Beloved Vampire (25 page)

There were too many dangerous moments when she wished she could stay like this, in this stasis of not going forward or moving back. No race of any kind left to run.

Another form of cage,
habiba
. One of your own making. You have so much more to give to yourself than that.

She should view his interjections as a reminder that she was watched, guarded. A prisoner. But then, she’d expected the third mark to be utilized as the second had, to exploit her strengths, deepen her weaknesses, expose her vulnerabilities. Instead, Mason appeared to be using it as a way of knowing when she needed reassurance. When the dark shadows were starting to claw at her, his bits of dry humor drove them back again. When the shadows fell upon her like an ambush, the comforting embrace of his firm command helped her take a deep breath and get a grip.

There were worse things than a cage of her own making, weren’t there? Sometimes she just wanted to get away, as far and fast as possible, for there was no way a vampire could be this trustworthy. She was trapped between catatonia and a beast’s mindless need to run from any perceived danger. Her desires and needs vacillated between the two, her fucked-up head turning on her.

With no answer for that, and feeling darkness rising with the frustration, she rose from the bench to begin her sparring routine. At least she was starting to anticipate the psychotic episodes. Maybe, like a journey through a minefield, if she could keep rerouting herself around the explosive patches, she’d be okay.

Punches, kicks, twists, lunges, turns. Retreats, aggressive advances. In addition to the fitness equipment and weapons, there were several attack dummies and a sizable punching bag. Much better equipment than she’d had at Raithe’s. She’d been like Rocky Balboa there, willing to use slabs of hanging meat if needed to keep herself sharp.

Here, everything was provided, except there was no way to lock the doors of her mind against what she fought, keep it from creeping in a red haze to the forefront of her mind. As she turned, twisted and rolled in the prescribed movements, the crescent gathering of dummies became faces. Raithe. His friends. Laughing.

There was one who’d had horrid breath, like stale blood and rotting flesh. He’d insisted on kissing her, and broke her nose when she couldn’t take it anymore and bit him. While she writhed on the floor in agony, he pinned her down, tasted the blood coming from her nostrils and kissed her more. With the threat of more pain, he forced her to kiss him back and act as if she were enjoying it. When he at last tore away her clothes and fucked her, her stomach was heaving, her senses more repelled by the aroma than the violation.

Afterward, they’d flogged her for her initial resistance, but she knew they loved how much she fought. They got off on proving to her that there was no strength that prevailed against them, that couldn’t be turned to provoke their sick desires. Or her own. But still she fought, because it wasn’t about proving something to them. It was about proving to herself she hadn’t given up.

At that point, under those conditions, she’d been isolated, one person with a million voices in her head, all the different fragments of herself they unearthed but she discovered, learning how to deal with the unthinkable. But now she didn’t know how to end her own isolation, how to escape those voices.

Snarling, she hurled herself at the dummy, hammering it with her fists, driving it back on its sturdy base, the rubber grips for floor protection squeaking in protest. As the memories continued to crowd in, she hammered harder. Her breath labored and she started to scream, rage. She let the episode take her, knowing she was safe to lose control here, surrounded by weapons and no opponents, things willing to take her wrath.

But that reality disappeared quickly, the moment she gave herself over to it. She wouldn’t be happy until she took it down, took him apart. Grappling with it, she tore at his flesh until sawdust spilled forth, bone marrow and blood in her mind’s eye. She yanked at the cord binding it to the frame, ripped it loose and took it to the ground. It felt good to kick and pummel it some more, straddle and hold it between her thighs. Make him feel what it was like to be helpless. How long would he have to be tortured before he’d create a nuclear bomb in his soul, one that could turn the world to ash if he were given the chance to use it?

At the brush of contact behind her, she whirled, one arm striking out, her leg coming up and around to take out a knee, even though she didn’t have a grip, let alone a position, on the opponent. Mason flashed her a feral smile, just out of range. He took a combative stance. “Go,
habiba
,” he said.

