Redemption (The Penton Vampire Legacy) (26 page)

He got to his feet. “Let’s go to dinner, then.”

“But you don’t eat, do you? Food, I mean?” She looked sexy as hell when she was trying to figure him out, her dark eyes warm, a tiny wrinkle of a frown between her brows that sent an ache straight through him.

“I don’t eat solid food anymore, but I can watch you eat and have a glass of wine. I do drink occasionally.” He paused for a couple of beats. “I prefer red wine, of course.”

Krys began laughing. The sound was full-throated, strong, and infectious. Unafraid.

He inhaled the scent of her hair, the rhythm of her heartbeat, the heat of her.

She took his outstretched hand and let him pull her from the chair, but she eased her hand away as they reentered the hospital corridor.

Mark was leaning on the front counter talking to Melissa, and they turned as Aidan and Krys approached.

Mark cocked an eyebrow. “Ready for a report on the fire, boss?”

“I got the highlights from Will already. We’re going down to Clyde’s. Meet the lieutenants at Mirren’s about three and we’ll strategize.” He narrowed his eyes at Mark, daring him to comment.

Mark grinned. “You kids have fun.”

Aidan shook his head as he held the front door open for Krys and she walked outside ahead of him. “Mark’s a funny guy.”

He’d walked past her and taken the first two steps before realizing that she wasn’t following. She remained just outside the clinic door with her eyes closed, breathing deeply, the way she’d done when she finally hit fresh air the night before.

He wanted to comfort her, to wrap his arms around her, and tell her he’d take her home, that he was sorry he’d kept her cooped up. But the fire today showed once again how much his people needed her, and he didn’t trust her to stay on her own. She was too confused about how she felt. He was pretty damned confused himself.

Aidan and Krys entered Clyde’s shortly after six, prime dining hour for Penton’s humans. Most tables were full. The smell of smoked meats hit them in a wave at the door, and Krys groaned in appreciation. He could still enjoy the aroma, himself: the smoky richness of the charred pork, the vinegar-laced tang of the barbecue sauce, the onions. But the undercurrents of blood and pheromones were even more enticing. And riding over it all, the delicate floral scent of the woman beside him.

The clatter of the crowd dimmed when they entered. Aidan grimaced. Penton’s busybodies would be getting enough fodder to keep them buzzing for days.

Behind the grill, up to his neck in pork ribs, sauce, and smoke, even old Clyde—one of the few remaining original Penton residents, who’d been surprisingly circumspect about the existence of vampires—paused to give Krys a careful once-over.

She smoothed her hair, tugged on the hem of her sweater, turned an enticing shade of pink.

“They just want a look at you,” he murmured as they crossed the dining room to claim a table against the far wall. “We don’t get that many new people here.”

Red oilcloth topped the random scattering of wooden tables. Most seated four or eight but Aidan picked one of the two-seaters along the dark-paneled wall. Small punched-tin containers on each table held votives that gave the room an intimate ambience.

“They aren’t looking at me because I’m the new doctor,” Krys hissed, jerking out a chair and sitting down even as he reached to pull it out for her. “They’re looking at me because I came in here with you, their...”

She ran out of words and frowned at him as he sat opposite her. “What do they call you? Mayor? King? Dictator? Vampire Lord? Most eligible bachelor?” She looked part amused, part exasperated, a smile turning up one corner of her mouth.

Aidan laughed, pulled a menu from its spot behind the napkin holder, and handed it to her. “I probably don’t want to know what they call me. Mirren and I are the strongest here, although not the oldest. A vampire community is called a
scathe
, and I’m the master of the scathe. But as to what the people call me?” He shrugged. “I’m listed as mayor in the official directories and any kind of paperwork that has to be filed with the state. Guess that works as well as anything.”

A plump young woman with bright red hair and a face full of freckles bounded up with a small notepad. “Hi, Mr. Murphy,” she said, green eyes shiny. “And you’re Dr. Harris? Everyone’s been wondering when we’d get to meet you. Welcome to Penton.”

Krys nodded, smiling. No harm in letting them think she’d come here on her own.

Aidan took over the introductions. “Krys, this is Kathleen. She’s been in Penton, what, about six months now?”

The girl beamed. “Wow, I mean, I can’t believe you remember me.”

“Of course I do.” He made a point to know everyone, or at least to which of his scathe members each human was bonded or related. He remembered Kathleen because, at twenty-one, she was at the cusp of what he considered too young to join the community, and he was keeping an eye on how well she assimilated. Her older sister was the mate of a scathe member, however, and they had made a case to bring her with them to Penton. She’d been hanging with a bad crowd and headed for trouble, and there were no other family members.

Aidan ordered a glass of whiskey from Kathleen and wished she weren’t acting so damned giddy. It made him feel like a jerk—or a mob boss.

Krys picked out a beer and a plate of chopped pork barbecue. “Does it bother you to be around food?” she asked. “It smells amazing in here, and you can’t have any. Or can you?”

He smiled. “No, our systems won’t tolerate solid food, but the smells don’t bother me anymore,” he said. “A lot of my kind can’t tolerate them, but those of us who’ve chosen to live among humans instead of isolated in our own society still enjoy them. And when we feed, we get a hint of whatever our fam has eaten.”

Kathleen brought their drinks, and Krys took a sip of her beer. “You said you and Mirren were the strongest but not the oldest. How old are you? I asked the man who came by early this morning but he never answered me.”

Bloody hell.
Aidan returned his glass to the table with a thump. “What man?”

