Bloodchild Page 20

  “Aedan? I need to ask you a question.”

  She’d looked up while he was lost in his thoughts and now met his gaze. While her tears had faded, her eyes still gleamed. They seemed to pierce Aedan, and he started, suddenly worried about how much he’d shown of his thoughts on his face.

  “And it’s a personal question,” she continued, “an intrusive question, I know that, but I need you to answer and tell me the truth.”

  He had shown too much; he was sure of it. She knew. Bradan had more than hinted at it before leaving, but she hadn’t mentioned it. But now she was asking, and that wasn’t good. That wasn’t good at all.

  “I don’t think I should answer,” he said, his voice tight with nervousness. “A bodyguard has no right to show feelings for his charge.”

  She rolled her eyes at him.

  “God, are you back to that? I thought you’d accepted that he loves me and I love him and your disapproval doesn’t factor in it.”

  Relief swept through Aedan. Of course she was talking about Bradan. Of course she wouldn’t ask about Aedan himself. How silly of him to think she’d somehow seen more on his face than he meant to show.

  “My apologies,” he offered, automatically leaning forward in a small bow. “Please do ask your question, Dame Vivien. I will do my best to answer it.”

  As long as she didn’t ask about his feelings, he’d answer anything.

  * * * *

  Vivien’s annoyance disappeared as quickly as it had flared up when she saw relief slacken Aedan’s expression. Relief? Why was he relieved? Was she misinterpreting what she saw?

  She observed him more closely, forgetting to ask her question as she wondered what he’d thought she’d ask.

  ‘A bodyguard’, he’d said. Not Brad, not Bradan, but ‘a bodyguard.’ He wasn’t talking about his brother.

  That was why he didn’t show it, wasn’t it? He’d just told her bodyguards shouldn’t show their feelings. He hadn’t been talking about Brad at all. He’d been saying that he, unlike Brad, wouldn’t tell her if he felt anything for her. He might suspect she knew, but he wouldn’t admit to it. Maybe it was better that way.

  Shaking her head, she cleared her mind and asked the question that had been troubling her for too long already.

  “What I meant to ask,” she started, “is this. Brad said you could tell when he and I… when we were close. Intimate.”

  When he gave a small nod, she opened her mouth to continue but realized how awful this had to be for him. He loved her, and he believed he wasn’t allowed to have feelings for her. But from the first day, he’d watched her and Bradan flirt and fall in love and eventually get in bed together. The entire time, he’d felt what Brad felt—what he himself, per his own rules, wouldn’t be allowed to feel even if Vivien loved him rather than his brother.

  No wonder he’d always been so disapproving of them together. How much had it hurt to have their love shoved into his mind through that strange bond?

  Vivien closed her eyes briefly and pushed those questions away. She couldn’t think about that now. There was nothing she could do about Aedan’s feelings—for that matter, there was nothing he would do about them, not that she wanted him to. Brad. Her question was about Brad.

  As much as she tried to focus, however, her question came out as a broken string of false starts and hesitations.

  “Did you feel… Was Brad… While we were dueling, Rhuinn said Brad and Ciara…”

  Humiliation and embarrassment warred through her, sharpening when she chanced a glance at Aedan. His pained expression revealed he understood what she wasn’t quite managing to ask… unless it was an answer in itself?

  “Dame Vivien,” he started, but was interrupted by the familiar sound of chimes announcing someone was asking to Pass Through.

  Vivien jumped to her feet without thinking.

  “Savel will let us know who it is,” Aedan said, but it wasn’t enough to stop her from going toward the door. He followed without another protest.

  She knew she was silly for even daring to hope, but she couldn’t help it. It might be him. It might be Brad. He might be coming back to her after realizing how much she needed him at her side, his support, his confidence, his love. She didn’t care that she was less than dignified, rushing down the steps with Aedan right behind her urging her to please be careful. She just wanted to know—

  Savel appeared in the corridor, coming toward her. He paused when he saw her, and she stilled.

