
“Come here and take your fill of my blood, beautiful creature,” she beckoned with her hand. “I have appointments to attend to in the morning.”
It approached her slowly, its smile widening.
“Any particular form you’d like me to take while I penetrate your vein?”
She slid her eyes subtly to the discarded knight she’d first picked up.
“Of course,” it said, and transformed into the male she’d once desired.
The same one she’d poisoned and sent to his death.
*** *** *** ***
The social worker arrived promptly at eleven in the morning.
Clara had almost woken up too late to prepare the apartment properly, so bonelessly replete she’d been from Eli’s love-making last night.
Just thinking about it made her insides liquefy into molten lava, her knees threatening to buckle with renewed lust.
Somehow, with Annie’s help, she managed to tidy up the loft above her art studio until the floors and furniture were sparkling clean, and welcomed their guest upstairs with perfectly good manners, though her cheeks were still flushed with residual arousal.
“Well, I don’t foresee any issues with your adoption process,” the social worker, Mrs. Lorena Gonzalez, said, after they’d gone over the requisite questions.
“It’s very clear that you and Annie adore each other, and this is a lovely home environment. I can see you’re making efforts to increase your income to better support your dependent. Annie’s admission into the Gifted Academy is a great boon.”
Mrs. Gonzalez looked down at her notes and nodded her head as she went.
“Just one thing to keep in mind—” she said when she looked back at Clara again.
But she didn’t finish her train of thought, distracted by a drawing Annie was making, kneel
ing at the coffee table, as the two adults talked.
“Who is that you’re drawing, Annie?” Mrs. Gonzalez asked, pointing to a tall figure with long black hair.
“He’s a friend of mine,” Clara answered for her.
Mrs. Gonzalez looked back at Clara with keenly perceptive eyes, having noticed the slight hesitation in her voice.
“Just a friend?”
Clara lowered her gaze shyly, but couldn’t hide her smile.
“More than a friend,” she admitted.
“Does he live with you?”
At Clara’s nod of confirmation, the social worker asked, “May I meet him?”
“He’s still sleeping,” Clara answered, and tried to come up with a reasonable explanation why someone would still be sleeping at almost noon. “He’s had a long night.”
“What does he do?”
It dawned on Clara what Mrs. Gonzalez was getting at.
“Does my personal life pertain to this evaluation?” she asked carefully. “I’m the one adopting Annie, just me.”
Mrs. Gonzalez smiled kindly. “Don’t be so guarded, Ms. Scott. I am not making any judgments about your personal life. Based on everything I’ve seen, you are well suited to adopt Annie. But for both your sakes, I have to tell you that based on my three decades of being a social worker, handling hundreds if not thousands of these cases, the best environment to raise a child or children, besides being stable, secure and loving, is one in which there are two parents. Not necessarily a man and a woman in the traditional sense, but partners who complement and reinforce each other.”
She put her hand reassuringly on Clara’s.
“The child gets double the love, different perspectives that will be helpful to their growth, and each parent has the support of the other. It’s an all-consuming responsibility to be a parent; it takes a lot of work and dedication. I know you well enough by now, Ms. Scott, to know that you’re not the type of woman who would ever jeopardize yours and Annie’s well-being with bad relationships. That’s not why I was asking those questions. I was simply hopeful that you might not have to raise Annie alone. Is this friend of yours very special?”
Clara saw the sincerity in the social worker’s eyes and relaxed.
“Yes,” she answered with fervent honesty. “He’s very, very special.”
Mrs. Gonzalez smiled, crinkling her eyes.
“Then, I’ll look forward to meeting him one of these days.”
After the social worker left, Clara and Annie had a light lunch, and Clara prepared for her early afternoon class while Annie studied the materials the Academy had provided so that she could be well prepared for her first day of school the next Monday.
Eli finally emerged from their shared nook by late afternoon.
“That shirt really suits you,” Clara greeted with a grin, and Annie smiled too, showing her two front teeth with a slight gap in the middle and giving him two thumbs up.
He was wearing the shirt that said “I’m great in bed (I can sleep for days)” with the long black trousers Clara bought him.
His lips twitched in an unfamiliar spasm, as if they were trying to spread and curve upwards. They easily quirked in ironic, mocking and derisive slants, but smiling was a foreign facial expression.
Even more foreign was the emotion behind the almost-smile—happiness.
Clara walked over to him, wound her arms around his waist and gave him a solid five-second worth of a hug. Then, she kissed him lingeringly on the mouth, her grin still spreading her lips.
“Don’t worry, I know the truth,” she whispered in his ear. “Sleeping is not the only thing you’re spectacular at in bed.”
Eli met her smoldering gaze as she surreptitiously squeezed his ass before moving away again.
Annie cocked her head at the two of them and heaved a put-upon sigh. Enough with the mushy stuff, her look seemed to say.
Clara sat back in her chair next to Annie as they folded laundry from a white plastic basket, stacking shirts, dresses, pants and undies in four separate piles on the long coffee table that also doubled as a chest of drawers for magazines and knick knacks.
