Blood Moons (29 page)

"Don't get used to it," Amelia warned. "This is a one-time thing. The higher-ups sent a sort of welcome feast for my arrival. But how could I not share?"

"You are a kind, generous woman," Dara said with feeling around a mouthful of fruit and crepe, with chocolate coating her lips.

Amelia smiled, accepting the compliment with awkward grace. Because she'd meant it, Dara pretended not to notice the brief glance Amelia cast Tristan's way, or the tense silence that followed afterward while all three of them busied themselves eating.

Someone came by to clear the table for them after they'd finished, leaving a fresh jug of iced tea and a bowl of berries.

"I think that was the best meal I've ever had," Amelia said, finally dispelling the awkward silence.

"I love this bread," Dara said. "Do you know how long it's been since I had
real
butter?"

"This is nothing," Tristan said, tossing a small piece of bread on the ground for an inquisitive red squirrel. "There was a small bakery in Canada I went to once. They made bread like you wouldn't believe..."

They talked about food for the rest of the afternoon, until the sun went down and the evening dulled some of the day's heat. It felt like life
should
feel. A good meal shared with good friends, in a beautiful place in the summer. For those few hours, no one talked about prisons or experiments. They shared happy memories and joked as if everything was simple and perfect.

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Dara was grateful for that afternoon. All of them needed a little easy downtime to pretend the last few weeks, or months, or years were behind them; that it was possible their future would be this carefree. For Dara, who'd never had friends she'd felt so perfectly comfortable around, this place and the time she spent here was something she couldn't hope to dream about once she was released to go back home.

In her mind, Tristan moved, shaping a memory. He embellished, added details he saw and felt. He created a picture and framed it, then tucked it away safely where she could always reach for it and be comforted.

"Just a thought away,"
he said, and Dara didn't know whether he was talking about the memory or himself.

When the lab's external lights came on, it was time to go inside again. Back to reality, which wasn't as rosy as they would have liked. They headed back inside, but Tristan, bringing up the rear, stopped at the stairs. And, because she was still linked with him, Dara stopped at the same time, one stair above him.

Amelia was a few feet away before she realized they weren't following and turned to raise a questioning eyebrow at them.

Dara turned to Tristan.
"Is something wrong?"

He had a thoughtful, almost eager look on his face and didn't answer right away. "I think I'd like to sleep out here tonight," he said, surprising her.

"Out here ... On the ground?"

He shrugged, looking up at the sky where stars were just beginning to wink into life. "I'll figure something out."

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"Do you think that's a good idea?" Amelia asked, coming back.

He didn't reply, but the look on his face as he watched the stars told Dara he was desperate not to sleep another night in a concrete box. He was tense, on the verge of running off to wherever it was he needed to be, and she wasn't sure if it was the animal in him demanding that freedom. The man, too, had spent far more than his fair share of days without sunlight. She would have been surprised if he
didn't
want to be outside. Especially on a night like this, when it was warm and clean, and the breeze was nothing more than movement of air against the skin.

"Do you want me to come with you?"

Tristan dragged his gaze away from the sky to look at her.

He slid his fingers into her hair to cup the back of her head and pulled her forward to press a kiss to her forehead. His lips felt hot. Feverish. "You go inside," he told her. "You still need to heal." To Amelia, he said, "Don't worry, I'll be back in the morning. I just ... need this."

When he padded away, still barefoot, it was like watching a phantom melt into shadow. He never made a sound, never stirred a leaf or cracked a twig. And when he was gone, he was really
gone
.

Dara and Amelia exchanged a look, then each went her own way. Dara still had to return to her room in recovery.

She had to be monitored for possible infections or complications. She showered as best she could without getting the bandages wet, opened the sliding doors all the 264

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way to let in the night air, and pulled the gossamer drapes closed to keep the bugs out.

Curling up in bed, she watched the drapes billow gently with the breeze. Aside from the drab white walls and the medical monitors built into them, this might actually have been a beautiful room. It felt romantic, if Dara imagined away everything except those drapes. She felt like a princess in a beautiful, exotic land. If she just went up to those drapes and pulled them aside, she could look out over an ancient city of clay houses and lit torches; smell sandalwood on the dry desert air.

Only it wasn't the desert beyond the drapes, but an enchanted forest. And instead of sandalwood, she smelled moss, earth, and summer. Dara listened to the sounds of insects and night birds outside, the hiss of leaves shivering on trees. It was a lullaby she hadn't heard since she'd been a small child.

Her eyelids became heavy, drooping, lowering, until they closed and Dara drifted in that place between waking and sleep, where everything still registered in her mind but she didn't pay attention anymore.

It could have been minutes or hours. Enough time that when her eyes slowly opened again, she thought she was dreaming. Her ears heard, her eyes saw, but her body was heavy, tired, and unmoving. She was cushioned by clouds formed into bed and pillow and she waited for something to happen.

It was the tiger who came to her. Melting out of the darkness like a shadow against the black foil of the forest, 265

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padding on silent, deadly paws, with magnificent grace. It nosed at the drapes, then ducked its head to pass through them, letting cloth slide over its back, and Dara could see its long tail swish left and right.

It came to her, a giant head rising above the level of the bed, golden eyes glowing. The heavy musk of its coat filled Dara's nose, but she didn't mind. Its whiskers tickled her cheek as its nose touched her chin and neck and its breath was hot against her skin.

