Demon Moon (7 page)

“It's
atrocious
.” He passed his hand over his hair. “Oh, good God. What does the Latin include that your version does not?”

“Not much. Something about your brother-in-law, and Hugh taking over a vow Ramsdell made to your sister, promising to watch over you.”

“Anything of Michael's sword? Mirrors?”

“No. Nothing about Chaos, either.”

His jaw tightened. He slowed for a red light and remained silent until he accelerated again. “I did survive a month half-transformed.”

She blinked. Had he returned to her earlier question to avoid speaking of Chaos? “The nosferatu wouldn't have given you blood. Lilith said she tried to cut off his head while he attacked you—did it get into your mouth or something?”

“No. I bit him whilst trying to get away.”

“How uncivilized.”

“Exceedingly.”

“What did you eat afterward?”

“Nothing, but for the broth Emily forced down my throat.” His brows drew together. “And I believe I tried to eat raw meat from the larder, but I'm not certain.”

“You don't remember?”

“No. I've only a partial recollection of those days.”

Some things, she supposed, were a blessing to forget. “And Hugh and Lilith used the blood of the nosferatu who originally attacked you to complete the transformation?”

“That is correct.”

“When did you find out you can withstand the sun?”

“The first morning I did not return to Beaumont Court before sunrise.” He turned to look between the seats before switching lanes. “I'm surprised you do not know all of this already, my sweet Savitri. I'm well aware of how you located me last year. An illegal bit of computer wizardry.”

She slid her tongue over her bottom lip to catch the last of the cinnamon and apple juice, and hoped the darkness would hide her blush from him. Probably not. Even if he didn't look at her, he could probably feel the heat and blood.

“It was only financial information—IRS and bank account records, a list of assets. Your address and phone number.” It hadn't told her anything personal. Savi knew a lot
about
him, but she didn't know him.

And though she might have asked him in Caelum, she had been occupied—enthralled—by the impossible beauty of that realm.

Enthralled by Colin.

The streetlights washed over his features at regular intervals. His profile was as incredible as the rest of him. Even the rough shadow along his jaw enhanced his masculine perfection. She rubbed her tongue against the roof of her mouth; it suddenly seemed hot, tingly, as if she'd added too much cayenne to a dish.

He took a deep breath, and his fingers clenched the steering wheel. The movement shook her out of her silent inspection. God. It was so easy to fall into a friendly banter with him, but she knew too well how his mood could change without warning. He could go from passion to humor to cruelty in the span of a smile; she'd be an idiot to forget what he was, just because it felt like heaven to look at him.

And it was probably best to cover her stare with her curiosity. “Do you have to shave?” She bit her lip to contain her grin before she added, “Did you have a valet?”

“Rarely; I also have to cut my hair, as do most vampires. And yes, until 1945.”

“What happened in 1945?”

“He died, and I learned to use a razor.”

Without a mirror. Though she wanted to know what happened in Chaos, she wouldn't broach that subject. Even after seven months, it must still be too raw. And Colin's voice had taken on a rough edge; it hadn't been there before, not even when he'd used his blood on her wounds.

He reached out and pushed a button on the CD player. To silence her? She knew he could hear her over the music.

The Velvet Underground. Lou Reed and a soft, delicate melody. Her smile widened when he shut it off. He had a lovely baritone; did he sing when he was alone?

“Do my questions annoy you?”

He glanced at her, his surprise evident. “No. I'm far too vain to object; I am my favorite topic.”

His easy admission startled a laugh from her, but it faded when his gaze sharpened. The warmth spread from her mouth, burned through her stomach and settled low in her abdomen. “What is it then?”

“We need to get out of the car,” he said, and turned onto Eddy Street. Near Polidori's. “Your scent is…like a peach. Or a mango. And I'm starving.” A muscle in his cheek flexed. “I don't always have control.”

A shiver ran up her spine, but she couldn't name its cause. Not simply fear or lust; what was in between? “You said you'd eaten.” Vampires—even Colin—didn't need more than one feeding a night.

“I did.” Frustration tightened his voice. “Is it your soap?”

