In the Dark (8 page)

“I don't know how to use this. I'll never be one of your warrior women.” She slapped the weapon against his chest, forcing him to catch it.

“Our women are not warriors, and I'm not asking that of you. I'm asking you to take it and be prepared to defend yourself.” He laid the hilt in her palm and wrapped his hand around hers.

“If something happens, you can save me,” she said, her voice quavering at first, then as she continued, she gained confidence. “You're good at it. And really, if I learn to defend myself, you'd be out of a job. We can't have that.”

He smiled briefly, but this was a serious matter, one she needed to understand. “I can't always be by your side. Just because I'm the only one allowed to take from you, doesn't mean others will respect the law. Since we haven't had a human here in a long time, it's possible someone will make the attempt. People break the law every day, which is why I continue to train Guardians.”

Turning the knife in her hand, she studied the craftsmanship. Or possibly contemplated her options. “This is important to you, isn't it?” She glanced at him. “Training them, I mean. You act like you're on a mission every time you pick up your sword.”

“I am. Many years ago, my father was shot and killed protecting Lord Navarre.” Soren stared at the wall across the room. He could still see it happening when he spoke of that day.

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't be. He was a good man who served our lord and city well. Unfortunately, my father had to die for me to understand the importance of the Guardians. Around the time it happened, I'd been skipping my training sessions. After he was killed I worked harder than any other. When I became a Guardian, the first thing I did was change the way we had been taught to fight.” He leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees.

“So you grew up,” she said softly.

“I didn't have a choice. Nothing else was left for me.” Not wanting her to see the pain in his eyes, he focused on the floor.

It didn't matter. If she hadn't seen his sorrow, then she'd heard it in his voice. She settled a hand reassuringly on his forearm, an unfamiliar comfort, and one he didn't know what to do with.

Her touch was a pleasant distraction. Now, instead of the memories clamoring to reach him, he thought only of her fingers wrapped around his wrist. He'd all but claimed her before his students, and after she'd admired his body in front of his Guardians, he'd practically burst with pride. This woman did strange things to his guarded emotions, had sent them all over the map in only two nights.

This whole situation was dangerous. She was dangerous.

He stood, and her hand fell away from him. “I need to check on Steffen.”

Hands at his sides, he fought the urge to reach out and take her hand. She was not his mate, not his partner and confidant in life. No one spoke about his father. Not he, certainly, and Navarre wouldn't consider drudging up their painful past, but talking with her had come naturally.

He ducked out the door, and she hustled after him. Afraid of what else he might say, he kept his mouth shut tight. The farther away they journeyed from the training center, the more nervous she became. It was in the way she gripped the knife hilt, how her gaze darted here and there as the corridor darkened.

Gilded trim and colorful wall hangings gave way to bare, cold stone. The corridor became narrow and the light dim. Their path ended abruptly, a looming doorway their only option. The first step glowed a pale gray, but the rest disappeared into blackness. They needed to go one level lower to reach Steffen.

Before he hit the second step, Faith grabbed his elbow and tugged gently. The look in her widened eyes begged him to hear her. “Please don't leave me. You're going too fast.”

Soren took a deep breath. He'd already forgotten the home he'd grown up in might be foreign and frightening to her. He took her hand and pulled her close, helped her down the narrow, steep, and oddly curved stairway.

At the bottom, another hall appeared, just as bare and cold as the one they'd left. Stopping at the first battered old door, he knocked loudly. No reply came, and he opened the door and pulled Faith in behind him.

“Steffen?” he called into the darkened room.

The only answer was a man's deep, shaky breathing.

“I'm turning on a light,” he warned before throwing a switch and casting a soft glow through the room.

Steffen sat on the floor, his back wedged in a corner, staring with bloodshot eyes at him through tangled hair hanging over the tip of his nose. He trembled, his hands clasped together as if they might hold his body together.

“It's not as easy as you think.” Steffen's voice, like his breath, sounded hollow.

“I know, Steffen,” he said, crouching near him.

“You don't.” His friend's shaky whisper filled the room and and he closed his eyes, a tear falling down his cheek. “I fight every night to see the next. I don't know why.”

“You live to serve Navarre. You live to find your true mate. Don't leave this world and doom her to your same fate, Steffen. Be strong for her.” He took hold of Steffen's head, needing to gain his attention.

Steffen finally looked at him, and shook his head, tears rimming his eyes. “So close. I was so close to peace tonight.”