One enormous paw settled on the edge of the bed, claws briefly flashing out, then retracting. It brushed her covers down off her shoulder, and then that paw was a hand, lifting the covers as a hard body slid underneath them with her. Her eyes were closing again, but she felt an arm slide underneath her pillow and a leg push between hers. Then she was nuzzling into an unyielding chest and that body curled around her possessively, protectively, long fingers clutching in her hair.

It was the best dream she'd ever had, and she said so in her mind.

Lips smiled against her temple and Dara sighed, floating back into the dark abyss of dreamless sleep.

The streets were bustling, as they always were. There
wasn't a single chair unoccupied, not one empty table. Even
though it was the middle of the week, everyone was out
tonight, celebrating. It was, after all, a great holiday. The
anniversary of man's first success at occupying another
planet. Sigma Day.

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They were so loud the thrum of the crowds was in his—

her—
blood. It echoed his heartbeat—
her heartbeat!—
in a way
that made him so hot he shivered. Their voices blended
together in a symphony of cackling laughter and enthusiastic
shouts, their clothes so bright it hurt to look at them.

But look he did.

He was starving for the sights, devouring each person who
passed with such focused attention he was surprised no one
noticed him.

But they wouldn't, would they? He was a wraith. A ghost
among them. They didn't see him because they didn't want to
see him. He reminded them of things they didn't want to
remember. He was a walking testament to the government's
stronghold on every aspect of its people's lives. They'd
become cattle to the most powerful, the most intelligent, and
the most cunning of their leaders.

It was convenient for him. A fox did not complain when he
was locked in the henhouse.

Drinks were refilled, more food was brought out, and he
crouched in the shadows, watching for a sign. There was
always a sign. Whether it was a certain color or perfume, he
always found what he yearned for the most. The powers of
the universe were kind to him in that way. They were always
clear in their instructions. He never had to guess and search
for hidden meaning like those pathetic little fools, flocking in
churches and looking for some grand design in all the wrong
places.

He was the grand design.

Oh, God, no...

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He was their hope.

A sharp pain in the back of his head made him double
over. He stifled a groan and took deep breaths to keep from
passing out. Count to ten. Breathe in and out. After a
moment it passed and he was able to straighten again. He
leaned against the wall for the support his legs refused to
provide. The ground was wet after last night's storm. He
didn't want to end up sitting in the puddle.

As soon as the ringing in his ears subsided, he closed his
eyes and listened for the hum of people again. He gave
himself over to it; let it fill him to the brim. Only when he was
part of the larger scheme of things could he recognize the
signs. They stood out when all other stimuli ceased to distract
him.

He swayed to the rhythm of life, soaking his mind in the
endless prattle. His heartbeat quickened and his palms began
to sweat. He was close now.

After pushing away from the wall, he joined the throng,
winding and weaving his way through the crowd the way a
predator moved through tall grass.

Someone cheered and he stopped in his tracks, his head
turning toward the sound at once.

No!

The sign!

The crowds disappeared in that instant and he knew he'd
seen the one. His soul leapt for joy at the discovery but his
mind remained focused.

Back into the shadows.

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From there, he watched the girl hop onto a transport and
raise her arms to the sky, a bottle in her hand. Her crimson
top inched up to reveal glimpses of creamy skin as her hips
swayed back and forth in a seductive rhythm she didn't seem
to be aware of, lost in her reverie, her eyes closed.

He'd seen her before, keeping company with the dregs of
society, kids who ran around with complete disrespect for
anything sacred, even life itself. They drank, they took drugs,
they fought constantly, and still he'd watched them—and
her—and hoped they would redeem themselves somehow. It
hadn't happened.

The siren brought the bottle to her pretty red lips and she
drank, the liquid trickling down her chin and neck to her
chest. One of the men in the crowd jumped up to the
transport and put his arm around her, licking the trail of liquid
up her chest. She didn't know him, the wraith was sure of it,
but that didn't seem to bother her. The smile she gave the
man was a sensual promise and invitation, and he didn't
hesitate to move in.

Yes, the universe had led him true once again.

Death shall come to those unworthy of life.

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20th day of the 4th Blood Moon, 3028

Dara woke up screaming. With that terrible hunger still lingering in her mind, she screamed and screamed, reaching blindly for something real to hold on to. She was alone. The monitors were flashing an angry red, frantic lines snapping in spasms while a loud siren screeched from each one. She screamed for Tristan. She screamed at the murderer, trying to force him from her mind, but he was stuck there and she couldn't budge him. Like a moth circling an open flame, she mentally rammed him again and again, and each time she fell back more burned than before.

Her brain was splintering, shattering inside her skull. Her eyes felt as if they were bleeding, and she couldn't stop it.

She couldn't stop screaming.

Dara didn't see more than flashes of white fabric, but she knew when nurses and orderlies rushed in, foreign hands grabbing her, trying to subdue her. They shouted for help, for tranquilizers. For someone to turn off the damn alarms. Dara fought them as if her life depended on it, because she had a feeling it just might. If they put her under again, if they forced her to dream, she wouldn't wake up.

She kicked, her covers flying, tangling her legs. She punched out blindly until someone grabbed her wrists and held them down. She bucked and arched, fighting their grip; fighting to escape them and herself, and nothing helped.

Someone came in with a syringe.

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"
NO!
" she screamed, thrashing even more. She was exhausting herself, her heart racing painfully. Her bandages were slipping—she'd torn stitches. Dara didn't feel the pain. It was nothing compared to the daggers in her mind. Not a physical pain, but a frantic, hopeless rebellion against something she knew was coming.