Lucien's Khamsin (13 page)

“And no doubt where the idea for a protective measure came from for our world to use?”

“I imagine so,” Briton said, scratching his head. “I don’t know too much about human history.”

“I know a bit,” she said, reaching out to touch the magnificent mural. “Can you imagine the work that went into this?”

“It took over a year for the artist to paint it,” Briton said. “He had to work from the queen’s memories and she had to put them in his head first.”

Khamsin turned away from the gorgeous painting. “How did she get to our world?”

Briton cocked a shoulder. “You’ll have to ask the prince, milady. I have no idea.”

With one last fleeting look at the painting, Khamsin and Briton left the Great Hall. Outside, the sun was bright but the air was cold though it was mid-July. Though the wind skirled around the battlements and through the crenulations with an eerie sound, it was nice to be outside anyway.

“Are you old enough to remember the world as it was before the war?” she asked.

Briton frowned. “I was ten when the first attack wave hit London,” he replied. “The States had already been hit several times before that. All I remember was the sound of the explosions and people screaming. Buildings were falling down around us we ran down into the metro. I guess it never occurred to any of us that the tunnels might collapse atop us.” He ran a hand over his face. “I don’t like thinking of those times.”

Khamsin looked away. “I understand.”

“Things changed for the worse,” Briton said. “It’s best not to be thinking of the way it used to be. Makes a man too sad.”

They were near the pens and the sight of the locked enclosure bothered Khamsin. Pale faces stared back at her through the barbed wire and a few of those inside the corral hissed at her.

“Don’t pay any attention to them, milady,” Briton advised. “There’s nothing you or them can do about your situation. Some of the women wish they were in your shoes.”

“Conditions are better for them now, though, aren’t they?” she asked.

“Lord Petros made sure of it.”

“Are there any other special ones here?”

Briton nodded. “Just one other than you. He’s most likely down with Lady Christina in her lab. He works with her.”

“Where’s that?”

“In what was the old dungeon,” Briton answered. “I’ll take you down there if you’d like.”

Her heart heavy with guilt, Khamsin looked back over her shoulder as Briton led her back into the keep. The men and women from the pens were glaring at her, their eyes filled with hatred.

“Doesn’t it bother you, Briton?” she asked.

“Used to,” he admitted. “But you get accustomed to things when you start remembering you could have it worse than what you got. We could be in Prince Stavros’ keep and that doesn’t bear thinking about.”

“Long before I was brought here, I’d been hearing tales of Stavros Constantine. They say he’s the worst of the four princes.” Khamsin rolled her shoulders, grimacing.

Briton stopped and looked at her. “Are you all right, milady?”

Khamsin put a hand to her chest. “I’m just bruised is all.”

A dark scowl shifted over Briton’s face. “Did I do that?” he asked.

“No,” she was quick to deny, reaching out to put a hand on his arm. “It wasn’t you. That son of a bitch who caught me when I was trying to escape mauled me like I was a piece of fruit.”

“Ari?” he asked, the word an ominous growl.

“I think that was his name,” she said. “The man I hit in the eye?”

Briton nodded slowly. “He bruised you there?” he wanted clarified, his eyes shifting quickly to her bosom before settling on her face.

“I’ve got his paw prints all over me,” she acknowledged.

Briton said nothing but stepped aside for her to precede him down a long flight of steps.

“If the people from the herds could have free access to the bailey, perhaps they wouldn’t be so miserable.”

“What if they tried to escape?”

“Where would they go?” Khamsin asked.

“You have a point there,” Briton agreed. “And they all know about Prince Stavros. None would like to get caught by his herders.”

The further down the two went, the cooler the air became. Lighted torches flickered on the damp walls to give the narrow stairwell a claustrophobic effect on Khamsin’s nerves.

“I’ve never liked closed-in places,” she admitted.

“The lab is on your left at the end of the stairs.”

Brightly lit with torches, candles and leaping cauldrons of fire, the lab’s atmosphere went a long way in displacing the gloom of the old dungeon. Though the rusted iron bars still marked off the various rooms within the lab, there wasn’t the oppressive air Khamsin had expected.

They didn’t stay long for Christina was abed and Marcus—the only other special one at Modartha—was elsewhere in the sprawling keep. A few thralls were working in the lab but none paid any attention to Khamsin and Briton.

“They are the Lady’s workers,” Briton said when Khamsin asked why they were being ignored. “They answer to her.”

By the time the sun began lowering in the sky Khamsin had completed her tour of Modartha. She had been able to thank the cooks for her hardy meal earlier in the day, sit with them for the noon repast, and get a look at the immense library that housed thousands of books she itched to read. At least an hour had been spent scanning the titles and she was pleased to see so many masterpieces of writing in such excellent condition.

When they started up the stairs to Lucien’s chamber, Lord Petros was coming down the wide staircase.

“Did you enjoy your day, milady?” Petros asked.

“Very much,” Khamsin answered. She didn’t quite know how to act around the man Briton had informed her was the Lord of Security as well as the prince’s best friend.

“He’s taking a bath and will join us shortly,” Petros said. “I was to find you and take you to the dining hall.”

“I’ve already been there,” she said.

Petros frowned. “You’ve already eaten?”

Khamsin blinked. “Is it supper already?”

“Past time,” Petros commented.

“I guess I lost track of time.”

Petros turned to Briton. “You did your job well, Bri. The lady was so entertained she forgot herself here.”

Briton bowed. “I will leave you in Lord Petros’ very capable hands, milady, but if you should require my services, all you need do is ask someone to find me.”

Petros cocked an eyebrow at the guard but said nothing. When Briton was out of sight up the stairs, he turned to Khamsin. “You’ve made a conquest of him.”

Khamsin blushed. “He’s been very helpful.”