“You woke up earlier than I thought,” Clara said as she folded. “We still have a few hours of daylight left.”
“I’ve rested enough,” he replied, commandeering a stool at the breakfast table, watching the girls work.
He’d volunteer to help, but he suspected he’d be more hindrance, given that laundry folding was a skill he was absolutely certain had never been part of his repertoire.
And it was true about the quality of rest he’d had. He should have been at best sluggish while the sun was still up, but he felt more energized than he remembered ever feeling before. He’d taken Clara’s blood twice before last night, but her blood hadn’t given him this incredible strength and sense of wellbeing before.
What had changed?
“Annie and I thought the three of us could go out on the town today,” Clara proposed, looking up at him.
“We can go to Central Park Zoo, the Battery, have dinner in Chinatown or Korea Town, watch a movie after…what do you feel like, Eli?”
Since he didn’t recall doing any of these things before, he was open to everything. As long as he spent the time with Clara and Annie, it was time well spent.
“What is it?” he asked when he caught Clara staring unblinkingly at him.
She slowly shook her head with a bemused smile.
“I’m still getting used to your hair, or lack thereof. You look so different.”
He smoothed a hand self-consciously across his buzzed scalp. The stylist at the hair salon where he’d sold his mane had tried to convince him not to cut it, while at the same time salivating over his long hair like it was Jason’s Golden Fleece.
“Is that a bad thing?”
“Oh no,” she quickly hastened to assure him. “You’re beautiful whatever you do to your hair, whatever you wear. It’s just that you look harder like this, yet more vulnerable at the same time. You were so cool and unknowable before. So distant and contained. Now…”
“Yes?” he prompted her.
“Now, you look real.”
He felt real. He felt as if he was finally present.
Finally alive.
He was also more vulnerable, uncomfortably so. Because, for the first time, he had something to lose.
For the first time, he cared.
And it scared the shit out of him.
Fear. Yet another emotion he didn’t recall feeling before.
“Annie, why don’t you show Eli what you’ve been working on this morning,” Clara nudged, gesturing to the giant new sketch pad leaning against the desk.
With an eager bounce, Annie hopped up and carefully carried the thick pad to Eli. He gave Annie a questioning look and flipped the cover page when she nodded.
A vibrant, colorful pastel drawing greeted him, depicting what looked remarkably like Central Park with the Gothic Bridge front and center. On top of the bridge were three stick figures holding hands, one with red waves, one with orange curls and one with long black hair. They were all smiling with their eyes and mouths, and their joy was so vicarious that Eli found his eyes and mouth mimicking the happy faces before he realized what he was doing.
He started when Annie touched a finger to the corner of his lips, as if she were saying, see, you know how to smile, Eli. I like your smile.
“Pretty,” he said simply, gesturing to the drawing, his voice husky with yet another uncomfortable emotion.
“You gave me hair,” he noted, glancing at Annie.
The girl looked forlornly with rounded eyes at his scalp, shadowed with black roots, clearly lamenting the loss of his mane.
“It will grow back,” he assured her, and her gaze turned more wistful.
“The drawing is her gift to you,” Clara said from her chair, finishing up the last of the laundry. “She worked on it diligently all morning.”
Something shifted and clenched inside Eli’s ch
est. He lowered his eyes to the drawing, hiding his expression.
“Thank you,” he uttered softly.
Aglow with pleasure from giving her gift, Annie happily skipped back to Clara and pushed the basket with the folded laundry to their shared standing closet and chest of drawers to put the clothes away in the right place.
Clara had realized very quickly from her time living with Annie that the girl was a task master and perfectionist. She liked to put everything in order. Good thing, too, because Clara was on the other end of that spectrum.
Far, far on the other end. She’d had to learn the hard way to do the bare minimum of planning and organizing for school and then when she set up her own studio.
Clara came to the kitchen area to unload the small dishwasher, as Eli flipped another page in the sketch pad to give himself something to do while he wrestled with the strange feelings swirling inside of him.
He felt disoriented, discombobulated. As if his soul had switched places with another man, and he was living someone else’s life.
How he wished he’d never have to switch back.
A few blank pages in, he flipped to another drawing, this one in black charcoal, sophisticated and three-dimensional, so real, the sketch seemed to elevate from the page.
It was a drawing of him. Naked in bed on his side, one arm beneath his head, the other folded in front of his chest, the sheet tangled around his calves.
He flipped to the next page. Another one of him. This time lying partially on his stomach, his head turned to the side, the muscles of his shoulders, back and buttocks starkly and lovingly defined. He could almost feel the artist’s hand roving down his skin, her thumb smudging areas to shade them in, adding shadows and hollows as she went.
The next one was him too. On his back with one hand draped over his taut belly, one arm flung over his eyes. The focus of the drawing was his semi-erect sex, long and thick but not completely hard, resting sated against his thigh, yet throbbing for the touch of a lover’s hands, for the clench of her tight, silken heat.
Yes, throbbing. Veritably pulsing on the page. Making the real organ swell with vicarious desire, until he was painfully hard, his sex tenting the front of his trousers.
