Betrayed (7 page)

Yeah, right. They'd probably want to send me to the vamp equivalent of a shrink, and oh, boy, wouldn't that help me to instill confidence in the masses as the new leader of the Dark Daughters? Not hardly.

Plus, the more time passed, the easier it was for me to convince myself that maybe I'd imagined some of the Elliott encounter. Maybe it hadn't been Elliott (or his ghost or whatever). I didn't know every single one of the fledglings here. There could be another kid here who had ugly, bushy red hair and pudgy, too white skin. Sure, I hadn't seen that kid again, but still. And about the weird-smelling blood. Well, maybe some fledglings had weird-smelling blood. Like I could possibly be an expert in one month? Also both “ghosts” had glowing red eyes. What had that been about?

The whole thing was giving me a headache.

Ignoring the jumpy, spooky feeling this entire chain of thought was causing, I started to turn resolutely from the wall (and from the subject of ghosts and such) when a movement caught at the corner of my eye. I froze. It was a shape. A body. It was
some
body. The person was standing under the enormous old oak I'd found Nala in last month. His or her back was to me, and he or she was leaning against the tree, head bowed.

Good. It hasn't seen me. I didn't want to know who or what it was. The truth was that I already had enough stress in my life. I didn't need the addition of ghosts of any type. (And, I promised myself, this time I was going to tell Neferet about the weirdly bleeding ghosts that hung out by the school's wall. She was older. She could deal with the stress.) Heart pounding so loud that I swear the sound of it was drowning out Nala's purr, I slowly and quietly started backing away, telling myself firmly that I was never going to walk out here in the middle of the night alone again. Ever. What was I, mentally impaired? Why couldn't I learn the first, or even the second time?

Then my foot came down squarely in the middle of a dry branch.
Crack!
I gasped. Nala grumbled a very loud complaint (I was inadvertently squashing her to my bosom). The head of the figure under the tree snapped up and it turned around. I tensed to get ready to either scream and run from a red-eyed malevolent ghost, or to scream and fight a red-eyed malevolent ghost. Either way a scream would definitely be involved, so I sucked in air and—

“Zoey? Is that you?”

The voice was deep, sexy, and already familiar. “Loren?”

“What are you doing out here?”

He made no move to come closer to me, so out of pure awkward fidgeting I grinned as if I hadn't been scared poo-less just seconds ago, shrugged nonchalantly, and joined him under the tree. “Hi,” I said, trying to sound grown. Then I remembered that he'd asked me a question and I was glad that it was dark enough that my blush wasn't totally obvious. “Oh, I was walking back from the stables and Nala and I decided to take a long-cut.” A long-cut? Had I really said that?

I thought he'd looked tense when I'd walked up to him, but this made him laugh and his completely gorgeous face relaxed. “A long-cut, huh? Hello again, Nala.” He scratched the top of her head and she rudely, but typically, grumbled at him and then leaped neatly from my arms to the ground, shook herself, and still grumbling, padded delicately away.

“Sorry. She's not very sociable.”

He smiled. “Don't worry about it. My cat, Wolverine, reminds me of a grumpy old man.”

“Wolverine?” I raised my eyebrows.

His gorgeous smile went all crooked and boylike and, unbelievably, it made him even more handsome. “Yeah, Wolverine. He chose me as his when I was a third former. That was the year I was completely into the
X-Men
.”

“That name could account for why he's so grumpy.”

“Well, it could have been worse. The year before I couldn't stop watching
Spider-Man
. He came within an inch of being Spidey or Peter Parker.”

“Clearly, you're a great burden for your cat to bear.”

“Wolverine would most definitely agree with you!” He laughed again and I tried hard not to let his overwhelming hotness make me giggle hysterically like a pre-teen at a boy band concert. I was, for the moment, actually
flirting with him! Remain calm. Don't say or do anything idiotic
.

“So, what are you doing way out here?” I asked, ignoring my mind babble.

“Writing haiku.” He lifted his hand and I noticed for the first time that he was holding one of those cool, ultra-expensive leather-bound writer's journals. “I find inspiration being out here, alone, in the hours before dawn.”

