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Authors: Joey W. Hill
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of the beauty she used to have. “You’re kind. So now I know.
None of this . . . real. ’S okay. I used to imagine I was her. Your arms . . . around me. I know she felt safe, so safe . . . and loved, with you. I wanted that. Never knew what it was to want that, until I was so afraid and alone, all the time. So alone . . . dark . . .”
“You’re not alone now,” he said. The remnants of the rage he’d felt in the tomb died away before the confusion in those dove gray irises. He wasn’t a kind man, but he wasn’t so hard-shelled he wouldn’t offer comfort to a delusional woman, even as it twisted in him, brought back dark memories of his own. “I wish I could have kept her safe. It was a lie.”
“No.” She responded immediately, though he’d expected his words to escape her notice. Her voice dropped to a bare whisper that seemed to make it easier for her to talk, overlaid as it was by that death rattle. “On the floor beside his bed, his chain around my neck so tight I could hardly breathe, I’d imagine I was her. In a tent with you, on soft cushions. Your body wrapped around mine, your strong arms holding me close. The kind of possession a woman wants . . .” She smiled that wistful smile again, and her fingers curled around his, a weak grasp. “You gave us that, my lord. I don’t want it to be a lie. I think she knew. You would have died to keep her safe. That was what mattered.”
When Mason laid a hand against her face, she turned hers into it. He could tear her skin, it was so thin and dry. Her lips were chapped, teeth bloodstained from whatever she’d been coughing up. As a vampire, he had little firsthand knowledge of death and disease, but he’d seen it claim humans again and again, been appalled at what mortality could inflict, but this was beyond that. This was an affliction caused by mortality and immortality both, a limbo state that had let her live far longer than she would have as a mere human in the same condition. And yet, somewhere in the midst of what must have been agonizing pain, chronic fatigue and debilitating lethargy, she’d followed Farida’s memoirs, stepped into her shoes.
“How did you find us, Jessica?” he asked, his voice quiet, more gentle now, letting her drift in her imaginings, since it seemed to comfort her.
“Book. Followed Farida’s book. Found book, nobody wanted it. Raithe thought it was just a silly romance . . .” Her head moved, nestling into his hand. Her face was small and thin, cupped easily in his palm. “Studied. Used to be a researcher. Must sleep now.
Time to go to sleep. Can we . . . Want to ride with you tonight, my lord. On your horse. Take me with you. That’s what she wanted, that night . . . standing at the opening of her tent. Don’t want to be alone. Not ever again.”
“No, not ever again,” he agreed, his throat constricted by her words, his memories, as she drifted off. Her heartbeat stuttered again, and his own stuttered with it. She’d be gone soon. Maybe even a few minutes. At least he’d ensured her last moments were relatively peaceful.
But was that all this young woman deserved? No one was ever going to accuse him of being a humanitarian. Killing those two in Farida’s tomb had been no more a blight on his conscience than wiping camel dung from his boots, and he’d disposed of them as dis tastefully. He had no care for who they were, or their circumstances. But this woman . . . she’d protected Farida’s body. Stood over her, with no chance of defending herself, and he’d heard the raw emotion in her voice.
Something has to be sacred . . .
Though the third mark had not set, Raithe was pulling her into the grave with him in the end. However, Mason had known of two vampires third-marking the same servant. Rare situations, usually vampires who had married or bonded, and trusted one another enough to share that link. It was typically a mistake, for if either vampire died, the servant died, and the surviving
None of this . . . real. ’S okay. I used to imagine I was her. Your arms . . . around me. I know she felt safe, so safe . . . and loved, with you. I wanted that. Never knew what it was to want that, until I was so afraid and alone, all the time. So alone . . . dark . . .”
“You’re not alone now,” he said. The remnants of the rage he’d felt in the tomb died away before the confusion in those dove gray irises. He wasn’t a kind man, but he wasn’t so hard-shelled he wouldn’t offer comfort to a delusional woman, even as it twisted in him, brought back dark memories of his own. “I wish I could have kept her safe. It was a lie.”
“No.” She responded immediately, though he’d expected his words to escape her notice. Her voice dropped to a bare whisper that seemed to make it easier for her to talk, overlaid as it was by that death rattle. “On the floor beside his bed, his chain around my neck so tight I could hardly breathe, I’d imagine I was her. In a tent with you, on soft cushions. Your body wrapped around mine, your strong arms holding me close. The kind of possession a woman wants . . .” She smiled that wistful smile again, and her fingers curled around his, a weak grasp. “You gave us that, my lord. I don’t want it to be a lie. I think she knew. You would have died to keep her safe. That was what mattered.”
When Mason laid a hand against her face, she turned hers into it. He could tear her skin, it was so thin and dry. Her lips were chapped, teeth bloodstained from whatever she’d been coughing up. As a vampire, he had little firsthand knowledge of death and disease, but he’d seen it claim humans again and again, been appalled at what mortality could inflict, but this was beyond that. This was an affliction caused by mortality and immortality both, a limbo state that had let her live far longer than she would have as a mere human in the same condition. And yet, somewhere in the midst of what must have been agonizing pain, chronic fatigue and debilitating lethargy, she’d followed Farida’s memoirs, stepped into her shoes.
“How did you find us, Jessica?” he asked, his voice quiet, more gentle now, letting her drift in her imaginings, since it seemed to comfort her.
“Book. Followed Farida’s book. Found book, nobody wanted it. Raithe thought it was just a silly romance . . .” Her head moved, nestling into his hand. Her face was small and thin, cupped easily in his palm. “Studied. Used to be a researcher. Must sleep now.
Time to go to sleep. Can we . . . Want to ride with you tonight, my lord. On your horse. Take me with you. That’s what she wanted, that night . . . standing at the opening of her tent. Don’t want to be alone. Not ever again.”
“No, not ever again,” he agreed, his throat constricted by her words, his memories, as she drifted off. Her heartbeat stuttered again, and his own stuttered with it. She’d be gone soon. Maybe even a few minutes. At least he’d ensured her last moments were relatively peaceful.
But was that all this young woman deserved? No one was ever going to accuse him of being a humanitarian. Killing those two in Farida’s tomb had been no more a blight on his conscience than wiping camel dung from his boots, and he’d disposed of them as dis tastefully. He had no care for who they were, or their circumstances. But this woman . . . she’d protected Farida’s body. Stood over her, with no chance of defending herself, and he’d heard the raw emotion in her voice.
Something has to be sacred . . .
Though the third mark had not set, Raithe was pulling her into the grave with him in the end. However, Mason had known of two vampires third-marking the same servant. Rare situations, usually vampires who had married or bonded, and trusted one another enough to share that link. It was typically a mistake, for if either vampire died, the servant died, and the surviving
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