The Last True Vampire (19 page)

She’d shaken off his attempt to compel her as water ran from a duck’s back. It was impossible. A feat he’d never seen accomplished by a human. And yet she’d stood tall, her eyes sparking with gold fire as she resisted his influence. Fierce. Strong. Powerful. He turned and followed after her, helpless. He’d failed to control her, but her hold on him was undeniable. She accused him of starving her, but it was he who was starved. For her. For her blood. Her body.

For the first time, Michael was beginning to believe in Ronan’s insistence that Claire was indeed a Vessel. How else could she have withstood his power? He followed her into the kitchen, unable to resist her pull. The tables had turned, it seemed. For she had surely compelled him.

For days, he’d kept her in a state of oblivion. Ronan had condemned him for it, and Alex … he’d taken his leave with a disapproving glare and a vow not to return until Michael had regained his wits. It had seemed the only option at the time. They’d found little more information on Vessels than when they’d begun. Just useless mythology and conjecture. How could it be that no vampire in the race’s history had ever encountered one? If they had, Michael would have knowledge of it through the Collective. Of course, just because no one had encountered a Vessel didn’t mean that one didn’t exist.

It was dangerous to hope at this point. Michael couldn’t allow himself any optimistic sentiment. Claire had a strong will, of that he had no doubt. Her mind was sharp; her wit, quick. That did not, however, make her a magical human creature able to survive the transition. Nor did it guarantee she could withstand the burden of the Collective. It didn’t solidify her status as his mate.

“You’re lucky I’m starving.” Michael entered the kitchen to find Claire rummaging through the refrigerator, stacking piles of food on the counter. “Otherwise, I’d have been out the door five minutes ago.”

She reached for the hanging pot rack, her fingers barely skimming the edge of a frying pan. Her brow furrowed in concentration as she rose on her tiptoes, still too short to reach. “Allow me.” Michael closed the space between them and reached up, plucking the pan from its hook. Her shoulder brushed his torso and a tremor ran the length of his body that settled low in his gut and tightened his balls. The last remnants of her blood were cycling through his system, and it wouldn’t be long before his body returned to dormancy. Which only caused him to hunger for her that much more.

She snatched the pan from his grasp, her eyes hooded as she took a tentative step away. “Thanks. I’d say it’s the least you could do, considering.”

The venom in her tone burned through him. All of them were right, though. Ronan, Alex, Claire. He’d done a foolish thing in keeping her complacent against her will. It was not the sort of behavior that would foster any trust—or affection—between them. “Sit.” She gave him an astonished look that said,
You’re seriously going to order me around?
Michael sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He’d denied himself the company of others for far too long. A century in a tomb and another century’s worth of solitude had done nothing to strengthen his social graces. “Please, Claire.” He held out a hand to indicate the tall bar stool. “Sit. I’ll cook for you.”

She raised a dubious brow. “No games?”

A rush of excitement chased through him as his palm found the small of her back. Michael gently urged her toward the high stool and she reluctantly let him. “No pretense. I give you my word.”

“All right.” Claire hopped up on the stool, her expression that of a wary animal ready to bolt at a moment’s notice.

In taking her, keeping her, Michael had failed her. How could he expect her to be what he needed her to be—his strength, power, and purpose—when he treated her as though she were nothing but a vase meant to rest on a shelf until he found need of it? She would never be willing to help raise them all up if he did nothing more than drag her down. Claire was as vital to the race as Michael was. Her destruction would be his. Whether she realized it or not, they were already one. Inexorably connected. And yet he knew so little about her.

“Why did you get off the bus that night?” It seemed the best place to start a conversation with her. Michael turned his attention toward the pile of food Claire had taken from the refrigerator and he sorted through it, gathering the ingredients he’d need to make the chicken piccata Alex had planned for dinner before taking his sabbatical.

“You mean
three days ago,
when you and Ronan found me?”

Michael cringed at the accusation in her tone. “Yes. Where were you going, and alone in such a dangerous part of the city?”

“This might surprise you, Mikhail, but in the twenty-first century a woman can be out whenever and wherever she wants. Without an escort.”

