blue glow or heard an anhrefncathl was thousands of years ago from a creawdwr now long dead .
Has another finally been born ? Hidden in the mortal world ?
Lucien’s wings tuck into their pouches on his back as he crouches in front of the youth. Pain pierces him. Drawing his shields tight, Lucien flexes away the youth’s unwanted agony .
“ Child .”
The night-haired youth doesn’t respond. His hands open, trembling, and the blue glow fades, then vanishes, like a snuffed flame. The thing he held scampers away, bright black eyes gleaming in the moonlight .
A wharf rat, Lucien realizes in surprise. Or, at least what used to be a wharf rat. The former rat scurries to the edge of the wharf and off. Its many pairs of translucent and delicate dragonfly-like wings lift it uncertainly into the night. It flies away .
Forever altered by a creawdwr ’s touch .
“ Child,” Lucien says again, and tips the youth’s face up with a taloned finger .
He is too stunned by recognition—the dark, intelligent eyes, the cheekbones, the curve of the lips—to even fend the boy off as he uncoils from the wharf. Lucien falls back as the boy wraps strong, slender arms around him and sinks his fangs into Lucien’s throat .
Heat radiates from the boy as he gulps down Lucien’s blood, heat and hunger and a deep, deep grief. Lucien holds him for a moment, allowing him to feed, allowing the youth to pin him to the wharf’s old wood with a leather-clad thigh. He smells of smoky autumn fires and November frost, sharp and clean and intoxicating. The youth’s pain and near madness batters at Lucien’s shields like an unrelenting sledgehammer .
He looks just like her .
Not possible .
Her son…
Gently, Lucien breaks the boy’s steel-muscled grip and rests a hand against his fevered temple. He pours healing energy into the boy, dousing the fire ravaging his mind and easing him into sleep. The youth slumps against Lucien, his bloodied face smearing a red trail along Lucien’s shoulder and chest .
Lucien pushes aside the tangled black hair and gazes into the boy’s white face. He stares in wonder. Trails a finger along the boy’s jawline. Pushes his lip up and looks at the slender fangs. Cold seeps into Lucien .
Where is his mother ?
Genevieve…
Lucien opened his eyes, fingers still locked around his pendant. So much unknown and unsaid. He should’ve told Dante the truth when they met. Now he feared it was too late. The moment had long passed. Sighing, Lucien released the pendant with a final caress.
He listened to the still house—the tick-tock of the pendulum clock in the hall, the creak of old wood and old foundations, the sunny buzz of life beyond the shaded windows.
Lucien relaxed into the easy chair, allowing himself to doze/ meditate. Several minutes passed. A half hour. The rosy light of dawn faded to gray. The curtains darkened. Rain clicked against the roof tiles, spattered the stone walk.
A prickle of rage, the deep ache of an old hurt reopened, roused Lucien. His head lifted. Apprehension twisted like barbed wire around the length of his spine.
His child no longer struggled with Sleep. He was wide-awake.
----
7
Closer than She’d Ever Been
« ^ »
H ER NUDE BODY LAY face-up on the rumpled bed, her hands cuffed to the bedposts, legs spread, a black stocking wrapped and knotted around her throat. Stab wounds punctured her breasts and stomach. Long dark hair partially veiled her face, which was turned toward the door. Blood and foam flecked her lips and her tongue protruded slightly. Mascara and eyeliner and dried tears streaked her face. Her half-lidded gaze seemed to stare straight at Heather.
Carved into each milky-white inner thigh was the anarchy symbol.
Blood dripped onto the carpet. Heather’s gaze followed the blood up to the soaked sheets, then up blood-streaked forearms to the vertically slit wrists. Her vision narrowed down to the falling drops of blood. Just died. Minutes ? A half
Has another finally been born ? Hidden in the mortal world ?
Lucien’s wings tuck into their pouches on his back as he crouches in front of the youth. Pain pierces him. Drawing his shields tight, Lucien flexes away the youth’s unwanted agony .
“ Child .”
The night-haired youth doesn’t respond. His hands open, trembling, and the blue glow fades, then vanishes, like a snuffed flame. The thing he held scampers away, bright black eyes gleaming in the moonlight .
A wharf rat, Lucien realizes in surprise. Or, at least what used to be a wharf rat. The former rat scurries to the edge of the wharf and off. Its many pairs of translucent and delicate dragonfly-like wings lift it uncertainly into the night. It flies away .
Forever altered by a creawdwr ’s touch .
“ Child,” Lucien says again, and tips the youth’s face up with a taloned finger .
He is too stunned by recognition—the dark, intelligent eyes, the cheekbones, the curve of the lips—to even fend the boy off as he uncoils from the wharf. Lucien falls back as the boy wraps strong, slender arms around him and sinks his fangs into Lucien’s throat .
Heat radiates from the boy as he gulps down Lucien’s blood, heat and hunger and a deep, deep grief. Lucien holds him for a moment, allowing him to feed, allowing the youth to pin him to the wharf’s old wood with a leather-clad thigh. He smells of smoky autumn fires and November frost, sharp and clean and intoxicating. The youth’s pain and near madness batters at Lucien’s shields like an unrelenting sledgehammer .
He looks just like her .
Not possible .
Her son…
Gently, Lucien breaks the boy’s steel-muscled grip and rests a hand against his fevered temple. He pours healing energy into the boy, dousing the fire ravaging his mind and easing him into sleep. The youth slumps against Lucien, his bloodied face smearing a red trail along Lucien’s shoulder and chest .
Lucien pushes aside the tangled black hair and gazes into the boy’s white face. He stares in wonder. Trails a finger along the boy’s jawline. Pushes his lip up and looks at the slender fangs. Cold seeps into Lucien .
Where is his mother ?
Genevieve…
Lucien opened his eyes, fingers still locked around his pendant. So much unknown and unsaid. He should’ve told Dante the truth when they met. Now he feared it was too late. The moment had long passed. Sighing, Lucien released the pendant with a final caress.
He listened to the still house—the tick-tock of the pendulum clock in the hall, the creak of old wood and old foundations, the sunny buzz of life beyond the shaded windows.
Lucien relaxed into the easy chair, allowing himself to doze/ meditate. Several minutes passed. A half hour. The rosy light of dawn faded to gray. The curtains darkened. Rain clicked against the roof tiles, spattered the stone walk.
A prickle of rage, the deep ache of an old hurt reopened, roused Lucien. His head lifted. Apprehension twisted like barbed wire around the length of his spine.
His child no longer struggled with Sleep. He was wide-awake.
----
7
Closer than She’d Ever Been
« ^ »
H ER NUDE BODY LAY face-up on the rumpled bed, her hands cuffed to the bedposts, legs spread, a black stocking wrapped and knotted around her throat. Stab wounds punctured her breasts and stomach. Long dark hair partially veiled her face, which was turned toward the door. Blood and foam flecked her lips and her tongue protruded slightly. Mascara and eyeliner and dried tears streaked her face. Her half-lidded gaze seemed to stare straight at Heather.
Carved into each milky-white inner thigh was the anarchy symbol.
Blood dripped onto the carpet. Heather’s gaze followed the blood up to the soaked sheets, then up blood-streaked forearms to the vertically slit wrists. Her vision narrowed down to the falling drops of blood. Just died. Minutes ? A half
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