“I wish you'd stop working the gate, my friend. It's too much of a temptation.”

Steffen's eyes grew wide, fearful, and looked focused for the first time since they'd entered his home. “Take me from the gate and I truly have nothing.”

“All right. Calm down. You can keep your gate,” he said, soothing his fears. Steffen didn't want to die, but he couldn't help him. Steffen had to help himself first.

Soren stood, helping Steffen to his feet and guiding him toward his bed. When his friend's head rested on the pillow at last, nothing changed. The tension hadn't left his body, and he still clasped his hand as if it had become his only anchor.

“The sun is gone. It's safe to sleep,” Soren said gently.

Faith hadn't moved far from the doorway, and he couldn't blame her for her curiosity. She would remember Steffen, his calm confidence, the teasing light in his eyes. It didn't seem fair for her to see the same man now lying broken in his bed.

Steffen finally drifted to sleep, and he ushered Faith out the door, closed it.

“Will he be all right?” she asked, and her concern seemed genuine.

“I don't know. He's getting worse. He comes home each dawn, but one day he won't return.”

“Why?”

“We live a long life, Faith,” he said, starting up the stairs. “Without a mate to share it with, or a purpose to drive us on, we can't ignore the call of the sun.”

“Does the sun ever call to you?” Her question echoed off the walls of the stairway.

Soren paused, and for a moment, he thought he would answer her. Instead, he took her hand and kept climbing the stairs. How could he admit that he hadn't fed for nearly a year because he couldn't trust himself to face the temptation of the sun? She wouldn't want to hear that since the moment he'd touched her, thoughts of the sun and the peace it promised had vanished.

Chapter 8

“Are you finished?” Soren asked through the bathroom door for the third time.

“Keep your shirt on. You're how old? You should know what to expect from a woman by now.” Faith lifted the frothy peach gown, searching for a way in. “What is this, a prom dress?”

“A what?” he asked.

“A prom…” Vampires probably didn't have a Senior Prom. “Never mind. Why is this dinner formal?”

“We dine with the lord of the city.”

“That'll do it,” she agreed.

She stepped into the dress, tugged the zipper up her back then caught sight of herself in the mirror, and laughed. She thought she had it under control, but she laughed again.

“What's so funny?” Soren asked, sounding closer to the door than he'd been a moment ago.

“If I had blond hair and a super skinny body, I'd look like Peaches and Cream Barbie.” She'd barely gotten the words out before she doubled over, giggling hard enough, tears gathered in her eyes.

“Who?”

“I can't stop laughing.” Her words came out choppy, fit in between giggles. “Don't be mad at me for not wearing this. I can't do it. The dress is too ridiculous.”

Putting on that peach horror would make her both fit in and stand out, but for all the wrong reasons.

“Faith, we're going to be late,” he said, farther from the door this time.

Probably she should tell him she could finish getting ready in literally ten minutes, but then, she liked the idea of him pacing and stewing. She pulled on black slacks and a gray sweater with a straight neckline from shoulder to shoulder. Twisting her hair, she pinned it, letting the ends fall loosely out the top.

She dug through the satin pockets of her suitcase for her jewelry, but instead fished out her cellphone. Holding her breath, she stared at the thing like it might bite her. She glanced at the door, then flipped the phone open. Nothing. No messages. No missed calls, and as she'd expected, no signal. She stuffed the thing into the pocket and grabbed her earrings.

Carrying the peach monstrosity, she slipped from the bathroom. “Did you really think I'd wear this thing?”

“This is the gown Elin left you?” One fist covering his mouth, he coughed, a poor attempt at hiding his amusement.

She tossed the dress at him, hitting him right in the face. Of course, with so much fabric, she couldn't miss. He appeared from under the gown, and draped it neatly over a chair.

“It was nice of her to let me borrow it, but it didn't fit,” she said, popping on her fat little gold hoop earrings.

“It didn't fit? Did you forget I heard you laughing through the door?”

“The gown is hideous.” She pointed first at the dress, then at him. “But you're going to tell her it didn't fit or else you'll hurt her feelings. Now, how do I look?”

He stared at her with such intensity from across the room, not saying a word, her smile faltered. Perhaps her choice of a sweater and slacks would offend a vampire society. “I can change,” she offered.

Soren took a step toward her, then another. He was a breath away, and before she could speak, he'd cradled her face in his hands. She hadn't expected this, but she didn't push him away.

Eyes closed, she savored the warmth of his rough hands. Whatever had tripped his trigger brought his lips inches from hers. They hadn't made contact, but she anticipated his kiss, melting against him.

