Night's Honor (13 page)

“I also took the liberty of searching through all the Las Vegas newspapers for anything that might seem odd, or for any mention of a reported theft from the casino where she worked, but I didn't find anything.”

“Good enough. Anything else?”

Raoul shook his head. “Even though I've made things hard on her, she's done everything I've asked of her. That's it.”

He mulled things over. Her fear of Vampyres—of him—had been so palpable he wouldn't be surprised if she was holed up in her room that very moment, worrying about how their next meeting would go.

While he had been looking forward to relaxing for the rest of the night, it might be a kindness to meet with her first and get it over with. If nothing else, they could establish next steps. Besides, after dealing with so much politics over the last five weeks, with the veiled smiles, insincere platitudes and outright aggressions, the thought of looking into her dark eyes and seeing the honesty of her emotions sounded downright refreshing.

Would she still be as afraid of him as she was when they had first met? He thought of the plush softness of her lips underneath his thumb. She had not backed away when he had touched her. Instead, she had stood watching him, her dark gaze curious.

He shouldn't have touched her. He shouldn't have wanted to, and he certainly shouldn't have thought about it so often over the last six weeks.

But he had, and she had let him. Perhaps that meant she would be calmer now, more open and friendly.

For the moment, he kept his decision private and savored the anticipation as he turned his attention elsewhere. “How are the others doing?”

“They're ready to go out,” Raoul told him. “Aaron knows it and he's patiently waiting. Marc and Jeremy are champing at the bit. The only thing Scott lacks is self-confidence, but he'll acquire that soon enough when he gets into the field. Brian's perfect in every way. I couldn't ask for a better agent.”

“High praise. Please set up a schedule of one-on-one meetings with everyone, will you? It's time they each get their first assignment.”

“Certainly.” Raoul sipped his wine. “You know they'll be happy to get a chance to visit with you, and they'll be ecstatic at the thought of getting in the field. Anything else?”

“Yes,” Xavier said. “Would you fetch Tess for me? I want you to be ready with your phlebotomy equipment in case she needs it. I should have done this the night she arrived. One way or another, it's time for her to offer blood.”

“As you wish.” Raoul set aside his glass, stood and left.

Xavier finished his glass of bloodwine while he waited. The study was one of his favorite parts of the house, quiet and peaceful and filled with the kind of books he loved that prompted reflection. His only regret was that he didn't get as much time to spend in it as he would have liked.

A quick rap sounded at the door, and it opened before he could invite the newcomer in. Raoul would never do such a thing. He suppressed a smile, folded his hands together and watched his tenacious, problematic trainee approach.

Tess looked very different, and he absorbed the changes with a blink. She wore the loose black training pants that were de rigueur at the estate, along with a formfitting black tank top. Her dark hair had grown a touch longer. The ends now kissed along the graceful wings of her collarbones.

She had also lost some weight, and healthy muscle flowed under the tanned skin of her slim arms. She didn't move quite as fluidly as one might expect from the changes in her physique. Instead, she held herself with a certain stiffness that indicated she was more than a little sore. Xavier knew from experience that Raoul could be a demanding taskmaster, and it was clear that he had not spared her.

Her face looked more angular as well, but not in an unhealthy way. The change was small but startling. It highlighted the proud lines in her bone structure, and he realized the casual eye would no longer travel over her in search of brighter creatures. She had been pretty enough in her own quiet way before, but now she had grown arresting.

He frowned, troubled by the realization.

As she grew closer, he could hear the sound of her heart pounding, and taste the scent of her fear.

Abruptly his disquiet turned to disappointment and anger. He snapped, “Have I given you any reason to believe you are in danger from me? Have I not done the exact opposite, and tried my very best to make you feel at ease here, in my own home?”

The look in her large, dark eyes turned wry. She didn't hesitate, but approached him at the same, steady pace as she had entered the room, even though her heart rate sped up even further.

When she reached the empty armchair, she sat and folded her hands together in a deliberate mimicry of his position. “What does reason have to do with fear?”

That drew him up short. He stared at her, eyes narrowed, while a muscle bunched in his jaw. Moments ticked by as they regarded each other. Her expression was resolute, her gaze steady. Raoul had the right of it; she was tenacious.

He did something that had become completely unnecessary over the last several hundred years, once he had died as a human man. He drew in a breath.

Abruptly, he grew aware of his own uncharacteristic loss of temper, and his anger turned onto himself. It had been a mistake to try to see her tonight, when he had only just returned.

“My apologies,” he said, his tone abrupt. “I should not have sent for you tonight. I'm tired and low on patience, and I should have known better.”

Startlement flashed in her gaze, and she lowered her eyelids. “It isn't your fault,” she said. “It's mine. I'm sorry.”

Was it her fault, he thought bitterly, when she faced a predator that could overpower her completely and feed on her until she died?

Or wasn't her fear the most reasonable reaction after all?

EIGHT

H
e couldn't remember the last time he was so irritated with himself. Slicing his hand through the air, he rejected her words with the gesture. “We should start over. Or better still, we should meet on another night.”