Gods, the way she said his name. He wanted to be that male again. Mikhail Aristov. Vampire. Warrior. Obliterator of his enemies. Michael Aristov was a harmless venture capitalist. A persona created to hide who and what he truly was. Michael was weak in comparison. And the Sortiari would prey on that weakness.

Her voice was as smooth and rich as cream when she said, “I was looking for you.”

Michael focused his attention on the task at hand, dredging the chicken cutlets in flour before putting them in the heated pan. But his heart soared. To hear her give words to what he’d already felt that night—the connection and need that sparked between them—was more than he could have hoped for.

“I don’t know how the priest found me,” she added. “I wasn’t even close to the diner.”

“It’s likely the Sortiari have been tracking you.” Michael didn’t want to frighten her, but it was important that she realized the scope of the Sortiari’s power. “They’ve probably known about you for as long as I have.” Or longer. A fact that burned in his gut like a hot cinder. “Diner?” Keeping the conversation light was key to putting her at ease.

“I’m a waitress.” Her voice dropped an octave as though she was embarrassed to utter the words.

“And a thief,” Michael remarked. He turned to face her and cocked a brow, his mouth curving into a smile.

Claire returned his smile, hers brilliant as well as mischievous. “I prefer the term ‘hustler.’” She caressed the wristband of his watch and Michael’s chest swelled with satisfaction to see something of his on her body. “Do you think Ronan’s mad at me for stealing his wallet?” she asked with chagrin. “I took it in case I needed some cash. I wouldn’t have used his credit cards or anything. That’ll get you thrown in prison, fast.”

Clever female.
Beyond his admiration, Michael could only imagine the hit Ronan’s pride had taken at how easily Claire had managed to steal the wallet. “Why would you need cash?”

“For a cab.”

She’d planned to leave him. A sense of urgency and loss had brought him from the death-like grip of his daytime sleep. Some inner instinct had prompted him to seek her out. The tether was strong. Unbreakable. Even apart he felt her. Sensed her emotions. Despair sucked the air from his lungs. If Ronan was wrong and she couldn’t be turned, her short human life would be nothing more than hours compared to Michael’s. He would die without her. And so far he’d managed to show how much she meant to him by making her his prisoner. No wonder she’d attempted to leave.

“You’re afraid of me.” It wasn’t a question. Her fear sharpened her scent, soured the floral sweetness of her blood.

“I’m afraid of the situation.” She spun the watchband on her wrist. “And maybe a little of you.”

“You have nothing to fear from me, Claire.” Michael returned to his task, worried that if he kept his eyes on her he’d throw caution to the wind and take her, sink his fangs into her throat again. “I will never harm you.”

“I know that.” The words drifted to his ears on a whisper. “And that’s what scares me.”

Silence descended and Michael resisted the urge to turn and look at her. To reassure himself that she was still there. He found the concept of their tethering difficult to wrap his mind around even though it was commonplace for vampires. If all of this was hard for him to understand, he could only imagine how difficult it was for Claire.

Thirty quiet minutes passed and Michael plated two chicken cutlets and a pile of pasta drowned in marinara sauce for Claire. He set the plate in front of her and poured her a glass of red wine, all the while watching her from the corner of his eye.

She leaned over the plate and inhaled, her eyes drifting shut in bliss. “I don’t think I’ve ever smelled anything so good in my entire life.”

A sense of pride overtook Michael, that he could please her, and he slid the glass toward her. “I didn’t take into consideration how hungry you’d be.” He added a tall glass of water next to the wine. “I’m sorry.”

Claire fixed him with a stern eye and pursed her lips. He found her ire adorable. “You should be. I’m still mad at you, Mikhail. I’m just too hungry to worry about it right now.”

He didn’t respond, simply busied himself with his own plate. His heart was barely beating, he wasn’t even sure his body could process food at this point, but he wanted to sit beside her. Partake of a meal with her. Share some sort of domestic moment that might endear him to her even some small amount. At this point, he’d eat a bucket of nails to gain her favor if that’s what it took.

A moan worked its way up her throat as she dug into her meal with gusto. “Oh dear god, that’s delicious,” she said through a mouthful of pasta. “I’d apologize in advance for the unladylike way I’m about to inhale this pasta, but that would take time away from eating.”