“I’m sure he has. Lucien would not have offered Briton’s assistance to you otherwise.” He held out his arm. “May I?”

Reluctant to touch the Revenant, Khamsin nevertheless laid her palm on his arm. There was no electrical charge as there had been when Lucien touched her and she relaxed.

“You are his mate,” Petros said. “Only his touch will ever excite you, milady.”

“Don’t do that,” she said. “Don’t read my mind.”

Petros chuckled. “It’s a hard habit to break, but I will make an effort for my prince’s lady.”

Khamsin’s mouth tightened as they walked. She wasn’t sure she liked the assumption everyone was making that she was already Lucien’s woman.

“The room is lovely,” she muttered as they entered the dining hall.

“It is what it is,” Petros quipped. “I don’t particularly like it but I have rather plebian tastes, I’m told.”

She said nothing—not even a thank you—when Petros held out her chair so preoccupied with her own dark thoughts as she was.

“He will be good to you,” Petros said as he sat down beside her. “This I can promise you.”

“And he always gets what he wants,” she mumbled.

“Such is the way with princes, milady,” Petros remarked.

“Is she complaining about him already, Pet?” Christina asked as she joined them. Beside her was a tall older man with striking red hair. She introduced him as Marcus Gilbert, another special one.

“I am pleased to meet you again under better circumstances, Khamsin,” Marcus said with a slight bow. “We were so in need of new blood for the experiments.”

Khamsin winced.

“Always the tactful one, Marc,” Christina snapped. She allowed the tall man to seat her. “What the fool means is…”

“I understood what he meant,” Khamsin cut her off. The thought of having her blood drawn and fed to the Revenants disturbed her greatly.

“There is no pain to the blood taking,” Marcus assured her. “I was training to be a paramedic before the war and was very good at phlebotomy.”

Khamsin frowned. “At what?”

“Blood taking,” Christina supplied. “Marc is somewhat of an egotist, I’m afraid. He likes to use big words.”

Marcus shrugged but made no comment to Christina’s remark.

“I hear you have some suggestions for the herds,” Christina injected. “A way to make them happier?”

“No one likes to be penned up,” Khamsin said. “You feel like an animal. If they could roam freely over the grounds, perhaps they would not mind their captivity so much. A happier group is a healthier group.”

“Ah, yes,” Marcus said, tucking his linen napkin in his lap. “Free-range specimen—that might not be a bad idea.”

Christina rolled her eyes. “And by allowing them such freedom run the risk of having a stake driven through our hearts as we sleep, eh, Petros?”

Petros looked up. “That won’t kill us, Tina.”

“No,” the healer grumbled, “but it would sure hurt like hell!”

“They could set fire to your beds,” Marcus suggested.

“And run the risk of being punished?” Khamsin asked. “Do you think that likely?”

The servants came in carrying platters of steaming food, which they placed down the center of the long dining table. There was pheasant and rock hen, fish and lobster, pork and beef, and vegetables of varied size and color.

“You eat regular food?” Khamsin inquired, her forehead creased.

“Along with swilling blood by the goblet full,” Christina chortled. “Of course we eat food. We need nourishment, lass.”

“But you are dead,” Khamsin said.

“We are?” Christina asked with a gasp. “Who told you that?”

“She compares us to the old legends,” Petros said, ladling squash onto his plate.

Christina winced. “To vampires?” At his nod, she shuddered. “Egads, woman. What an insult! Vampires have no soul. They have no minds, either, if legend is true. They walk around chomping brains…”

“No,” Marcus disagreed. “Only zombies eat brains.” He stabbed a pork chop with his fork. “Revenants have their souls intact although some are as black as a starless night.”

“Like Stavros,” Petros commented. He shot Marcus a withering look. “And there are no such things as zombies. Lucien asked Francisco and since the legend of those things come from his part of the world, he would know.”

“Vampires are disgusting things,” Marcus observed.

“They can’t see themselves in the mirror,” Christina lectured. “Sunlight fries them to a crisp and things like crucifixes and garlic and holy relics will stave them off.”

“Imagine Tina not being able to see herself in the mirror?” Petros chuckled.

“Get bent,” Christina snapped.

“They eat, lass,” Marcus explained, “to keep their bodies from deteriorating. In order for the muscles to maintain elasticity, the veins pliancy and the internal organs to refrain from atrophying, it is necessary for those bodily organs to be nourished. Without breathing air, their lungs would shrivel into dust. Without water, the flesh would dry like cracked leather and without…”

“She gets the picture,” Petros reasoned. “Just shut up and eat.”

Khamsin looked down at her plate and felt a bit queasy. “Aren’t you going to wait for Prince Lucien?” she asked.

“Hell, no,” Christina quipped. “He will come when he wants to. If we had to wait on him, we’d starve to death!” She stabbed a fork toward Khamsin. “Eat!”

Khamsin wasn’t hungry but her throat was parched. She took up her goblet of water and drank greedily.

“He hasn’t taken your blood yet, has he?” Christina asked. She was chewing thoughtfully on a stalk of celery.

“No, he hasn’t,” Lucien answered for his lady as he entered the room.

“Just asking,” Christina said. “She seems awfully thirsty.”

Wiping her lips with the back of her hand, Khamsin turned her gaze to the man sitting at the head of the table. Her heart skipped a beat for Lucien was dressed in a white flowing shirt that set off the darkness of his long hair. He had left the wavy locks hanging loose against his shoulders. Leaning back in his throne-like red velvet chair, a jewel-encrusted golden goblet wrapped in the span of his powerful fingers, he was looking back at Khamsin as though she was the next item on his menu. She felt the heat of his gaze all the way to the pit of her womb.

“You’re doing it again,” Khamsin complained, looking away.