  “Dame Vivien,” he said, inclining his head. “In the Passing Room. It’s Bradan, my lady. He’s asking to Pass Through to talk to you.”

  She felt lightheaded, and she was grateful when Aedan’s hand curled around her arm, holding her steady. Her gratefulness increased when Aedan said, “Thank you, Savel. Our dame will speak to Bradan on her own.”

  She usually hated when he tried to dictate her actions or spoke in her stead, but right now he seemed to know what she wanted, what she would have said if her throat hadn’t been so tight with anticipation, fear, and hope.

  His hand remained on her arm all the way to the Passing Room, a whisper of a touch, not gripping but close enough to help her, should she miss a step in her haste to get to Brad.

  The corridor that led to the Passing Room had never felt so long. Vivien was all but running when she reached the end of it. She heard Aedan close the door behind her, but it felt very distant, barely reaching her conscious mind, just like the colors swirling around the room meant very little to her. The one thing that mattered was Brad’s image, right in the center of the room. Her breath caught in her throat. Before she knew what she was doing, she was focusing her will and taking hold of the Quickening, channeling to open a passage and allow Brad to Pass Through.

  He stepped through the opening as he might have stepped through a door, followed by Ciara. Vivien saw the woman, she saw Aedan stepping forward to put his body between her and Ciara—or was it between her and Brad?—but she didn’t care. She only had eyes for Brad.

  Stifling a sob, she pushed past Aedan and approached Brad. She found herself hesitating in front of his serious expression, but right then he opened his arms to her, and she crossed those final couple of feet, throwing her arms around his neck and burying her face against his shoulder. She noticed the marks on his neck, but she refused to let herself wonder what they meant. He remained still for a handful of seconds before he closed his arms around her. She tightened her own, shutting her eyes to stifle the rising tears.

  “Are you coming back?” she asked, the words muffled against his shoulder.

  When he didn’t immediately answer, she knew the answer was no, knew he wouldn’t stay long. And the longer she remained in his arms now, the harder it would be to let go in a moment.

  Pulling away might have been one of the hardest things she had done of late, maybe even harder than facing Rhuinn in a duel. She had lost when she faced Rhuinn. This time, though, she had an ally. She took a step back, and her shoulder bumped against Aedan’s arm. She expected him to recoil at the contact, but he stayed where he was. Maybe he understood she needed support right now. Or maybe he did, too.

  * * * *

  Bradan had known the question would be voiced, but he’d hoped he would get a few more moments of closeness with Vivien before he had to hurt her again. Watching her move away from him and seek his brother instead broke his heart, and he had trouble finding his words to answer her.

  “Are you staying?” Aedan repeated her question, and Bradan heard the same hope in his voice that he had in hers.

  “I can’t,” he murmured.

  He glanced back toward Ciara. She had followed him when he Passed Through, and she stood behind him, her arms crossed, her expression impassive.

  “I can’t stay,” he said again. “Not yet. I wish I could. Vivien, I swear, I’d like nothing more than to be here with you. It’s tearing me apart inside to have to leave you. But it’d kill me if I hurt you again—”

  “You didn’t hurt m
e,” she interrupted, her eyes pleading.

  He shook his head, and despite himself felt his lips curl up into a thin smile. Of course she’d say that. Of course she’d deny he’d hurt her. Of course she’d say anything to get him to come back. There was one thing she could have done to ensure his return: she could have given him a direct order. He didn’t know whether she realized that was an option, but even if she did, he doubted she’d have done it. He knew she hated giving orders, and to him even more than to others.

  “I did hurt you,” he murmured, and his gaze flicked down to the crook of her neck. The collar of her shirt hid the place where he’d bitten, but he knew there had to be scars, however faint. He’d broken her skin. He could still faintly remember the feel of her blood on his tongue.

  And he still craved it.

  “I can’t come back yet,” he said again. “But I will. I’ll learn to control myself, and I will come back.”

