his eyes
lightened to a rich, honey-gold, as if a candle had been lit behind
them. The pounding on the door receded, fading into nothingness,
and the cool breeze flowing through the window turned warm.
Incredibly, she felt some of the stiffness leave her shoulders.
For a moment—until his lips found her neck
and she faltered in cold panic, the soft touch causing her heart to
kick violently against her ribs. Her hands tightened on his
sleeves, instinct warring with instinct—to push him away, to pull
him closer, the will to live fighting with the need to die.
“I’m not doing this correctly,” he said,
feeling her tremble. “You should not feel fear.”
“Everyone fears death, unless they have
nothing to live for.”
“And you have much.”
She nodded, mutely. She hadn’t realized until
that moment how focused she’d been on all that she’d lost, instead
of on what remained. She didn’t want to die. She wasn’t supposed to die, not here, not now. She knew it with a
certainty at war with all reason.
“I cannot do this if you fight me,” he told
her simply. “Humans tell stories of us forcibly Changing them
against their will, but that rarely happens. It is difficult enough
when the subjects are willing, when they want what we have to
offer.”
“And what is that?” she asked, trying for
calm despite the panic ringing in her bones.
“For most? Power, or the possibility of it.
Wealth—few masters are poor, and their servants want for nothing.
And, of course, the chance to cheat death. Quite a few transition
in middle age, when their bodies begin to show wear, when they
realize how short a mortal life really is.”
Gillian shook her head in amazement, that
anyone would throw away something so precious for such scant
reward. “But few become masters, isn’t that right?” He nodded. “So
the power is in another’s hands, as is the wealth, to give or
withhold as he chooses. And as for death—” This didn’t feel like a
cheat to her. It felt like giving up. It felt like the end.
The vampire smiled, softly, sadly. “You are a
poor subject, Mistress Urswick. You are not grasping enough. What
you want, you already have; you merely wish to keep it.”
“But I’m not going to keep it, am I?” The
terror faded as that certainty settled into her bones. She had one
chance, here and now, and it would never come again. She could let
fear rob her of it and die, or she could master herself and live. A
strange life, to be sure, but life, nonetheless.
“Do you wish to proceed?” he asked her,
watching her face.
Gillian took a deep breath, and then she
nodded.
Chapter Eight
He didn’t tell her again that this might not
work. He didn’t tell her anything at all. But golden threads of a
magic she didn’t know suddenly curled around her hands where they
rested on his arms. She had always thought vampires were creatures
of the dark, but the same bright magic shone around him as his
hands came up to bracket her face.
“I don’t know your first name,” he whispered,
against her lips.
“Gillian,” she told him, hearing her voice
tremble.
“Gillian,” he repeated, and her name in his
voice was full of so much longing that it coiled in her belly, dark
and liquid, like her own emotion. And perhaps it was. Because when
he suddenly bit down on her lower lip, the sensation left her
trembling, but not with fear.
He made a low noise in his throat and pulled
her close. The same strange magic that twisted around them sparked
off his fingers wherever they touched her, like rubbed wool in
winter. The tiny flashes of sensation had her arching helplessly
against him, one hand clenched on his shoulder, the other buried in
the heavy silk of his hair.
She could taste her own blood, hot and
coppery, on his tongue as he drove the kiss deep, and it drew a
sound from her, something animal and desperate. She gulped for air
when he pulled back, almost a sob. She wanted—she wanted more than
this; his
lightened to a rich, honey-gold, as if a candle had been lit behind
them. The pounding on the door receded, fading into nothingness,
and the cool breeze flowing through the window turned warm.
Incredibly, she felt some of the stiffness leave her shoulders.
For a moment—until his lips found her neck
and she faltered in cold panic, the soft touch causing her heart to
kick violently against her ribs. Her hands tightened on his
sleeves, instinct warring with instinct—to push him away, to pull
him closer, the will to live fighting with the need to die.
“I’m not doing this correctly,” he said,
feeling her tremble. “You should not feel fear.”
“Everyone fears death, unless they have
nothing to live for.”
“And you have much.”
She nodded, mutely. She hadn’t realized until
that moment how focused she’d been on all that she’d lost, instead
of on what remained. She didn’t want to die. She wasn’t supposed to die, not here, not now. She knew it with a
certainty at war with all reason.
“I cannot do this if you fight me,” he told
her simply. “Humans tell stories of us forcibly Changing them
against their will, but that rarely happens. It is difficult enough
when the subjects are willing, when they want what we have to
offer.”
“And what is that?” she asked, trying for
calm despite the panic ringing in her bones.
“For most? Power, or the possibility of it.
Wealth—few masters are poor, and their servants want for nothing.
And, of course, the chance to cheat death. Quite a few transition
in middle age, when their bodies begin to show wear, when they
realize how short a mortal life really is.”
Gillian shook her head in amazement, that
anyone would throw away something so precious for such scant
reward. “But few become masters, isn’t that right?” He nodded. “So
the power is in another’s hands, as is the wealth, to give or
withhold as he chooses. And as for death—” This didn’t feel like a
cheat to her. It felt like giving up. It felt like the end.
The vampire smiled, softly, sadly. “You are a
poor subject, Mistress Urswick. You are not grasping enough. What
you want, you already have; you merely wish to keep it.”
“But I’m not going to keep it, am I?” The
terror faded as that certainty settled into her bones. She had one
chance, here and now, and it would never come again. She could let
fear rob her of it and die, or she could master herself and live. A
strange life, to be sure, but life, nonetheless.
“Do you wish to proceed?” he asked her,
watching her face.
Gillian took a deep breath, and then she
nodded.
Chapter Eight
He didn’t tell her again that this might not
work. He didn’t tell her anything at all. But golden threads of a
magic she didn’t know suddenly curled around her hands where they
rested on his arms. She had always thought vampires were creatures
of the dark, but the same bright magic shone around him as his
hands came up to bracket her face.
“I don’t know your first name,” he whispered,
against her lips.
“Gillian,” she told him, hearing her voice
tremble.
“Gillian,” he repeated, and her name in his
voice was full of so much longing that it coiled in her belly, dark
and liquid, like her own emotion. And perhaps it was. Because when
he suddenly bit down on her lower lip, the sensation left her
trembling, but not with fear.
He made a low noise in his throat and pulled
her close. The same strange magic that twisted around them sparked
off his fingers wherever they touched her, like rubbed wool in
winter. The tiny flashes of sensation had her arching helplessly
against him, one hand clenched on his shoulder, the other buried in
the heavy silk of his hair.
She could taste her own blood, hot and
coppery, on his tongue as he drove the kiss deep, and it drew a
sound from her, something animal and desperate. She gulped for air
when he pulled back, almost a sob. She wanted—she wanted more than
this; his
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