“No. It's probably in my skin. I must've eaten a hundred mangoes when I was in India, and two more just before I left. I have no control over myself, either, but I stopped short of taking a mango bath,” she said, and waited for his smile. It came slowly. In the dim light, his teeth shone brilliantly white. “The mango
wallahs
sell them right on the street. Have you ever had one?”

“No.” Another deep inhalation. “Tell me.”

Tell me
. Memory of the last time he'd issued that command flashed through her. She shifted in the seat, pressed her thighs together to ease the pulsing ache. “They're more intense, brighter in flavor than a peach, and the flesh is firm and smooth and slippery. And the juice…cold, sunwarm—it doesn't matter.” She looked down at her hands, remembering how sticky they'd been. “There aren't any like them imported into the U.S.; you've got to be there to know what a really, really good mango is like.” Caelum on her tongue.

“Did you return with any?” His question was so low, she almost didn't hear it. He parked in a reserved space, killed the engine.

“No; it's too difficult to get through Customs. It's easier to kill a nosferatu on a plane than take a piece of fruit on one.” She smiled wryly and glanced up. Her breath caught. He'd turned toward her; his face was expressionless but for the heat in his gaze. His eyes glittered with pale fire.

Her mouth was parched; she seemed to be burning from the inside. She tried to moisten her tongue, to swallow. His hungry gaze followed the movement of her jaw and throat. “I need a drink,” she said hoarsely.

His laugh was short, hard. He opened the door and cold air flooded in. “So do I.”

Colin rested his hand against the small of her back as he guided her past a long line of clubbers. As an act of courtesy, it proved a masochistic one; beneath his palm, the gentle curve of her spine moved in rhythm with her steps, the beat of the music from inside. Matched the need throbbing within him.

He ground his teeth together, urged her forward a little more quickly. How could he be so desperate to feed? He'd taken enough for two days from the last blonde alone.

“It was popular before, but not like this,” Savitri murmured.

Colin glanced at the queue; mostly human, but a few vampires waited, as well. A growl rose unbidden in his throat. He didn't want her here, he didn't want to be here—yet he'd been unable to refuse her request.

And she hadn't even flattered him.

His gaze dropped to her neck; her short hair left it deliciously exposed. He should mark her as his. Protect her from the vampires here and the others inside. Inhale her, drink her, sink into her—

He swallowed thickly and forced the territorial hunger aside. What he wanted to do to her could not be considered protection.

“It's morbid fascination,” he finally replied.

She sighed, and her lashes swept down against her cheeks. The investigators—and the press—had linked Polidori's to last year's ritual murders; burning it had been determined a cult's symbolic way of beginning its quest for immortality.

All lies, of course; Colin had helped fabricate them. But the story had entertained the public for months, and many of the people standing outside had only come because of the club's connection with death. Her friends' deaths.

“And I spent a sordid amount of money on it,” he added. “I can't fault them for recognizing my unparalleled taste and flocking here to revel in it.”

Her lips curved into a smile, and she slanted a glance up at him. “Was it truly that much? Lilith claims you are the cheapest bastard she's ever known.”

Pleased with himself for turning her thoughts from her grief, he said, “Agent Milton has a demon's tongue. I am not
cheap
, my sweet Savitri. I've an eternal retirement; I budget wisely.”

Her throaty laughter pulled at already tight nerves along his skin. Her hip bumped against his leg as they rounded the corner to the entrance. Her fragrance wafted around her. In her heels, she stood only a few inches shorter than he. So easy just to bend and press his mouth against…

He dropped his hand from her waist, clenched it into a fist. This was bloody ridiculous. A fruity perfume, and he had as much control as an adolescent pulling himself off on his sheets.

A huge vampire guarded the entrance and ran the guest list; he towered over Colin by a bald head, outweighed him by half. His muscles bulged through the tight black T-shirt. An intimidating presence, and one most vampires respected; but then, they were often fooled by appearances. Colin had deliberately chosen him for his resemblance in size and baldness to the nosferatu—but though the vampire was strong, Colin could have torn him in two with little effort. It was one of the advantages of Colin's transformation with nosferatu blood instead of an exchange with another vampire.

And the taint Michael's sword had left in his blood had generated the other differences.

