Desired (13 page)

this time into a branch, impaling and kil ing him on impact.

Caitlin walked over to one of the unconscious men, her rage stil not satisfied. One of them began getting up slowly, and she kicked him as hard as she could in the face.

It stil wasn’t enough for her. She wanted blood. She wanted revenge. Revenge for every act of cruelty in her life.

Sinking to one knee, she began to choke him. He awoke from his unconsciousness, and grabbed her wrist with both of his huge hands, trying to get it off. But he was no match for her. Her single, thin wrist held him pinned down in a vice-like grip, and his eyes bulged out of his head, as his face turned blue. It was clear he would be dead in moments.

“CAITLIN!” yel ed a voice.

Caitlin spun, shocked to recognize the voice.

Out of the forest, holding a staff, dressed in a long robe, a single man hiked towards her.

She released her grip, and slowly stood and faced him.

He came close, lowered his hood, and stared at her with his piercing blue eyes.

She looked at his timeless face, his long, silver beard, and knew it could only be one person.

Only one person in the world had that sort of affect upon her.

Caitlin faced her old master.

It was Aiden.

Pol y had been unable to stop thinking about Sergei. It felt like a drug had been injected into her veins. No matter what she did—walked, slept, ate, trained—the thought of him was always with her.

His dark, Russian features; the sound of his voice; his translucent skin, his sharp features; and his incredible, hypnotic singing voice. She had never met anyone remotely like him.

She also couldn’t stop thinking about the way he had treated her. He had been so brazen, so arrogant. No boy had ever treated her like that before. What was it about him? What made him feel so entitled? Why had she al owed him to treat her that way? And more importantly, when he had, why hadn’t she just walked away?

She couldn’t understand it. Logical y, she should hate him.

Yet, for some crazy reason she couldn’t understand, she couldn’t stop thinking of him.

Pol y strode down the hal at a quick pace. She had chosen her finest dress, a lightweight, light blue, with a white lace trim, elaborate white col ars, and which flowed from her neck down to her feet. She wore a large hoopskirt beneath it, making it flare out at her hips. It was hot in this July weather, and she had chosen the thinnest material she had, but stil , it offered little relief from the heat. She patted at the perspiration on her forehead as she went, which grew with each step she took.

Pol y wanted to arrive early this time. Sergei was giving another concert, at the far end of Versail es, in the Grand Trianon, and this time, she didn’t want to miss a note. She wanted to get a good seat, in the front, and be able to look up and stare into his eyes. She wanted to see if her vision of him matched her memory, or if it had al just been an il usion. She wanted to know for sure if she stil felt the way she thought about him. And she desperately wanted to hear that voice of his again.

Everyone, humans and vampires alike, had been talking about him for weeks. The palace was practical y buzzing with his name. She hadn’t real y paid attention before, as it had just been at the periphery of her consciousness.

But now, she real y wondered. She could sense that he was of her race, one of her kind. But where was he from? Which coven did he belong to? And why was it that, no matter how many people she asked, no one seemed to know?

Everyone seemed to think he came from somewhere else.

And no one seemed to know when he was leaving, or even why he was here. He had just, seemingly overnight, become an accepted fact of Versail es. It al seemed so mysterious to her.

Even more mysterious, he seemed to blend in effortlessly, as if he had always been here.

Particularly the way he carried himself, so arrogant, one would have thought he was royalty. The accepted rumor about him was that he was a young Russian Prince, traveling through France, and was visiting Versail es for a few weeks to grace them with his presence. That he was the most celebrated vocalist in al of Russia, that he was close personal friends with composers like Mozart and Clementi and Salieri.

Pol y glanced at her watch as she turned down another corridor, and realized that she was, in fact, quite early. Now, she was embarrassed. She certainly didn’t want to be the first one to arrive in that big, empty room, and she didn’t want to seem too desperate.

