Darkness Dawns (14 page)

“Do
you
drink from humans?” The idea of him sucking on some other woman’s neck was disturbing.

Which was not to say she wanted him to suck on
her
neck. Although …

Wait. What was she saying?

“Until the last century and the advent of blood banks, we had little choice. But we never killed those we fed upon and were always careful not to weaken them too much.” He paused and seemed to think a moment. “Actually that’s not true. As much as I wish to avoid frightening you, I want to be honest. We were always careful not to kill or weaken the
innocents
we fed upon. Pedophiles, rapists, and murders, however, were often not treated as kindly.”

In other words, they were killed.

Well, she didn’t have a problem with that. Sarah had always had a rather biblical sense of justice. “But … how
does that work? I mean, don’t they … didn’t they tell people about you?”

“No. When our fangs descend, the glands that formed above them during our transformation release a chemical much like GHB under the pressure of a bite, so those we feed upon are left with no memory of it.”

That was pretty slick. “And you don’t drink from humans anymore?”

“Only when we’re desperate. We own a chain of blood banks, to which our Seconds and their families routinely donate, and receive our sustenance in the form of bagged blood now.”

“Is there no cure for the virus?”

“No cure.”

Something in his voice suggested he would’ve taken it if there were.

“What about antivirals? They’ve been making strides with antivirals lately.”

He shook his head. “We’ve tried them. They have no effect on us at all, in part because this virus behaves like no other on the planet. And testing antivirals is dangerous. Some of our scientists believe that if one did prove successful and kill the virus, we would die along with it because the virus essentially replaces our immune system.”

“That’s a hell of a catch-22,” Sarah said. “Remove the virus and you’ll be left with no immune system.”

“Yes.”

“How long do vampires live, then?”

“They rarely live a century. Either we kill them, they grow careless in their madness and accidentally destroy themselves, or they kill each other in blind rages and territorial battles.”

A century of madness and killing. That was messed up.

“And immortals? How long do immortals live?”

“We don’t age, so … indefinitely as long as no one
decapitates us, burns us until we’re reduced to ash, or stakes us out for the sun.”

The image of him staked to the ground in the meadow flashed through her mind and shook her anew. “You really could have died this morning.”

“Yes.” He met her gaze intently. “And I must thank you again for saving my life, Sarah.”

She nodded. “I’m just glad I was there to help.”

Roland finished removing the glass from Sarah’s palm and moved on to her wrist and forearm.

“Why does the virus affect you differently?” she asked curiously.

“Until recently we could only speculate. Like other immortals, I was different as a human, before my transformation, but didn’t know why. Back in the day, as they say, we were called
gifted ones:
men and women who were born with special talents we hid more often than not in order to avoid being accused of witchcraft and drowned or burned or stoned to death.”

He was both pleased with and wary of how well she was taking all of this. His explanation seemed to fascinate rather than horrify her.

It also appeared to be distracting her from the pain he was causing her.

“It became apparent early on that I had been born with the ability to heal with my hands.”

“That isn’t a result of the virus?”

He shook his head. “One of my earliest memories is of finding a bird with a broken wing in the bailey not far from the steps of the keep. I felt sorry for it and picked it up, cupping my hands around it to hold it still. The next thing I knew,
the wing was mended and the bird was flying away. Several men and women who had seen it crossed themselves. I didn’t understand why.”

His mother, having witnessed the miracle, had rushed to his side. “My mother stared at me with such fear in her eyes.”

You have been blessed, sweetling, with a wondrous gift. But others will not see it so,
she had told him in the seclusion of her solar.
They will think you cursed. They will fear you and seek to harm you. You must
never
again use it when the eyes of others are upon you. Only heal in secret.

“Your mother was afraid of you?” Sarah asked, brow furrowed.

“No, she was afraid
for
me. With good reason. Many a
gifted one
was slain because of his or her differences.”