The bouncer's eyes widened—Colin usually didn't use the front entrance—and he quickly unhooked the velvet rope. “Mr. Ames-Beaumont.”

The urge to dash inside, to find the nearest willing body and glut was almost overwhelming. “Mr. Varney, this is Miss Savitri Murray. She should be on the short list.”

Her chin tilted up, her gaze leveled on Varney's features. It was difficult to tell human from vampire, but Castleford would have taught her to recognize the signs: the careful placement of the lips during speech, the slight perspiration in heated rooms or on warm nights, abnormal respiration and reflexes. “What's the short list?”

“Full access, miss, including Mr. Ames-Beaumont's personal suite. No charge.” There was more, but Varney didn't mention that any vampire who tried to drink from someone on that list would receive a visit from Colin. It hadn't happened yet; there were very few people this side of the Atlantic to whom he'd give anything for free, and Lilith and Castleford were the only other names listed.

A vampire would have to be a blithering idiot to attack
them
.

“Except for tonight.” Colin led her forward and descended the stairs. “You'll pay the cover and for your drinks.” An auburn-haired beauty was going up; she glanced at him, then froze with her foot in the air and watched as he passed. “Do you know the Guardians' sign language?”

“No,” Savi said, and looked back over her shoulder. “I hope she doesn't fall.”

He suppressed his laughter with difficulty, and said in Hindi, “I'll walk with you to the bar; then I must leave you alone for a few minutes. Because you came in with me, you'll be a curiosity to the vampires inside. They may approach you. Don't ask them questions, don't talk to them.”

“Why? Isn't the point of all this that I'm seen?”

“You'll be seen, sweet Savitri.” But he didn't want them to have any more of her than that.

And hopefully, once he'd fed, his need for more would also fade.

It was inelegant, perhaps even ill-mannered, but Savi eschewed the straw and gulped straight from the glass. Lime and salt, sour and sweet. And cold—she couldn't get enough of it.

Delayed reaction from the flight? Her breath fogged the inside of the tumbler. Heat from the mass of bodies?

Perhaps he'd been too stingy to pay for air conditioners.

She fished out a cube of ice, sucked it into her mouth. The bartender glanced at her. Another vampire. Colin had been right; they'd all watched as he'd taken her hand and led her through the club. As he'd dropped a quick kiss onto her forehead.

Like a little girl. A little sister. She'd known what it was: a display of protection. Because Hugh had saved Colin's sister, the vampire felt obligated to guard Hugh's adopted sister in return. She should have been grateful. Perhaps she would have, if she didn't feel so restless, as if she'd suddenly been caged.

It was a familiar feeling, but it usually didn't make her angry.

She crushed the ice between her teeth. Why was it so fucking hot in here?

She lifted her hand and gestured for another, asked for a water to accompany it. The wounds on her palm had almost completely healed; only a lingering stiffness remained. She examined the thin pink lines on her fingers. The blood sped healing—is that what allowed them immortality? Accelerated regeneration or cell replication, with no degradation over time?

But wouldn't their hair grow more quickly if it was replication? Did it simply keep existing cells in perfect repair, not speed the manufacture of new ones?

Why did it only heal humans when applied topically, or through a transfusion? And why was it safe? A transfusion would temporarily give a human some strength and healing ability, but it didn't last. Only through ingestion was there a danger—blessing?—of transformation.

Was it the
choice
to drink that provided the power, or the blood itself? Before Michael could transform a human to a Guardian, the human had to agree to the change; she'd heard the same was true of a vampire—the transformation didn't take well if it wasn't voluntary. Could blood recognize choice and free will?

The blood
lust
supposedly did—except for the free will of the vampire it controlled.

She felt Colin before she saw him; he stood next to her, leaning gracefully against the bar. His expression was unreadable, his gaze hooded. Even in the dim lighting, she could see the slight flush on his skin.

She'd seen it before.

Lifting her glass, she took another long drink, licked the salt from her lips, and forced a bright smile. “The redhead on the stairs?”

His mouth tightened, but he gave a slow nod.

She arched a brow. “You must lose a lot of clients if those you feed from leave bleeding.”

