Night's Honor
Page 31

He almost burst out laughing, and considering that he had come to mirth when he had started out in anger, this conversation had ended up having a great deal of merit after all. “On that note, I believe we’re done for tonight. Please see Raoul on your way out, so that he can draw blood.”
She rose to her feet, but didn’t leave immediately. When he glanced up, she looked at him steadily. “Thank you again, for taking a chance on me,” she said. “I promise, you won’t regret it.”
Oh querida, he thought. I already regret it.
But he would not say so and crush such sincerity, so instead he smiled and nodded. He watched as she left, easing the door closed behind her.
Alone at last, he poured another glass of bloodwine, but the drink had lost its savor, so he set it aside and lost himself in the soothing contemplation of the fire, and tried to let the silence wash away the strain of the last six weeks.
It wouldn’t leave so quickly or easily. Scraps of memory from the last several weeks kept playing through his mind. The pressure on Julian right now was extreme, and therefore so, too, was the pressure on him.
There was nothing else he could do but hold steady in the storm. He sent out his people to gather as much information as he could, while his gut told him that they stood on the brink of some event.
The tension within the demesne was too high. Something must occur to release it, some event that destroyed the peace. Someone’s temper would flare. Loyalties that were already tenuous would snap.
The two likeliest candidates for trouble were Justine and Darius. If they weren’t the actual instigators, still, either one would be quick to try to seize power at the slightest provocation.
Both were very old Vampyres, much older than he. While Justine had come from Britannia, Darius had been turned only a few hundred years after Julian, during the decline of the Roman Empire.
Like all Vampyres, they retained the core identities they’d had while they were human. Darius had always been overly fond of the gladiator arena, and Justine’s beautiful face hid a vicious wolverine.
Neither of them had ever truly embraced the idea of the Nightkind demesne. They had no interest in protecting or preserving areas for other creatures of the night, or banding together to create a cohesive political unit. They certainly had no interest in any idea or cause that was greater than themselves.
They were wholly self-involved, quick to violence and eager for self-gain. He would have long since killed them both, if he could have gotten away with it.
He tapped his fingers on the leather-covered arm of his chair. Perhaps the opportunity to do so would still come. He could hope.
A quiet tap at the door interrupted his increasingly dark thoughts. He said, “Come in, Raoul.”
The other man entered, carrying a crystal goblet. The rich, heady scent of blood filled his nostrils as Raoul crossed the room.
Tess’s blood.
Out of nowhere, ravenous desire struck, and his fangs descended. He clenched against it, watching as Raoul approached to offer the fresh blood to him.
For a moment he didn’t trust himself to take it. Then he forced his hands out and very carefully received the goblet with its precious contents. It was warm from her body heat.
“How did she do?” he asked.
“Perfectly well,” Raoul said. “Her issue isn’t with giving blood; it’s with you taking it. She said it was all quite straightforward and clinical, like giving blood at the Red Cross.”
“Thank you,” he managed to say. When the other man made as if to linger, Xavier told him, “Good night.”
Hesitating only for a moment, Raoul inclined his head. “Good night.”
As Xavier waited for Raoul to exit the room and leave him in privacy, his hands started to shake. Bloody hell.
He was not an animal. He was not.
He was a thinking and feeling, rational and ethical creature. He would not be ruled by this storm of feeling, whatever it was. Moving with care, he set aside the goblet and gripped the arms of his chair.
A direct blood offering was a powerful act. Drinking from the vein was intoxicating for the Vampyre, and those who offered up their blood were always in such a vulnerable position. Prone to euphoria and quick to lose control, they ran the risk of offering up everything to the one who drank from them, and some unscrupulous Vampyres did not resist.
Xavier would not, did not behave in such a manner. Not ever. He always took blood from the vein in the wrist, never the neck or anywhere else. Those other places were too intimate. Over the course of his long life, many humans had been desperate to give him everything—blood, body and soul—but he had never fallen into that oubliette of meaningless animal carnality.
Take, eat. This is my body, which was broken for you.
This is my blood, which is shed for you. . . .
People broke faith and committed atrocities in the name of God. He had watched it happen time and again over the centuries. Once he had gone to war over it. He had walked away so long ago from his vows and the Catholic Church, but the profundity of those words from scripture had never left him.
Blood was life. It was sacred.
There was no deeper covenant than a blood covenant.
No matter how much or little material wealth one attained in this world, the only things one truly owned were one’s soul, one’s body. The blood in the goblet was the most powerful thing Tess could ever give to him.
And he wanted the blood more than he had ever wanted anything, this most difficult, hard-won offering, because the intensity of her struggle was what gave the gift such sweet, sweet savor.
When he felt he had regained a measure of control, he picked up the goblet again. It was cooling and losing its potency. Once it had been removed from the donor’s body and turned completely cool, it lost all nutritive qualities for a Vampyre.
The only way to preserve blood in a way that was nourishing for Vampyres was the alchemical process used to make bloodwine, and even then, bloodwine did not nourish as fresh blood did.
He would not disrespect Tess’s offering by allowing it to be wasted, but neither could he bring himself to drink it.
After a few more moments of internal struggle, he growled, frustrated with himself, and launched out of his chair to stride through the spacious, silent house, out the back door and along the path to the attendants’ house, all the while carrying the goblet carefully so that he didn’t spill a single drop.
The night had turned opaque, the moon wreathed with filmy clouds. Most of his attendants stayed up well into the night, and the house was lit in various places. He could hear music playing in one part, while in the den, the TV was playing.