The eleventh century in which he had been born had lacked the legions of lawyers and hate-crime legislation that kept most men’s sadistic natures in check today. Anyone viewed as different had been hated, distrusted, or feared outright and had been made to suffer for it. (One of the downsides of living so long was seeing firsthand how little progress mankind made in certain areas.)

He repositioned her arm so he could better see her elbow. The glass pieces here were deeper as a result of her tumble down the hill and other falls.

“Thank you, Roland.”

He looked up at the softly spoken words. She was staring at him with what might almost be mistaken for fondness in her hazel eyes.

“Thank you for healing my ribs and my head.”

He held his breath when she raised her free hand and drew her fingers lightly across his forehead where it had bled.

“Why did you do it? Why did you heal me without feeding first when you knew it would hurt you?”

Why did her every touch affect him so? He was so distracted, he could think of no other answer but the truth. “I could not bear to see you suffer.”

“But you could’ve fed and rebuilt your strength in just a few minutes.”

“A few minutes were too many.”

When she lowered her hand, her palm fitted itself to his kneecap, then slid to one side as her fingers tucked themselves into the crease of his pants along the bend.

Roland’s vision honed in on that small, pale hand resting on his knee. Fire licked its way up his thigh to his groin as she exerted enough pressure to urge his leg against hers.

It seemed to be a gesture of affection. One he didn’t know how to respond to or how to interpret. Damn his antisocial ass.

Had he isolated himself from the world so much that he couldn’t decipher the meaning of a woman touching his knee?

His body reacted as though it were a sexual overture. He wanted desperately to kiss her. To taste those full, pink lips. Press her back against the sofa. Lean his hard body into hers. There was just something about Sarah that constantly set him aflame.

But he seriously doubted she had meant it as such. The way she pressed his knee against hers felt almost like a hug.

If he were seated next to her, would she have embraced him?

“Thank you,” she said again.

An adequate response eluding him, he nodded and went back to digging for glass.

“Did healing my hand just now hurt you?” she queried.

“The wounds didn’t open on me,” he assured her. “That only happens when I’ve been weakened physically first and haven’t fed or if I try to heal mortal wounds.”

“But did it
hurt
you?”

He didn’t want to answer that. She was softhearted and—

“Roland?”

Persistent.

He sighed. “Only for a moment. But it was worth it.”

Her frown told him how much she disliked that. “Can all immortals heal with their hands?”

“No, whatever gifts we were born with—healing, precog-nition, telepathy, telekinesis—remain with us after the transformation. The older the immortal, the greater and more varied the gifts.”

“What can Marcus do?”

Roland grimaced, thinking of it. “Marcus’s gift is rather unsettling. He can see spirits.”

“Spirits as in ghosts?”

“Yes. And when I say he sees them, I mean he really
sees
them. It isn’t like those charlatans on television who claim your dead Aunt Esther is talking to them and says to tell you not to worry about the money.”

Sarah laughed.

“Marcus is the real deal. He sees dead people and it is neither cool nor comfortable.”

She bit her lip. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t laughing at Marcus’s gift. I was laughing at your description of the fakers.”

He raised his head long enough to smile at her. “I know, Sarah.”

She smiled back.

“I should warn you, he’s a bit sensitive about it.” Extremely sensitive. “When Marcus was a boy, his stepfather thought he was mad and beat him nearly every day until Marcus was old enough to run away and squire for the Earl of Fosterly. He was careful after that never to reveal his ability, even when he met other
gifted ones.
It wasn’t until after he was transformed that he finally mentioned it, and then, reluctantly.”

“I can see why. Do you have any gifts in addition to the healing?”

“I have minor telekinetic abilities, but they’re weak enough that they aid me little in battle.”

“Telekinetic? That’s wild.”

Concentrating, Roland made one of the pillows beside her rise into the air without warning. Sarah jumped and stared at
it with wide eyes. It hovered there for a heartbeat, then flew forward and gently bounced off her face.

Laughing, she caught it with her free hand and met his gaze.

“I couldn’t resist,” he confessed with a grin.