She deliberately slowed her pace, and just as she began to wonder where to go to idle the time, she suddenly heard footsteps coming up behind her. She looked over and saw somebody else walking down the corridor.

Her heart dropped. It was him.

Sergei, his thick, wavy hair perfectly styled, dressed this time in a royal, red satin coat, white breeches, and shining black shoes, caught up to her at a quick pace, matching hers. He looked straight ahead, as if not bothering to look her way, or to even acknowledge that the two of them were the only ones in this huge corridor. He seemed to lack even the basic decency and grace to turn and say hel o. Was he so arrogant that he was waiting for
her
to acknowledge
him
?

Pol y gulped. Up close, in this light, right beside him, he was even more gorgeous than she had remembered. She found herself completely frazzled by his sudden appearance, and had a hard time col ecting her thoughts.

“Hi,” she said, final y.

He glanced at her.

“I presume you’re coming to my concert,” he stated, not smiling, looking away.

Pol y stammered, not sure how to respond. “Um…I was heading in that direction, yes.”

He smirked, as if catching her in a lie.

“Quite early, aren’t you?” he snipped.

She racked her brain for a response, but none came.

“Of course you are. You don’t want to miss a note, do you?”

he asked.

Again, Pol y was unsure how to respond. He had a way of making her feel so nervous and on edge with every word he said.

“That’s al right, I don’t blame you,” he said, “I wouldn’t want to miss me, either.”

Pol y cleared her throat. “You’re…a very talented singer,”

she said.

“I’m a
vocalist
,” he corrected. “
Singers
are common.

Vocalists
are rare. And yes, I know that already.”

Pol y fumed. She hated being corrected. And she hated how conceited he was. A part of her just wanted to turn and storm away, to forget the whole thing.

But another part of her, a part she couldn’t understand, felt so attracted to him, felt drawn to him like a magnet. Why, she wondered? She had never al owed herself to be poorly treated by anyone in her life. The fact that she couldn’t stand up for herself bothered her more than anything else.

“Where are you from?” she asked. “How long wil you be here?”

“As long as I like,” he said. “I don’t put time limits on myself.

Why? Would you rather see me go?” he asked, glancing her way with his disdainful dark eyes.

But instead of seeing the disdain, al Pol y could notice was the way the sun hit his eyes as he looked at her. It made him al the more attractive.

“No,” Pol y stammered, “I…um…wasn’t saying anything like that. I was just curious.”

“People here are so trivial,” he said. “Few here can real y appreciate my talents. I’m beginning to think I’m wasting my time at this place. I wil move on soon.”

They both turned down a corridor, and were now getting close to the venue.

“You seem to be one of the few who appreciates my talents,” he said. “That bodes wel for you.”

She looked at him, but he was stil not looking her way as he walked. Was that his version of a compliment? She assumed that it was, and felt flattered, in a strange way.

Maybe he liked her after al . Maybe he was just social y awkward.

The two of them reached a massive door, and as they did, the waiting servants opened it for them. It wasn’t the door to the main room, but a side door, to the backstage area, Pol y could see.

As the doors opened, she saw a smal dressing room, a vanity in its center, with a large white and gold stuffed chair before it.

Pol y stopped at the door, ready to turn away.

She was shocked to feel his hand touch hers. She looked down, and saw Sergei holding her hand.

“Why are you leaving?” he asked, looking at her this time.

He stared at her with an intensity unlike any she had ever seen.

“Wel ,” she began, finding it hard to think clearly, “I didn’t know…um...”

“Come inside. You can have the privilege of watching me prepare.”

He let go and turned his back on her, and strutted into his dressing room.

Pol y didn’t know what to do. The rational part of her screamed for her to walk away; but some other part of her just couldn’t let this go. She just had to see where this went.

And she had to understand for herself why she would be compel ed to be near such a person who treated her like this.

As if in a trance, she found herself walking inside, fol owing him, and felt the two huge doors close behind her.