  He only hoped that, by then, she’d still want him to return.

  Something passed through the bond, strong but fleeting, and drew his attention to Aedan. He had one hand on the knife at his waist, and his focus remained on Ciara as though he expected her to attack. What filtered through the bond, though, wasn’t directed at her but at Bradan instead. Bradan couldn’t be sure, not when Aedan was actively muting his feelings, but it felt like sadness.

  Bradan’s throat tightened, and he turned his attention back to Vivien. It didn’t help, far from it. Tears were gleaming in her eyes, though she didn’t shed them—or at least not yet.

  “Why did you come today?” she asked, her voice croaking a little. “Why come to tell me you’re not coming back?”

  Bradan’s hands closed at his sides. He wished he could have held her again, comforted her, brushed those tears away with his fingertips or his lips, but he didn’t dare get close. If he did, he might never leave her again.

  “Because I wanted you to know I still believe in you,” he said. “You’ve only lost one duel. Please don’t give up. Keep training. Keep thinking of new ways to beat him. You did well today. You’ve been using the Quickening for a few short weeks, but you held him off for quite some time. If you keep training, if you believe in yourself like I believe in you, I know you’ll beat him next time.”

  Behind him, Ciara made an impatient noise. Whether she was annoyed he was voicing his hope that her king would be defeated or annoyed he was taking more than the few moments he’d asked her to give him with Vivien, he didn’t know. Nor did he care. She’d agreed that he could come, and that was good enough.

  “I’ll try,” Vivien said.

  For a moment, she looked like she would add something, but in the end she remained quiet. Her gaze focused on something behind him, and he thought she was looking at Ciara. He soon realized she was channeling, reopening the way for him and Ciara to Pass Through. He’d have liked to remain longer, but he’d said what he’d come here to say, and Vivien was clearly trying her best not to cry in front of him—or maybe she was concerned about Ciara.

  He bowed to her, part of him hoping she’d step forward to hug him again, but she remained where she was, trembling slightly but not coming closer. Aedan did, holding his hand out. Bradan noticed for the first time the gleaming Quickening symbol etched in the middle of his palm, and felt both happy that his brother at last had the sign he’d wanted for so long and sad that he hadn’t been there to watch Aedan renew his oath.

  He clasped Aedan’s arm under the elbow, and Aedan clasped his in return. They looked at each other for a few seconds, and although neither of them spoke, a rush of emotions flooded the bond, going both ways.

  Bradan knew his regret and guilt were coming through, along with his determination and loneliness. The same loneliness echoed back at him, right along with guilt, but tinted by pride, too. Pride for what Bradan was doing, for the way he remained away for their dame’s safety, even when he wanted to come back so much.

  Comforted that his brother understood why he’d left—that he not only understood but maybe even approved, too—Bradan let go of him. Aedan held on a couple of seconds longer before he released Bradan’s arm and stepped back.

  “Let’s go,” Ciara said behind Bradan, her first words since they’d entered the Passing Room back in Rhuinn’s palace and she’d instructed the majordomo to contact Vivien’s castle.

  He turned toward her and the passage Vivien was holding open. She Passed Through first. Bradan was about to follow when he turned back one last time to look at his dame and his Maker, his love and his brother, Vivien and Aedan, the two people he loved more than anything—the two people he refused to disappoint or betray.

  “Soon,” he said, trying and failing to deliver the word with a smile.

  As he Passed Through back to Rhuinn’s palace, they both echoed the word back at him.

  “Soon.”

  To be continued in Duels

  Excerpt from

  Ward of the Vampire

  Who in the world would have said no?

  Certainly not me.

  And don’t fool yourself; you wouldn’t have said no either.

  If I’d known what was going to happen… No, even then I’m not sure I’d have refused to go. I couldn’t have. And I mean that quite literally. Couldn’t, as in not physically able to. Not without my body refusing to obey my commands, or losing the simple ability to breathe.