“Uh-huh.” She set the pillow aside. “Your telekinetic abilities don’t seem so weak to me.”

He shrugged. “It requires time to focus that I often lack when fighting vampires.” Roland set the tweezers aside. “I think that’s it.” He started to cover her palm with his free hand.

Sarah grabbed his wrist. “Don’t.”

He raised his brows. “Don’t what?”

“Heal me. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Roland stared at her. He had just spent a good half hour or more hurting her and she was worried about the few seconds of discomfort healing her cuts would cause him? If it weren’t for him, she wouldn’t
have
any cuts.

He waved away her concern. “I told you. The pain is fleeting.”

Her chin jutted forward. “Fleeting or not, I won’t let you do it.”

She wouldn’t
let
him?
She,
a five-foot-one-inch, ninety-five-pound mortal female, wouldn’t let
him,
a six-foot-two-inch immortal sporting two hundred pounds of muscle—

Oh, screw it. He had never been the bully type. If she didn’t want him to heal her, he wouldn’t force it.
Damn it.

Roland let his gaze wander over her charmingly stubborn expression, then focused on those lush, pink lips.

Although … perhaps he wouldn’t have to force her. Perhaps there was another way.

She had been wreaking havoc on his thoughts and senses with her innocently provocative touches ever since he had met her. If he were to take a page from her book …

Without giving himself a chance to think about it or to point out that he was probably only using this as an excuse, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers.

Her breath caught at the tentative touch, but she didn’t pull away. Her lips parted in surprise.

Hell. This was a mistake.

She tasted as good as she looked. As good as she smelled. She was intoxicating, like a fine wine that went straight to Roland’s head. One sip wasn’t enough. He needed more and took advantage of her parted lips to deepen the kiss.

When Roland’s tongue stroked her lower lip and delved inside to duel with her own, flames whipped through Sarah, searing her from her head to her toes. Her heart began to pound. Her whole body flushed.

Releasing his wrist, she cupped his face. The coarse stubble on his jaw abraded her palm as he tilted his head to heighten the contact, teasing, exploring, tantalizing.

The man kissed as though he had spent centuries learning everything there was to know about it. She had never been so turned on so quickly in her life!

When Roland leaned farther toward her, she met him halfway, scooting to the sofa’s edge, wanting to feel him against her.

He continued to devour her lips even as he began to stroke her fingers.

Sarah at first attributed the warmth that suffused her hand, then her forearm, to the burning desire Roland’s kiss was kindling. She felt his hand slide up her arm, curling around her elbow in a gentle caress, and delighted in his touch, wanting more … until awareness of what he was doing finally penetrated her hazy thoughts.

He was healing her!

Tearing her mouth from the heat of his, she looked down at the arm he was still fondling. Sure enough, the cuts had all healed.

Sarah glared at him, feeling absurdly hurt as she struggled to catch her breath. It had been a ploy? “You tricked me.”

Roland returned her stare blankly, his eyes all aglow.

That made her feel a little better. He had said they only did that when he was experiencing strong emotions.

Or sometimes pain. Maybe it wasn’t desire. Maybe it was a result of the pain healing her cuts had caused him.

“You tricked me!” she repeated, clinging tenaciously to her anger. “You knew I didn’t want you to heal me, so you kissed me to distract me, then healed me anyway.”

“I did?” He glanced down at her arm and slid his fingers across her newly mended skin, making it tingle.

“Don’t even bother trying to deny it.”

“I’m not denying it. I’m surprised it worked.” Then, in more of a mutter, he added, “Never in my life have I had such a hard time concentrating. I can’t believe I even remembered to heal you.”

Her anger evaporated.

He stilled … as though realizing he had said too much.

Satisfaction sifted through her. He had been as swept away by the kiss as she had.

His beautiful, iridescent eyes met hers.

A slow smile curled her lips. “Caught in your own web?”

“Very much so.”

She liked that he didn’t deny it. And her ego liked that he was attracted to her.