“Oh, gosh! I'm sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt you. I'll just say bye and leave you alone.” I waved (like a dork) and started to turn away, but he caught my wrist with his free hand.

“You don't have to go. I find inspiration in more things than being out here alone.”

His hand was warm against my wrist and I wondered if he could feel my pulse jump.

“Well, I don't want to bother you.”

“Don't worry about that. You're not bothering me.” He squeezed my wrist before (sadly) letting it go.

“Okay, so. Haiku.” His touch had left me ridiculously flustered and I tried to regain my facade of good sense. “That's Asian poetry with a set meter count, right?”

His smile made me ever so glad I'd actually paid attention in Mrs. Wienecke's English class last year during the poetry unit.

“That's right. I prefer the five-seven-five format.” He paused and his smile changed. Something about it made my stomach do a little fluttery thing, and his dark, beautiful eyes locked on mine. “Speaking of inspiration—you could help me out.”

“Sure, I'd be happy to,” I said, glad I didn't sound as breathless as I felt.

Still looking into my eyes, he lifted his hand so that it brushed my shoulder. “Nyx has Marked you there.”

It didn't sound like a question, but I nodded. “Yes.”

“I would like to see it. If it wouldn't make you too uncomfortable.”

His voice shivered through me. Logic was telling me that he was only asking to see my tattoos because of how freakishly different they are, and that he was in no way coming on to me. To him I must seem nothing more than a child—a kid—a fledgling with weird Marks and unusual powers. That's what logic was telling me. But his eyes, his voice, the way his hand was still caressing my shoulder—those things were telling me something completely different.

“I'll show it to you.”

I was wearing my favorite jacket—black suede and cut to fit me perfectly. Under it I had on a deep purple tank. (Yes, it's the end of November, but I don't feel the cold like I did before I was Marked. None of us do.) I started to shrug out of the jacket.

“Here, let me help you.”

He was standing very close to me, in front and to the side. He reached up with his right hand, caught the collar of my jacket with his fingers, and slid it over and down my shoulder so that it pooled around my elbows.

Loren should be looking at my partially bare shoulder, gawking at the tattoos there that not one other fledgling or vampyre that I knew of had ever had. But he wasn't. He was still staring into my eyes. And suddenly something happened within me. I stopped feeling like a goofy, jittery, dorky teenage girl. The look in his eyes touched the woman inside me, awakening her, and as this new me stirred I found a calm confidence in myself that I had rarely known before. Slowly, I reached up and pushed the small strap of my ribbed cotton tank over my shoulder so that it joined my half-discarded jacket. Then, still meeting his eyes, I swept my long hair out of the way, lifted my chin, and turned my body slightly, giving him a clear view of the back of my shoulder, which was now completely bare except for the slim line of my black bra.

He continued to meet my gaze for several more seconds, and I could feel the cool breath of the night air and the caress of the nearly full moon on the exposed skin of my breast and shoulder and back. Very deliberately, Loren moved even closer to me, holding my upper arm while he looked at the back of my shoulder.

“It's incredible.” His voice was so low it was almost a whisper. I felt his fingertip lightly trace the labyrinthlike spiral pattern that was, except for the exotic-looking runes interspersed around the spirals, much like my facial Mark. “I've never seen anything like this. It's as if you're an ancient priestess who has materialized in our time. How blessed we are to have you, Zoey Redbird.”

He said my name like a prayer. His voice mixed with his touch made me shiver as goose bumps lifted on my skin.

“I'm sorry. You must be cold.” Gently, but quickly, Loren pulled up my tank strap and my jacket.

“I wasn't shivering because I was cold.” I heard myself say the words, and couldn't decide if I should be proud of myself or shocked at my boldness.

“
Cream and silk as one
How I long to taste and touch
The moon watches us
.”

His eyes never left mine as he recited the poem. His voice, which was usually so practiced, so perfect, had gone all deep and rough, like he was having a hard time speaking. As if his voice had the ability to heat me, I was so flushed that I could feel my blood pounding fiery rivers through my body. My thighs tingled and it was hard to catch my breath.
If he kisses me I might explode
. The thought shocked me into speaking. “Did you write that just now?” This time my voice sounded as breathless as I felt.