He watched her lovely mouth compress and counted three of her quickened heartbeats. Then she said in a measured, courteous tone, “How did your trip to New York go? Good, I hope?”

Coming from her, it was a major effort at conciliation. Just as abruptly as his temper had flared, it faded completely. “It was good, thank you. How has the training gone these last six weeks?”

She glanced at him from underneath her lowered lids, a sly, wary look. “It's been eventful. A lot of hard work.”

His mouth twitched. Watching her attempt polite conversation with him was rather excruciating, and he didn't know whether to be amused or irritated by it. “I'll have the real truth now, if you please.”

“It's been bloody awful,” she confessed in a rush. “I know he's a friend of yours, but Raoul is a sadist.”

His eyebrows shot up. Whatever he had expected from this conversation, this wasn't it. “He is?”

She nodded. “Ibuprofen has become a staple in my diet, but I can now run for a full hour, although I slow down quite a bit toward the end. I can also strip and load four different guns, and hit the bull's-eye on the target nine times out of ten. And I still have no idea what the daggers at dinner mean.”

He repeated, “Daggers at dinner.”

“You know, the little ones that are set at the twelve o'clock position at each dinner plate on a formal table setting.” She glanced with undisguised longing at the opened bottle of Chateau Sauvignon sitting on the table beside her chair.

He pinched his nose and smiled. “Do help yourself to some wine. I'll call for a fresh glass.”

She sat straight and reached for Raoul's wineglass. “Thanks, don't bother. I don't mind using this one. It's not like anybody at the estate is sick.”

“True enough.” He watched her pour the wine into the glass. Its color wine was lovely in the firelight, red like rubies, like blood. “I've asked Raoul to prepare his phlebotomy equipment. It's past time you offer blood. Unless, of course, you wish for me to take it from the vein.”

She drank half the glass at once. “If you're leaving the option up to me, I would rather not yet.” Her dark gaze regarded him around the edge of the wineglass. “Unless you've changed your mind?”

“I do not change my mind about things such as this.” He watched her for the tiny tells, and they were certainly there. The slender muscles in her throat flexed as she swallowed, and the way she held her mouth changed. Her expression seemed too complex for mere relief, but perhaps contained a hint of disappointment as well.

Was she disappointed that he did not live down to her worst expectations, or was she disappointed in herself for not agreeing to a direct blood offering? Given her tenacious nature, she must be battling a serious revulsion for the act. Troubled, he frowned down at his clasped hands.

“The daggers at the dinner settings is a very old Vampyre custom, dating back to the early Roman Empire,” he said. “It is meant as a gesture of courtesy from the host.”

“But what does it mean?”

“Often weapons were forbidden in palaces when a ruler was in residence. The dagger was a symbol of trust, a way of saying to the guest, you may go armed in my presence, and we are still at peace.”

She nodded slowly. “So it would actually end up being a really terrible thing to pick it up. Kind of a betrayal against the host?”

“Yes, except on one occasion. The dagger was also used by the guest to prick herself to offer blood in a show of fealty to a Vampyre lord. At large gatherings like a banquet, it simply wasn't feasible for the host to take a direct blood offering from everyone personally. This way, a cup was passed from guest to guest. They could prick their fingers, add a few drops to the cup and pass it on. At the end of the round, when the cup had made it back to the Vampyre lord, he would take it and drink.”

She frowned. “Was this a ritual for humans, or for Vampyres?”

He stretched out his legs and crossed his ankles. “It was for both. For example, Julian could insist on a blood fealty from all the heads of the Vampyre houses along with human officials that live within his demesne, but the ritual is no longer enacted. Still, the dagger is laid out in formal situations as a tradition. In some households, quite a bit of money is spent on the daggers, encrusting them with jewels and gold. They're pretty baubles, nothing more, and are usually about as dull as a letter opener.”

She had listened intently, her eyes wide with fascination. “Thank you for the explanation.”

“
De nada
,” he said. When she lifted the bottle of wine and looked at him in inquiry, he gestured for her to help herself to a second glass.

Silence fell between them as she did so, and they sat for a few minutes, each wrapped in thought. He noted that her fear had subsided somewhat as they talked, and he watched the flames in the fireplace as he considered that.

Finally he stirred and sighed. “You present some interesting challenges, Tess Graham.”

She straightened in her chair. “I'm sorry. What can I do to make it better?”

“That is what I am trying to decide.” He set his empty glass aside. “I've already told you that you must make a proper blood offering freely and willingly by the end of the trial year, and that is not an arbitrary requirement. There are reasons why it is necessary.”

“I think I understand,” she said. “Without your bite, I can't give as much blood as the others, or as often. Also, it would give me increased speed, strength and healing capacity, wouldn't it?”

“Yes, among other things. Regular blood offerings also establish a connection between us—it's nothing like telepathy, mind you. It just increases my awareness of where you are in a crowd, which can be a handy safety measure.” He rubbed his forehead. “But I'm afraid your capacity to give a blood offering won't be enough.”