Sergei sat in his dressing chair, looking back at himself in his huge mirror. No reflection showed, but two servants immediately set to work on powdering his face and fluffing his already perfect hair.

He lifted his chin as they did, smiling. Pol y had never met anyone so in love with himself.

Since he ignored her, she felt like a fool just standing there, watching him get ready. She wondered why he had invited her in. After several moments of silence, she was about to turn around and leave.

Suddenly, he said: “So tel me, Pol y, why do like me?”

Pol y felt her cheeks redden.

“I never said I like you,” she said.

He smirked, and looked back at himself in the mirror, even though there was no reflection.

“You don’t need to say it. It’s obvious.”

Pol y felt herself redden even more. She’d had just about enough. She was about to storm out, when suddenly, Sergei snapped his fingers, and the servants rushed out of the room.

Pol y fol owed them, ready to leave herself, when Sergei hurried up behind her and grabbed her wrist. He held it firm this time, and turned and pul ed her to him, as the door closed, leaving them alone.

He faced her, inches away, staring into her eyes, with a surreal intensity. His features were so perfect, it was like staring at a statue.

“Kiss me,” he said, reaching out and holding her face with his palms, just inches away.

Pol y felt herself trembling, more nervous than she could ever remember. Her throat grew dry.

She was too nervous to even speak, and had no idea what to do.

Despite herself, she began to slowly lean in towards him, when suddenly, he leaned into her, kissing her hard on the lips, which tremendous force. Taken aback, startled, she didn’t even enjoy it.

After several seconds, he pul ed back.

Then suddenly, without a word, he turned and brushed past her, walking out the room, and slamming the door behind him.

Pol y stood there, al alone, completely shocked by what had just happened. And despite herself, she began to cry.

Caitlin walked with Aiden in the early morning light, winding their way slowly through the forest, Ruth at her heels. They had been walking like this together, silently, for what felt like hours.

On the one hand, no words needed to be exchanged. As always, when she was around Aiden, she felt like she already knew everything he was going to say.

Yet at the same time, she rarely knew precisely what he was thinking. What she wanted to know most of al was if he remembered everything. From the look in his eyes, she sensed that he did.

Aiden had a funny way of showing up at the strangest moments in her life. Every time she felt like she was at a crossroads, every time she felt unsure of what direction to take, he seemed to appear. And each time he led her back on the path, and she realized he was right—that she should not give up the search for the Shield, for her father, for her own identity. But once she got away from him, once other things happened, it became harder to see clearly. Just being around him helped her to focus.

Being around him also made her feel guilty. When she was around him, she wanted to be a better person, a better warrior; she wanted to train, to be the best she could be.

She thought of their unfinished training on Pol epel, and remembered how sharp her skil s were becoming. A part of her missed the training, and wanted to go back to it.

Seeing him made her think of her unfulfil ed ambition.

Caitlin felt such a mix of emotions as she walked with him.

Was he disapproving of her? Was he mad at her for not continuing her search? How much did he know already?

How had he found her?

In some ways, he felt like a father to her. And she was nervous to hear what it was he had to say.

Caitlin knew better than to initiate conversation. She just had to walk, to be with him in the silence. Aiden was always about
being
, not talking. About tuning in to what someone else was thinking and feeling it without needing to say it.

So she respected his way of being, and just walked with him. After what felt like hours, she almost felt as if she were walking alone. She was contemplating her future, wondering where to go from here, wondering if Caleb would return—wondering al these things, when suddenly, the silence was broken by the sound of Aiden’s voice:

“Does your arm hurt?” he asked.

Caitlin looked down and saw her bleeding arm, and remembered.

“Yes,” she admitted.

“Come here.”

He stopped, and she approached, and he lay his hands on the wound and closed his eyes.

When he removed them, she was shocked to find it completely healed.

Ruth whined, and Aiden reached down and with a smile, picked her up, and lay his hands on her injured paw. He then set her back down, and she walked perfectly, without a limp.