He shook his head slightly, a smile barely touching his lips. “No. It was written centuries ago by an ancient Japanese poet about how his lover looked naked under the full moon.”

“It's beautiful,” I said.

“You're beautiful,” he said, and cupped my cheek in his hand. “And tonight you have been my inspiration. Thank you.”

I could feel myself leaning into him, and I swear his body responded. I may not be highly experienced. And, hell yes, I'm still a virgin. But I'm not an utter moron (most of the time). I know when a guy is into me. And this guy—for that moment—was definitely into me. I covered his hand with my own, and forgetting about everything, including Erik and the fact that Loren was an adult vamp and I was a fledgling, I willed him to kiss me, willed him to touch me more. We stared at each other. We were both breathing hard. Then, within the space of an instant, his eyes flickered and changed from dark and intimate to dark and distant. He dropped his hand from my face and moved a step back. I felt his withdrawal like an icy wind.

“It was nice to see you, Zoey. And thanks again for allowing me to look at your Mark.” His smile was polite and proper. He gave me a little nod that was almost a formal bow, and then he walked away.

I didn't know whether I should scream in frustration, cry in embarrassment, or growl and be pissed. Frowning and muttering to myself, I ignored the fact that my hands were shaking and marched back to the dorm. This was definitely an I-need-my-best-friend emergency.

Still mumbling to myself about men and mixed messages, I entered the front room of the dorm and wasn't surprised to see Stevie Rae and the Twins clustered together watching one of the TVs. Clearly, they'd been waiting for me. I felt an incredible wash of relief. I didn't want the whole world (translation—the Twins and/or Damien) to know what had just happened, but I was going to tell Stevie Rae every single, tiny, juicy detail about Loren—and let her help me figure out what the hell all of it meant.

“Uh, Stevie Rae, I'm clueless about our, uh, Soc paper that's due Monday. Maybe you could help me with it. I mean, it won't take too long and—” I started, but Stevie Rae interrupted me without taking her eyes from the TV.

“Wait, Z, come here. You gotta see this.” She motioned me over to the TV. The Twins' eyes were glued to the screen, too.

I frowned when I noticed how tense they all looked, causing the subject of Loren to (temporarily) slide from my mind. “What's going on?” They were watching a rebroadcast of the local Fox 23 evening news. Chera Kimiko, the anchor, was talking and some familiar pictures of Woodward Park were flashing on the screen. “It's hard to believe that Chera isn't a vamp. She is abnormally gorgeous,” I said automatically.

“Shush and listen to what she's saying,” Stevie Rae said.

Continuing to be surprised by how weird they were acting, I shushed and listened.

“
So, to repeat our lead story tonight
—
the search continues for Union High School teenager Chris Ford. The seventeen-year-old disappeared yesterday after football practice
.” The picture on the screen was a shot of Chris in his football uniform. I let out a little yelp as the name and face registered.

“Hey—I know him!”

“That's why I called you over here,” Stevie Rae said.

“
Search parties are combing the area around Utica Square and Woodward Park, which is where he was last seen
.”

“That's really close to here,” I said.

“Shush!” Shaunee said.

“We know!” Erin said.

“
So far there are no leads as to why he was in the Woodward Park area. Chris's mother said she didn't even know her son knew the way to Woodward Park, she's never known him to go there before. Mrs. Ford also said that she expected him home right after football practice. He has now been missing for more than twenty-four hours. If anyone has any information that might help the police locate Chris, please call Crime Stoppers. You may remain anonymous
.”

Chera went on to another story and everyone unfroze.

“So, you know him?” Shaunee asked.

“Yeah, but not real well. I mean, he's one of Union's star running backs and when I was kinda sorta dating Heath—you guys know he's Broken Arrow's quarterback?”

They nodded impatiently.

“Well, he used to drag me to parties with him, and all the football jocks knew each other, so Chris and his cousin Jon were at a bunch of them. Rumor has it they've graduated from getting trashed on cheap beer to getting trashed on cheap beer while they pass around nasty joints.” I looked at Shaunee, who had been showing an unusual amount of interest in the newscast. “And before you ask, yes, he is as cute in real life as he was in his picture.”