A
real
opponent. Blood and bone. Her mind registered he was vampire, and therefore undefeatable in hand-to-hand, but the other part of her was as eager to fight him because he
was
vampire. She spun forward, punching, and he was ready, blocking the moves, countering with defensive techniques that left him open to further attacks. She was willing to accommodate, coming at him fast and furious.

He caught the roundhouse kick, spun her off her feet. She landed like a cat, sprang back at him, almost managed to connect with his temple before he turned, letting her slide past him, his hands briefly clasping her waist, thigh brushing her buttock before he faced her again. A growl and she closed in again.

So it went, up and back the length of the room, as she practiced every move she had. He countered all of them, but moved back from none, letting her use her full strength and skill. Raithe began to fade, along with the cruel faces of his companions, and her focus sharpened on Mason, the shift of his eyes, his body language. Trying to anticipate his graceful warrior movements, she tried new combinations, learning as she went, emulating some of his maneuvers.

He started placing directions in her mind, hints to deal with his greater height and strength. If she overextended herself, he’d catch her, his capable hands steadying the leg, palm sliding with intimate familiarity along the back of her thigh or hip before he released her. He often turned her punch with an inside block and a twist that would capture the wrist. He’d twist her into his body, holding her back against him for a brush of lips along her temple before he let her go, fingers trailing her arm, and they engaged again.

Because it was the first time she’d plumbed the depths of her new third-marked abilities, she found her speed had tripled, her strength as well. As she pushed those to the limit, she found she felt almost invincible, dangerously so. But she didn’t care. It was exhilarating. All easy, flowing movements, no pauses, like a continuous dance where the music never stopped. Yet, by the time she was gasping for air, she wasn’t sure if it was the physical exertion or other reasons that had her breathless. He was the one who at last called a halt to it.

“Enough,
habiba.
Get some water and walk it off.” He nodded toward a pitcher on a small bistro table that had apparently been brought in during their sparring.

She drew a deep breath, letting her mind go blank as she turned away. Spinning, she brought her foot around in the roundhouse again, only this time she connected with that perfect jawbone, snapping his head back and causing him to stumble before she finished in a ready pose, hands up, one leg back. A follow-up was futile, for he could take her down in an instant. The point was she’d gotten one in under his guard.

Mason straightened, swiping a thumb along his bottom lip to see the blood where his fang had speared his tongue. One fucking hell of a kick. She’d caught him with the blank-mind trick, something that wouldn’t have worked if he’d been anticipating, because her intent would have flashed through her mind before the move. However, he’d been too damn worked up watching her fight, how she kept the anger and passion channeled. He couldn’t help but be stirred and distracted by the athletic precision of the slim body, how she pushed until her muscles trembled.

He bared his teeth in a smile. “Nice one. But a cheap shot, if this was an honorable match.”

“Honor doesn’t mean shit,” she said bluntly. “Winning does.”

“Well, in that case . . .”

Jessica knew it was coming, reflexively tried to dodge, but of course that wouldn’t work. He took her down to the mat on her back, sweeping her legs, but catching her on one arm, so she landed with all the violence of a babe being laid in her cradle. Which of course put him above her. The copper hair he had clasped in a tail at his nape fell forward, brushing her face.

She saw the challenge in his vibrant eyes. She’d wanted that, damn her damaged soul. She, who’d hungered for her freedom such that she’d tear the flesh from her bones to get it, needed to feel the tautness of Mason’s leash on her body. It made no sense.

Weary with it, she closed her eyes. “I know. You’re going to tell me not to think.”

“Your thoughts can be a liability to you sometimes, Jessica. You’ve been through a great deal. The soul knows how to heal itself, but often only through instinct. The mind derails it.”

“You know, your whole Yoda thing is really annoying.”
Particularly when it’s obvious you don’t take your own advice.

Before he could respond to that, or she could feel moved by the shadows that passed through his gaze, she rolled away and bounced to her feet. Her body was on the tip edge of exhaustion, but she needed more. Her muscles were vibrating from the match. Or maybe it was the proximity of his body, those amber eyes that had her thrumming.