“Lorenzo something? He said he was with the council...no, that wasn’t it. Tribunal.” Krys opened her mouth to say something else but seemed to change her mind. She studiously began peeling the label off her bottle of Corona.

She was hiding something. Aidan’s skin crawled at the thought of Renz alone with her.

He watched her a few seconds. “What aren’t you telling me? Did he touch you?”

She glanced up at him quickly. “He didn’t hurt me. He said he might be able to explain better why you brought me here.”

Damn it. He should have considered this possibility and stuck Renz somewhere else, but, honestly, he hadn’t expected Renz to have much interest in a human. Aidan clenched his jaw. “What did he say?”

Krys paused for a moment too long. “Nothing, really.”

Reaching across the table, Aidan rested his hand on hers, stopping her paper-shredding. “What did he do to you?”

She stared at his hand on hers, and then took a deep breath. “It was nothing. I don’t want to cause any problems.”

“Answer me.” The words came out harsher than he’d intended, so he softened his voice
.
“Tell me, Krys.”

She looked up at him, her dark eyes wary. “He just scared me a little. He...I thought for a minute he was about to, well, uh...” She blushed, formed her fingers into a V and stabbed them into her neck, mimicking fangs. “But he just got really close for a few seconds, and then said you should bond me to protect me from people like him. What does that mean, exactly?”

Aidan forced himself to pick up his glass, take a sip of whiskey, and get a grip on his anger. Renz should never have touched her.

“Aidan?” Krys’s eyebrows knit in a look of worry. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have mentioned it. He didn’t hurt me, really.”

He struggled to make his voice sound light, unconcerned, when he really wanted to bond her immediately so no one else could go near her. “You have nothing to apologize for. Renz had no business in your room, much less getting that close. I’d never have put him in one of the suites if I thought it would put you in danger. If anything, I owe
you
an apology.” The apologies he owed her were stacking up fast.

Krys narrowed her eyes, studying him. “What does bonding mean, exactly? How would it have made a difference?”

Kathleen arrived with the food, and Aidan waited till she’d weaved her way between the tables to take another order before he answered. “It’s a small blood exchange, basically, with me or one of my scathe. Every human in Penton is bonded to a member of the scathe. If you’re bonded, no vampire outside the scathe can feed from you—I’ve never heard a good explanation as to why. Some metaphysical vampire shit.”

“Blood
exchange?
No thanks.” Krys wrinkled her nose. “I don’t have to, do I?”

Aidan laughed. “Don’t worry. Renz has gone back to New York. Left just after sunset.”

Krys picked at her barbecue, shoving the coleslaw off to the side. “Sometimes when you talk, I hear a trace of an accent...British, maybe?”

Aidan feigned a look of horror and fell easily into a heavy Irish brogue. “My ancestors would be hanging you from the nearest tree should they hear you sayin’ that, they would.” He smiled. “I grew up in Ireland. County Cork. But I haven’t lived there in many, many years.”

How much information should he give her? She’d surprised him with her adaptability so far. “As for one of your earlier questions, I was turned vampire during the Siege of Kinsale. Do you know it?”

She frowned and shook her head. “Sorry, I think I’ve heard of it but...” She stabbed a bite of pork with her fork and popped it into her mouth. “So, a vampire...one of them attacked you?” She paused and put her fork down. “I’m sorry. Maybe it’s rude to ask that.”

He shook his head. “Don’t feel awkward about it. We are what we are, and it’s been a long time. Go ahead and eat, and I’ll bore you with my history.”

He watched her till she took another bite, and then continued. “Kinsale was Ireland’s last gasp at independence for many years before England took us over and stole our lands. Not that I’m biased.”

“What year was that?” Krys asked.

“It was 1601. My brother Owen and I were in the infantry—really a fancy name for a bunch of ragtag farmers engaged in a winter march. Half of us were sick, and we all were starving. One night he and I left camp to forage for food. A stupid thing to do. We were attacked by a vampire whose scathe had come over from Spain with the soldiers sent to help the mighty cause of Irish independence. They’d been living in the countryside and preying on farmers and soldiers.”

Aidan had been toying with his glass as he talked, but finally realized that Krys had quit eating and was staring at him, round-eyed.

“What?”

“You’re telling me you’re four hundred years old?”

“Four hundred and change, actually.” Aidan laughed. “But—”

Something was wrong. He suddenly smelled hot electrical wiring, gasoline, and underneath that, Owen.

He stood quickly, knocking the chair over behind him, only vaguely aware of Krys’s startled expression. “Everybody get out of here now!” he shouted. “Krys—door. Now!”

Puzzled faces turned toward him. Used to following his instructions, people began rising from their chairs. He grabbed the shoulders of the man at the next table and shoved him toward the exit, then turned to Krys, holding out his hand.

An explosion sent the front of the building flying outward and plumes of smoke into the room. Within seconds, the roof caved in, raining smoking wood, embers, and chaos.

Aidan had fallen beneath a piece of plaster from the ceiling. He shoved a big chunk of it away and struggled to his feet, looking around for Krys. He’d lost track of her, and visibility had dwindled to a couple of feet. Closing his eyes, he sent a quick mental call to Mirren and Will, and started scrabbling through the smoke and rubble, shouting for her. He unearthed the table where they’d been sitting. Its legs had collapsed, and he looked around frantically. Where the hell was she?

O
ne second, Krys had been trying to wrap her brain around anyone—or anything—being over four hundred years old. The next, she was surrounded by hell, or at least some Dickensian vision of hell, complete with smoke and sparks and the screams of the dying.