She ate like a soldier in the field, bite after bite, her eyes never leaving her plate. Michael’s own fork hovered near his mouth as he watched her, amusement tugging at his lips. “You weren’t joking when you said you were hungry.”

Her gaze slid to the side and she paused midbite. “
Three days,
Mikhail.”

The rebuke didn’t go unnoticed and her point was taken. He’d have to make amends somehow. “Why do you call me Mikhail?” He knew what the answer would be, but it pleased him to hear it.

“Because it’s your name.” Claire didn’t look at him but gave her full attention to the plate in front of her.

“My name is Michael.”

“No, it isn’t.” Her matter-of-fact tone coaxed a smile to his face. He enjoyed her argumentative nature. “I can feel the lie, taste it on my tongue, when I call you Michael, so I won’t call you that. No matter how much you want me to.”

Extraordinary.
If what she said was true, her instincts were more akin to a vampire’s than a human’s. Just one more oddity that tempted to steer him to believe that Claire was in fact a mysterious Vessel. “I like the way it sounds when you say it. No one has called me Mikhail in a very long time.”

“Ronan calls you Mikhail,” Claire pointed out yet again.

“True. But it doesn’t sound half as sweet when he says it.”

Claire paused, turned to him, and a brilliant smile spread across her face. “Did you just pay me a compliment, Mikhail?”

Gods.
It was torture to be so close to her and not reach out and touch. Claire was beautiful and intelligent; her wit was quick and sharp. “I did,” he replied, forcing his attention to the pasta he pushed around his plate with the fork. “Does it please you?”

He gave her a sidelong glance and his gut clenched as crimson bloomed on her cheeks. “Maybe,” she said, popping a bite of chicken into her mouth.

Did it matter whether she was a Vessel or not? Michael knew without a doubt that his want of her would not diminish, either way. Likewise, he was certain that this mindless desire would most assuredly doom them both.

CHAPTER

15

“Do you have any fours?”

“No. Go fish.”

If Ronan could see him now, camped out on the living-room floor, the male would suffocate from bouts of laughter. But Michael didn’t care. Every moment spent with Claire was precious; each new day, a gift he couldn’t wait to unwrap.

Another three days had passed. Three days shut up in his tomb of a house while Ronan acted as his envoy, reaching out to the strongest dhampir covens and bringing them into their fold, allies who were capable of sustaining the change. An army of vampire warriors to fight the Sortiari. So he could protect Claire.

His mate. The Vessel and mother of the vampire race.

Or so he hoped.

“It’s your turn.”

Michael looked up at Claire’s expectant face, a sweet smile curving her full pink lips. Gods, how he wanted to touch her again. Taste her. Feel the petal softness of her mouth against his. “Sorry. Do you have any aces?”

Claire screwed her mouth into a petulant pout and handed over a card. The distance that separated them now was mere inches, though it felt like a cavernous expanse that stretched on for miles. He didn’t know how to close the gap. What to do, to say, that would make her fully trust him. His heart had ceased beating two days ago and never had he felt the absence as acutely as he did now. Claire’s blood no longer sustained him, and if he didn’t feed again soon he would lose himself to the bloodlust and take her vein whether she wanted him to or not.

“Your eyes are silver.”

Michael sorted out four aces and set the cards aside. “Are they.” He didn’t need confirmation. His emotions teetered on the edge. Volatile. Each passing moment spent with Claire was heaven and hell all at once. Or, perhaps more to the point, purgatory.

“Something’s upsetting you,” she remarked in the matter-of-fact way that he admired. “Or you’re thinking about working some of your mind-control mojo on me.”

As if that would work. Michael let out a chuff of breath. “I’m…” Words escaped him. Clogged his mind like slush trying to pass down a frozen stream. “Frustrated.”

“I don’t know why.” Claire’s tone was light, but her eyes were hooded. Dark gold in a midnight sky. “You’re winning.”

“I’d hoped the distance between us would close, but it seems with each passing day it grows wider.” The frustration he’d tried to squash built inside of him, boiling and churning like a river current. “You still don’t trust me.”