Her expression turned wary again. “What do you mean?”

Meeting her gaze, he said, “You have to do more than confront your fear. You have to conquer it.”

“I—I'm afraid I don't understand.”

He leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees and frowned at her. “You walked into this room directly toward me, despite the fact that every instinct you had was telling you to run the other way. Didn't you?”

She shifted uneasily under the weight of his stare. “Yes.”

He would have smiled, except that it saddened him too much. She was certainly brave enough. An edge of bitterness entered his tone. “I respect the courage it takes for you to do so, but that's confronting your fear. It's not conquering it. As you grew closer, I heard your heart rate accelerate, and I could taste the pheromones of your fear in the air.”

He paused to read her expression, but he could see no real comprehension on her face. She merely looked trapped and frustrated.

“I'm sorry,” she said.

“No,” he said. “This is not about sorry. I cannot in good conscience set you loose in a room full of predators. Many of them have far fewer principles than I do, and a few have absolutely none at all. They would circle around you like sharks drawn to a pool of blood. Even if my reputation held off most of them, you would certainly not go unnoticed, and that defeats any purpose you may serve for me. It is not acceptable. Do you see?”

The comprehension he had been looking for dawned in her eyes, and it looked very much like dismay.

“I do now,” she whispered. She squared her shoulders. “I'll change it. I just have to figure out how.”

Such tenacity. Her surface emotions might be all over the map, but underneath it all, she had a spine of steel.

Oh, he liked her. Far more, in fact, than was good for his peace of mind.

“Are you sure you want to?” he asked gently. “You may have chosen to come here, but I do not think you have yet chosen to stay.”

Her eyes widened, and he saw that he had scored a hit. He liked that she didn't rush to answer him. Instead, her gaze turned troubled and she studied the remaining wine in her glass for a few moments.

Then she looked up and leaned forward, her angular expression firming into determination. “Yes, I want to.”

“Very good,” he said. He smiled, and even though she was still uneasy in his presence, she returned it. Then he turned brisk. “Starting tomorrow evening, we will add two more things to your training schedule.”

“You want me to do more?”

Her dismay had returned, but he ignored it. “You will begin daily meditations and focus on a series of biofeedback exercises. There are techniques you can learn that will help you to control your body's reaction to stress, especially your heart rate. That should help to dampen the fear pheromones.”

Her gaze sparked with interest. “I would love to learn that. What's the other thing?”

He adjusted one shirtsleeve. “I will take over your etiquette lessons. Prolonged exposure should help you master your aversion to Vampyres, at least enough so that you can mask your true feelings.”

He did not have to look at her to gauge her reaction. He heard it in the loud
thump
of her heart. Still, she replied without a second's hesitation, “That makes sense. Thank you for taking the time to work with me.”

Buried underneath all her tension and nerves was the heart of a lion. He smiled and heard himself asking, “Do you dance?”

“Probably not in the way that you mean,” she replied in a dry voice. “I've never taken formal dance lessons. The only kind of dancing I've ever done is in a nightclub.”

Bah. She meant modern dancing, which was little more than hopping around and waving one's arms to disco music. Watching a crowd of people on a nightclub dance floor was like watching a school of fish smacking their fins in shallow water. It was all flapping and splashing, and entirely devoid of dignity.

He glanced at her, amused. “You are correct. That is not what I meant. I will teach you to waltz. Perhaps also a minuet. Those should cover the times when you might attend a function and be asked to partner someone.”

“How often would something like that happen?”

He shrugged. “Not often, but it is a situation that has arisen before. Someone might be alone and require a dancing partner.”

The spark in her eyes faded, to be replaced with a clear look of dread. “I suppose I should be prepared.”

“Tess, you are good for my soul,” he said. He gave her a completely serious look. “If I ever feel that I am suffering from an overabundance of pride, I shall look for you immediately so you can trample all over it.”

“I'm sorry,” she said, dismayed. Then she quickly tried to change course. “Or maybe I mean, you're welcome?”

He almost burst out laughing, and considering that he had come to mirth when he had started out in anger, this conversation had ended up having a great deal of merit after all. “On that note, I believe we're done for tonight. Please see Raoul on your way out, so that he can draw blood.”

She rose to her feet, but didn't leave immediately. When he glanced up, she looked at him steadily. “Thank you again, for taking a chance on me,” she said. “I promise, you won't regret it.”

Oh
querida
, he thought. I already regret it.

But he would not say so and crush such sincerity, so instead he smiled and nodded. He watched as she left, easing the door closed behind her.

Alone at last, he poured another glass of bloodwine, but the drink had lost its savor, so he set it aside and lost himself in the soothing contemplation of the fire, and tried to let the silence wash away the strain of the last six weeks.

It wouldn't leave so quickly or easily. Scraps of memory from the last several weeks kept playing through his mind. The pressure on Julian right now was extreme, and therefore so, too, was the pressure on him.