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Nazarach only wanted her and Janvier as his audience?
A sudden pure silence.
Ashwini knew things had begun even before she turned to see Nazarach raising a wineglass. “To intelligent conversation and new beginnings.”
It took her a few seconds to figure out why those words drenched the room in fear. Antoine and Callan sat opposite each other, the old guard and the new. Only one, she thought, was meant to come out of this alive. “Survival of the fittest,” she muttered to herself.
But Frédéric answered. “Not always.” Leaning close, he brushed her shoulder with his. “Sometimes, it’s survival of those who can play the game best.”
She turned to him. “Your sister will get herself killed unless she learns.”
Full lips curved. “Monique is very good at making men do what she wants.”
“Yes, but Nazarach isn’t a man. And I think she might forget that one day.”
Two slow blinks. “She won’t die. Not tonight. Nazarach will humiliate her into submission and that will be enough.”
Ashwini heard an undercurrent of anger in his voice, and it was understandable, but there was something else, something that made her hidden senses recoil. Following his sensual gaze as it stroked over the bare curve of Monique’s shoulder, she shook her head. “Please tell me what I’m thinking is wrong.”
“Everyone else will die,” Frédéric whispered, his refined voice sandpaper against her skin. “It’s better to choose companions from those who’ll remain for eternity.”
Putting down her water glass, she swallowed her gorge. “That’s a unique way of thinking.”
“Far better than Janvier’s.” Frédéric looked across the table, and the two men locked eyes. “He pursues you, but you’ll turn to dust in mere decades if not sooner. Such a relationship is pointless.”
Tracing Janvier’s profile—healthy and unblemished once more—she shook her head. “There’s pleasure in the dance, pleasure you’ll never know.” Because she understood without asking that Monique and Frédéric had been in this unhealthy relationship since long before they were Made.
Frédéric continued to hold Janvier’s gaze. “Whatever pleasure there is, the pain will agonize him far longer.”
“And if Nazarach decides Monique is expendable?” she whispered.
His head snapped toward her, and there was dness in those formerly urbane eyes that made her fear for the kind of vampire he’d become with age. “I’ll destroy anyone who tries to take her from me.”
Ashwini didn’t answer, but she had the thought that Frédéric Beaumont wasn’t going to have a very long life, either. In fact, she, with her pitiful human life span, might outlive this almost-immortal. Because no one could stand against an angel of Nazarach’s power except one of the Cadre of Ten—and if Frédéric didn’t understand that…
Icy fingers of fear crawled up her spine as Nazarach stood, flaring out his wings until they dominated the room, all shimmering amber and terrible beauty. That fear, it was healthy. She held it to her, a shield against the impact of the power coming off him. For the first time, she
truly
saw him, truly understood how very inhuman he was, how completely removed from mortal life.
This being saw them all—vampire and human—as nothing more than interesting, amusing, or irritating toys, depending on his mood.
“I have no quarrel,” the angel began, his voice quiet… and as cutting as an unsheathed blade, “with my vampires sorting out their problems amongst themselves. However, when you take it to this level, you bring my control of you into question.” His gaze went to Antoine, then Simone. They stayed on the terrified female for several long seconds. “Of course,” he said softly, “some of you apparently believe you can do a better job than an angel who has lived seven hundred years. Is that not so,
A sudden pure silence.
Ashwini knew things had begun even before she turned to see Nazarach raising a wineglass. “To intelligent conversation and new beginnings.”
It took her a few seconds to figure out why those words drenched the room in fear. Antoine and Callan sat opposite each other, the old guard and the new. Only one, she thought, was meant to come out of this alive. “Survival of the fittest,” she muttered to herself.
But Frédéric answered. “Not always.” Leaning close, he brushed her shoulder with his. “Sometimes, it’s survival of those who can play the game best.”
She turned to him. “Your sister will get herself killed unless she learns.”
Full lips curved. “Monique is very good at making men do what she wants.”
“Yes, but Nazarach isn’t a man. And I think she might forget that one day.”
Two slow blinks. “She won’t die. Not tonight. Nazarach will humiliate her into submission and that will be enough.”
Ashwini heard an undercurrent of anger in his voice, and it was understandable, but there was something else, something that made her hidden senses recoil. Following his sensual gaze as it stroked over the bare curve of Monique’s shoulder, she shook her head. “Please tell me what I’m thinking is wrong.”
“Everyone else will die,” Frédéric whispered, his refined voice sandpaper against her skin. “It’s better to choose companions from those who’ll remain for eternity.”
Putting down her water glass, she swallowed her gorge. “That’s a unique way of thinking.”
“Far better than Janvier’s.” Frédéric looked across the table, and the two men locked eyes. “He pursues you, but you’ll turn to dust in mere decades if not sooner. Such a relationship is pointless.”
Tracing Janvier’s profile—healthy and unblemished once more—she shook her head. “There’s pleasure in the dance, pleasure you’ll never know.” Because she understood without asking that Monique and Frédéric had been in this unhealthy relationship since long before they were Made.
Frédéric continued to hold Janvier’s gaze. “Whatever pleasure there is, the pain will agonize him far longer.”
“And if Nazarach decides Monique is expendable?” she whispered.
His head snapped toward her, and there was dness in those formerly urbane eyes that made her fear for the kind of vampire he’d become with age. “I’ll destroy anyone who tries to take her from me.”
Ashwini didn’t answer, but she had the thought that Frédéric Beaumont wasn’t going to have a very long life, either. In fact, she, with her pitiful human life span, might outlive this almost-immortal. Because no one could stand against an angel of Nazarach’s power except one of the Cadre of Ten—and if Frédéric didn’t understand that…
Icy fingers of fear crawled up her spine as Nazarach stood, flaring out his wings until they dominated the room, all shimmering amber and terrible beauty. That fear, it was healthy. She held it to her, a shield against the impact of the power coming off him. For the first time, she
truly
saw him, truly understood how very inhuman he was, how completely removed from mortal life.
This being saw them all—vampire and human—as nothing more than interesting, amusing, or irritating toys, depending on his mood.
“I have no quarrel,” the angel began, his voice quiet… and as cutting as an unsheathed blade, “with my vampires sorting out their problems amongst themselves. However, when you take it to this level, you bring my control of you into question.” His gaze went to Antoine, then Simone. They stayed on the terrified female for several long seconds. “Of course,” he said softly, “some of you apparently believe you can do a better job than an angel who has lived seven hundred years. Is that not so,
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