A solid knock at the door severed the moment, but not entirely. She opened her eyes as he took a deep breath, then his hands fell away from her. Behind him, the door creaked opened, followed by a discreet cough. Soren regained his self-control and turned, facing the intruder.

A tall man with ridiculously long black hair loomed in the doorway like it belonged to him. He eyed them both expectantly.

“Lord Navarre, this is Faith.” Soren stepped aside.

“Welcome, Faith.” He gave her a slight bow. “I only stopped by to make certain you both would be joining us for dinner.”

“We were leaving,” Soren said.

“Oh, were you?” Navarre asked in a disbelieving tone.

Faith avoided eye contact, already feeling the prickly heat wash over her face.

“Walk with me,” Navarre said, already on his way.

Soren took her by the elbow and guided her out the door. Navarre gestured as he pointed out various tapestries and artwork along the way. A light shone in his eyes as he spoke about his city. Gifts from lords of the past, treasures sent from Spain.

Faith had trouble paying attention. Soren's fingers brushed against her arm, and each stroke conjured up the image of his lips close to hers. At least, she assumed he'd planned on giving her a kiss. It would certainly have dampened the mood if she'd been expecting warm lips, and instead his sharp teeth pierced her neck.

She glanced over at Soren, who dutifully followed Navarre's gestures. How did you kiss someone with fangs?

“Here we are. Beautiful, isn't it?” Navarre asked, though he clearly expected no response.

She gasped as she entered the dining hall. Beautiful was an understatement. Sweeping red curtains bordered in gold fringe framed every doorway. Long tables formed a large rectangle in the center of the room, the outer sides lined with black chairs cushioned in red. Golden candelabras ran down the center of the tables, pinning the pristine white tablecloth in place.

The chandeliers hung low, the golden dragons on them seeming to climb out from under white glass lotus flowers. Impressively detailed, the black and gold fish scale pattern on the ceiling rose to the center of the room, its center a delicately designed high dome. The grandeur would befit the home of any king.

A man in a powdered wig and long blue coat complete with gold piping and buttons played a grand piano in the corner. A light, happy song, which somehow wove the illusion of a small and comfortable room.

“Come, sit at my table,” Lord Navarre offered, and they followed him, advancing slowly through the gathered people.

Vampires mingled in small groups, their low conversations hushing only briefly to observe their lord and his guests. Though she did her best not to gawk, she couldn't take herself out of tourist mode.

Women were in elegant gowns, and men had dressed in their finest. Their styles varied drastically. Lord Navarre wore black slacks with a white collared shirt, and many copied him. Other men chose to be more extravagant, wearing ruffled cravats and velvety crimson jackets trimmed in gold. A few women could have stepped off a Paris runway, while another handful seemed stuck in the eighteenth century.

Navarre cleared his throat, and Faith redirected her attention to the conversation beside her.

“Any promising young men this season?” Navarre asked.

“I'm giving you two.”

“Two?” Navarre repeated.

“Yes. Titus and Dyre have skill and great instincts. Better yet, they work exceptionally well together,” Soren said, holding her hand and keeping her at his side.

“Good, very good.” Navarre nodded. “Though I'm not relishing the inevitable visits from the parents of failed students, especially the aristocrats.”

“Nor I. They attempt swaying my decision before bringing the issue to you,” Soren said.

“Soren,” a young man called from the left.

His fluid stride seemed completely dangerous, feral, and it alarmed her. His approach didn't faze Soren, and that was a comfort. He stopped a few feet from them, and as he did, she noted that he stood a few inches taller than her. His lack of towering height did nothing to silence the tiny voice inside her head shouting out a warning. This man was dangerous.

“Is this her?” He nodded in her direction, his words more of a prompt than a question.

“Faith, I'd like you to meet Captain Savard,” Soren said.

With what Soren put his students through, she found it hard to believe this man could best any of them, let alone lead them. How could this man be a captain? He barely looked old enough to shave, and he lacked the thick muscles the Guardians possessed. “You're the captain? But you're so young,” she blurted out.

“What I do is not about age. I know the location of each of my men at any given moment. I know how many people are in this city, in this room, and who is a potential enemy. I know who is armed and who is not.” The captain leaned an inch or two closer and said in a quieter version of his smooth, controlled voice, “I know that you've been gifted with a knife. Yet you chose not to bring it tonight. You must feel extremely safe among us.”