  The biggest holiday bash in New York City, with reportedly a dozen different caterers booked for the event, five bands, everyone from New York’s ‘who’s who’ on the guest list, along with a few A-listers flown straight in by private jet from Hollywood, all that in a renovated mansion—a castle, really—right off Central Park… And of course, one of the most famous yet elusive men in town, a businessman, philanthropist and friend of the arts, just turning forty, and an eminently eligible bachelor…

  Well, at least that was what newspapers, TV anchors and various blogs had been saying since October. I should know. I’d been reading every article and blog post, watching snippets of news where the party was mentioned almost obsessively.

  Why, yes, I did make a scrapbook about it, but that’s part of my job, not a sign that I have OCD, not at all.

  See, I think I was one of the first people not directly involved in the planning of that party to have heard about it. It was mid-August when Miss Delilah, my boss, received the envelope, and she must have been one of the very first guests who did. In the following months, that blue envelope became famous enough that dozens of articles and blogs posts were written about it.

  Someone—someone obsessive, not at all like me—played Sherlock Holmes and discovered that the thick, textured paper from which the envelope and matching stationery were made had been handcrafted in a French monastery, and that the distinctive blue color came from a local flower. I could tell you which flower, but that’s hardly the point and again I’m not that obsessive about it. Really.

  As I was saying, Miss Delilah received the envelope in August, and I got to open it, the way I do all her mail. She wants business correspondence on her desk when she comes down from the penthouse, which is usually around two or three in the afternoon. Personal letters, invitations to Broadway shows, gallery openings and things like that don’t make it to her desk until seven or eight when she’s done with work.

  I knew which pile this would go in as soon as I looked at the return address. It was handwritten in elegant cursive letters, like Miss Delilah’s address. I recognized the sender’s name at once. I knew Morgan Ward to be Miss Delilah’s brother.

  He’d never come to her office, at least not when I was there, but he called, every now and then. He’d never said more than a few words to me—“Mr. Ward for Mrs. Stanford, please.”—but he has the kind of voice that makes you shiver, and never mind what he says.

  You know the kind of voice I mean; one of those rumbling, warm, rich chocolate voices with a touch of whiskey, the kind that any single woman, and probably quite a few married ones, too, would listen
to for hours on end even if it meant listening to something as dull as the entire Federal tax code.

  Or maybe that’s just me.

  I couldn’t recall him writing to her before, and I’d undoubtedly have remembered if he’d sent such a distinctive envelope, closed with a perfect circle of red wax imprinted with a seal in which a W and M were superimposed. It felt old-fashioned and elegant, and I wondered if he’d addressed the envelope and imprinted the wax himself, or if he had a personal assistant to do these things for him.

  I carefully slid a letter opener under the wax to lift it without breaking the seal and pulled out a sheet of blue paper that matched the envelope. The same W and M symbol was embossed in silver in the upper right corner.

  A dozen or so of these letters have appeared in the press or online; you’ve probably come across one or two. Each one is worded a little differently from the others, but they basically all say the same thing: big birthday bash in December, everything red and black, starting at nightfall and until morning, pleasure of your company, in lieu of gift donate to charity, etc.

  Miss Delilah’s letter was different. I must have read it three or four times, so I recall what it said pretty well.

  “Dear Lilah,” it started, and that threw me off. I’ve never heard anyone call Miss Delilah ‘Lilah,’ not even Mr. Stanford before he passed away. It had to be a pet name from when they were kids, I thought at the time, but I’ve learned since then that if it is a pet name, it doesn’t go back that far. But I’ll get to that eventually. Let me go back to the letter for now.

  Dear Lilah,

  I yield.

  You already knew I would, I suppose. Between you and Mother, what chance did I have, really? I’d tell you that there is no need for you to contact her and that I already informed her myself, but that would be robbing you of half your fun. So go ahead, gloat. But rest assured that the party is the only thing I changed my mind about.