At his arch look, her gaze narrowed.
Big deal. Basically it’s the taste buds responding to the smell of chocolate. Any
chocolate. It doesn’t mean anything.

He cocked his head, but she was already backpedaling. Retreat was the better part of wisdom, to her way of thinking. “I’m going for a run on the beach. Unless my jailer has an objection?”

“I think he’ll run with you,” he said, thwarting her escape attempt.

Muttering a curse, because stifling it was pointless with him in her head like a parasite, she took the nearest exit to the verandah.

Not bothering to wait for him, she followed the winding steps at a quick trot, and loped across the lawn until it became sand. She reached the darkened beach with the reflection of moonlight on the pale sand guiding her.

As she moved to the wet, packed ground, she started to run, falling into a familiar, steady rhythm, recalling her daily workouts from her Rome flat. A morning jog through the narrow, uneven streets, nodding to people she knew, hurdling or sidestepping the cats.

One of the most amazing things to her about Europe had been its vast age. Particularly Rome, part of ancient civilization, a place that had seen so many things grow and change. It was a society built on history, not philosophy. As a novice archaeologist, the contrast with the States, miraculously built on principles, fascinated her.

The vampire running behind and to the right of her had been alive for hundreds of years as well, seeing things grow and change.

And yet he’d fallen in love with a young girl who’d known only the desert, her father’s tents. Maybe he’d found what all students of history did—the situations changed, but people didn’t. She wondered again how old he actually was.

Eight hundred,
habiba.
Give or take a few decades.
As he pulled even with her, a frown crossed his face.
I think I am coming
up on nine hundred, but I’m not certain.

Holy crap.
Raithe had been three hundred. She shot Mason a sidelong glance. Though he could move faster than any animal on the planet, and probably most cars, he was matching her pace with a comfortable stride, a little longer than hers so that she was competitively trying to keep pace with him, pushing herself harder. The manipulation should annoy her, but it didn’t.

Vampires gained in strength and power as they aged. The oldest known vampire was Lady Lyssa, the last queen of the Far East clan. Raithe had discussed her with his companions, though Jess had never met her, for of course she was far above Raithe’s station. He wasn’t influential enough to be invited to the gatherings where Region Masters, overlords and Council members would be. Since he resented that, Raithe claimed not to care about the trappings of civilized hierarchy. To him, they were a farce.

Regardless of his motives, since she was regularly subjected to his savagery, Jess couldn’t agree more.

But Raithe hadn’t completely destroyed her reasoning skills, at least not when she could exhaust herself with physical exercise and distance herself from her fears. Whether or not bolstered by Farida’s writings, her rational mind had told her from the beginning there was something different about Mason. The Council and their rules did exist, which suggested vampires might have an order of sorts. Restrictions on their behavior.

She’d felt power from Mason that would eclipse Raithe’s
and
that of all his friends. What did a vampire do with that kind of power?
Whatever he wants,
the frightened part of her mind told her.

When he lengthened his stride again, she cursed him. “You’re playing with me.”

“Helping you stretch out. Show me how fast you can run. Test the marks. Turn yourself loose like one of my horses. I want to see you fly.”

She considered him out of the corner of her eye. While he wasn’t wearing typical exercise clothing, she didn’t think he’d be kicked out of any gym, considering the way the blue jeans hugged his ass in the right way, and the black T-shirt stretched over his broad shoulders, revealing hard curves of biceps that she had a sudden desire to bite with her nails. At his sidelong look, she frowned and lengthened her stride.

He dropped back a couple paces, so she lost him in her peripheral vision. As her stride lengthened, she felt that third-mark ability kicking in, increasing her speed far beyond what she expected. She was running. Really,
really
running, soaring, bare feet barely hitting the wet sand, the sky and ocean stretching out before her.

There was no Raithe waiting. No sickness or death. Just her, just Jess, running under a wide-open sky, her muscles burning and stretching, and yet begging for more. She dug down to see if she could give them more and miraculously, her body responded, lengthening out, arms pumping, lungs laboring. She
could
fly.