“How did you know I have a knife?”

“I didn't know, I assumed. But I know now,” the captain said with a tight, impersonal smile.

“Soren told you, didn't he?” she guessed, sending Soren an accusatory glance.

“No, I said nothing.” He shook his head.

“Really, how did you know?” she asked the captain.

“It's my job.” The captain tipped his head in a short bow. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Faith.”

“Why did you want to meet me?” She was having a difficult time figuring out this captain.

“A woman named Faith Calburn has access to this city. A name does me no good without a face.” He gave her a small, controlled smile then excused himself.

She watched him walk away, just as puzzled and alarmed as when he'd first approached. “What do you suppose he meant?”

“You'll get used to Savard,” Lord Navarre said, sharing a glance with Soren.

“And don't let his looks deceive you. The good captain is older than I am by at least a full century,” Soren said.

Her jaw dropped at the hint of his lifespan. She would have liked a better explanation, but before she could ask, he ushered her to her seat. Bracketed by Soren and Navarre, she felt insignificant and completely out of place between the two powerful men.

A solid-looking woman with her hair pinned up in a tight knot made her way down the table with a cart full of plates. She set a plate before Lord Navarre, then served Faith. The smell of roasted meat made her mouth water. She took the lace edged napkin from under the silverware, and placed it over her lap as she inspected her plate.

Normal food! Thank God. “Are those mashed potatoes?” she asked.

“Mashed the hell out of 'em myself,” the woman said with a wink.

“Oh, I just love you.” Faith smiled brilliantly at the woman, then hunted down her fork.

“Finally, someone who appreciates me,” the woman said, catching Soren in an accusing glare.

“I do appreciate you, Nelly,” he defended himself.

“Aye, but when was the last time you said it?”

“Probably the last time you made me strawberry pie. How long has it been?” His eyes twinkled with playful mischief and a sweet smile curved his mouth.

“Nigh on a decade,” she said with absolute certainty.

“Has it really been that long? Why would you stop making it? You know it's my favorite.”

“You were getting soggy around the middle,” Nelly said with a curt nod as she shuffled away.

“Proof of my appreciation,” he called after her.

Faith cleared her throat to catch Soren's attention, a smile pinched between her lips. “So, you were…what did she say? Soggy?”

“When you live as long as we do, you're bound to have good years and bad years,” he said, his defense somewhat playful.

“How many of these
years
, good and bad, have you had?” Curiosity tormented her.

“A couple hundred.” Soren brought the wineglass to his lips, drinking deeply.

“Two hundred years old, and you still can't drive?” Faith stared at him. “On the upside, you look great.”

At the sound of a few coughs and cleared throats, Faith looked past Navarre. Several men attempted to disguise their laughter.

“Thank you,” Soren mumbled.

“Thank you?” A well-groomed man leaned forward and inserted himself into their conversation from the other side of Lord Navarre, his wavy black hair pulled together at the base of his neck. “All you can say is
thank you
? How on earth did you catch such a beautiful creature? You certainly didn't lure her with your charm.”

“Julian,” he warned.

“Really, man. We live in France. At least pretend you have an ounce of romance in your blood,” Julian urged.

“Back off,” Soren said, pinning Julian with a dark look.

Faith turned to Soren. “He's right, you know. We are in France. How is it you don't have much of an accent?”

“Living underground, we don't pick up the local accents. We have a dialect unique to our city.” He leaned in, dropped his voice to a whisper. “The only vampires with a French accent are those who live above most of their life, like Gustav.”

“Oh,” she said quietly then focused on her food and kept her mouth shut. Apparently Gustav was a controversial subject.

Faith enjoyed learning about their strange, secluded culture, but sadly the meal ended sooner than she'd hoped. The plates had been taken away long ago, and the remaining guests gathered in small groups around the room. She'd half expected the men to wander off for cigars and brandy, and maybe some had, but most remained and gossiped worse than women.

Being human, she'd assumed she would be at the bottom of the social ladder, since technically she was their food source. Instead of being scorned and rebuffed, they openly invited her to participate in conversations and treated her as a guest.

Navarre bombarded her with questions, ranging anywhere from current public transportation, to vampire lore in America. Not only did he ask, he hung on her every word, drinking in the knowledge she gave him.

Soren left her with Navarre, which she didn't think strange until he took Julian aside. Their conversation appeared rather serious by the way they tipped their heads toward each other and spoke quietly.

“I hear your kind worship rabbits,” Navarre said.