“She wasn't. And I don't often feed here; I prefer the hunt. Pursuit offers a challenge.” He looked away from her toward the dance floor, his mouth pulled down in a grimace of distaste. “When it is readily available, it is merely scavenging.”

Her chest squeezed painfully. She'd not only been available, she'd thrown herself at him. “So the aristocrat surveys the unwashed masses, and finds them lacking,” she murmured.

And she was just a brown little girl.

“They have use during revolutions, but there is no rebellion here. Only a mess of conformity.” His gaze met hers again. “But I do not care if they bathe, Savitri, as long as they bleed.”

The glass was slick with condensation; she wiped her palm across her forehead, hoping to ease the heat with cold and wet. “I thought, because of—” She paused, switched to Hindi. He probably didn't want anyone to overhear that he couldn't create other vampires. Surely his impotency embarrassed someone like him, and she wouldn't prick his vanity again. “Because of your
incapability
, that you couldn't heal me. I was wrong.”

He contained his emotions too well for her to interpret his response. “Yes. You also believed Castleford when he confirmed your assumption that I was gay.”

It had been easier; a woman had little defense against a face like that—except to believe it couldn't be hers. But she'd been mistaken in that, too. Gloriously mistaken, until it had turned into something…painful.

“Did she tell you what you wanted to hear?”

A mocking smile. “She screamed it.”

She nodded, drained her glass. “I'm going to go dance.” Sweat out some of the heat boiling within her. Feel someone's touch on her skin.

Anyone's but his.

She'd known better.

Before a few bullets had destroyed her family, Savi had been surrounded by stories—her mother had loved them. Both surgeons, her parents had limited time dedicated to Savi and her brother. But in those rare evenings when her mother had been home, fairy tales and fables had been standard bedtime fare.

The music drowned out the voices of the men dancing with her, but she could still hear her mother's voice clearly—one of the advantages of a memory like hers.

…and the girl came across a cobra curled up against the freezing night air. The cobra begged her to stop and carry him in her pocket until the sun rose in the morning, but she refused. “You will bite me,” she said. But the cobra promised not to. “I will die here; if you save me, I will treat you as a friend.” The girl was too soft-hearted to let him freeze, and so she picked him up and put him in her pocket. She'd taken not two steps before she felt his fangs against her breast. “Why?” she cried, her voice weak from the poison. “You said you would not!”

“It is my nature,” the cobra replied, “and you knew what I was.”

Cold hands clasped her hips, pulled her back to gyrate against him. Vampire, but not Colin's hands. His were warm. He could walk in the sun. He was beautiful and charming.

She'd thought if she offered her blood to him, she wouldn't be hurt by it.

She should have known better.

Frigid fingers drifted beneath her shirt, along the curve of her waist. It felt fantastic. Her skin was tight, burning, and his hand trailed over her stomach like a block of ice. His cold form rocked against her back. His erection. Perhaps he could cool her from inside, make her forget…

But no—that was one of the drawbacks of her memory. Her mother's screams, forever captured. Her brother's tortured, bubbling breaths. Her father's silence.

And Colin's fangs buried in her throat, desolation and horror tearing through her mind as her body shuddered beneath his.

He'd done it to teach her a lesson—and by god, she had learned. Her brain had gotten the message.

Her body had not.

She was on fire. Alcohol hadn't dulled it, water hadn't doused it. She hated being drunk; she couldn't think.

A shiver wracked her when his fingers slid higher. Her nipples drew tight beneath the silk.

“You're so hot,” said the rough voice behind her.

Like a demon. Averaging 106.7 degrees Fahrenheit, 41.5 degrees Celsius, 314.65 degrees Kelvin. Or did he mean it in that you're-sexy-come-home-with-me way? Didn't he have a partner to share blood and a bed with? Perhaps he was one of those vampires whose partner had been killed by the nosferatu.

Vampires didn't drink from humans, not unless they intended to transform them. If that was what he offered, why not take him up on it? She was going to eventually, anyway.

He could turn her, and she would live forever.

Clammy lips touched the back of her neck. Cold, wet—like the nosferatu.
Oh, god
. This wasn't what she'd promised Nani. She ripped out of his grasp, staggered forward.