Books by Maggie Shayne (86 page)

She felt herself begin to fade, to weaken. She was vanishing like mist under a searing sun, until she no longer existed apart from this feeling. . . this ecstasy.

Only vaguely did she notice when he raised a hand to his own throat, and then, while his mouth was still clamped to her, he pushed her face to his neck. Vibrations seemed to reach the core of her soul. A hunger such as she'd never known enveloped her and she closed her mouth over his neck and she drank.

They were locked together; he moved deep within her, while his teeth and lips demanded all she could give. His hands held her hips to his groin and her head to his throat. His movements became more powerful, and she knew hers did, as well. The approaching climax was like a steaming locomotive, about to hit them both. She moaned, then screamed against his throat again and again as she felt herself turn into the brew in a bubbling cauldron, and slowly boil over. Eric shook violently, groaning and sinking to his knees, still holding her to him.

They remained as they were as the waves of sensation slowly receded, leaving them warm and complete. She knew they'd exchanged ounce for ounce, drop for drop. They were sated. . . and they were one.

Carefully Eric unfolded his legs and lay back, keeping her on top of him, cradling her like something precious. She relaxed there, only moving enough so her feet were not behind him when he lay down. The strangest sensations were zipping through her. Her skin tingled as if tiny electrical charges were jolting from nerve ending to nerve ending. Her head reeled with sensory perceptions. Everything seemed suddenly more acute. The firelight, brighter and more beautiful than ever before. She'd never realized how many different colors there actually were in a flame, or how she could smell the essence of the wood as it burned.

"Eric, I feel so strange. . . like I'm more alive than I've ever been and yet. . . so sleepy." Her eyes widened. Even her own voice sounded different.

He laughed softly, stroking her hair. She swore she could feel every line of his palm as it moved over her tresses. "Thank you for convincing me, my love. I couldn't have gone on without you, you know."

"Is it done?" She struggled to stay awake.

"It is nearly done. You must sleep. I've waited two centuries to find you, Tamara. Only you, I know that now. I can wait now, through one more night, one more day. When you wake again, it will be done."

She burrowed her head into his chest. "Tell me. . . ."

"You'll be stronger than ten humans." His hands stroked her hair, her back, and his hypnotic voice carried her like a magic carpet. "You'll get stronger as you grow older, but that will be the only sign of aging you'll see. Your senses will be altered, heightened, more so than they already are. And there are psychic abilities, too. I will teach you to control them, to use them. I'll teach you so many things, my Tamara. You will live forever.

"With you," she muttered, barely able to move her lips now.

"With me. Always with me, love."

For Melissa and Leslie,

who recognized Rhiannon's potential

even before I did

It's because I'm not good enough.
 
Or, so he thinks.
 
It isn't that he doesn't desire me, because we both know he does.
 
And why wouldn't he?
 
Mortal men fall at my feet like simpering fools begging for a crumb of attention.
 
Immortals, as well, those few I've known.
 
Why then, does the only man I desire reject me?
 
Why does he feign in~ difference when I can see the lust in his eyes?
 
Why has he asked me to remain away from him, to cease distracting him with my periodic visits?
 
It isn't as if I bother him so often.
 
Once every fifty years or so, when my fantasies of him no longer suffice--when my longing for him becomes too strong to resist.

My visits, though, do little to ease my discomfort.
 
He only reaffirms his decision, each time, and pleads with me to stay away.
 
He'd send me away himself, were he able.
 
He'd banish me from his very sight, were it in his power to do so.

Just as my father did.

I know, I am not what most males expect a female to be.
 
I am outspoken.
 
I am strong.
 
I fear very little in this world, nor would I, I suspect, in any other.
 
But it is not my oddness that makes me so unloved by the males.
 
Or should I say, unlovable?
 
It can't be that, for my father rejected me before I'd had opportunity to display any of my strange tendencies.
 
He rejected me simply for being his firstborn.

A great Pharaoh of Egypt, a god-king of the Nile, he fully expected the gods to bless him with a son as first born.
 
When he was given me, instead, he saw me as some sort of punishment for whatever sins he imagined himself guilty of.
 
I was allowed to remain with my mother only until I saw my fifth year.
 
It would have been more merciful to have tossed me at birth from the gilded halls of his palace, and left me as bait for the jackals.
 
Yet he did not.
 
At five, I was banished, sent to live among the priestesses of Isis at the temple.
 
My brothers, when they came later, were treated as I should have been.
 
They were welcomed as princes.
 
Their arrivals were celebrated for months on end.
 
Yet I, the one truly destined for immortality, was ignored.

I vowed then never again to care for the affections of any male, but I find I do now.
 
Not that my emotions are involved.
 
I am far too wise to fall prey to silly romanticism.
 
I am not a simpleminded, gullible mortal, after all.
 
No, it is not romance I want.
 
It is only him.
 
My desire for him is a palpable thing, as I know his for me to be, as well.
 
It angers me that he denies it, that he sees me as unworthy.

This time, though, I will manage it.
 
I will prove to him that I am the bravest, the strongest, the most cunning individual he's ever known.

I've come upon some information, you see.
 
A while back, Roland had some serious trouble, along with two other immortals, back in the States.
 
The details are not important.
 
The gist is that the most precious being to Roland, right now, is a boy by the name of Jamison Bryant.
 
He is one of The Chosen--that is, one of those rare humans who share the same ancestry and blood antigen as we immortals.
 
One who can be transformed.
 
He shares a special link with Roland, a closeness of which, I freely admit, I am envious.
 
And the boy is in grave danger.
 
So might Roland be.
 
I am on my way not only to warn them, but to protect them both, in any way necessary.

Please, do not misinterpret my motive.
 
I do not rush to his side because of any overblown emotional attachments.
 
I've already made clear that my feelings for Roland are only physical in nature.
 
It hurts enough to be rejected on that basis.
 
Think how stupid one would have to be to open oneself up to more pain!
 
No, I do this only to prove my worth.
 
He will see, once and for all, that Rhiannon is not a bit of dust to be swept away at a whim.
 
Not a mere limpid female, to be ignored as so much chattel.
 
I am worthy of his affection, just as I was my father's.
 
They are the ones who are wrong, to cast me aside.
 

They are the ones who are wrong.

Although...

There are times, when even I begin to doubt it.
 
There are times when I hear my father's voice, echoing in those vaulted corridors, his condemnation of me.
 
And I wonder.
 
Could he have been right?
 
Am I, truly, his curse?
 
Nothing more than a pawn of the gods, to be used to mete out punishment to a sinful king?
 
How could my father have been wrong, after all?
 
He was pharaoh!
 
Only a step below a god himself.
 
Might he have been right?

Just as Roland might now be right in avoiding my touch?
 
Perhaps he sees something that I have not.
 
Perhaps he knows how unworthy I--

No!

I am Rhiannon--born Rhianikki, princess of Egypt, firstborn of Pharaoh.
 
I am immortal, a goddess among humans, envied by women and worshiped by men.
 
I could kill them all as easily as I could wish them goodnight.

I could!

I
am
worthy... and I intend to prove it.
 
I am Rhiannon.
 
And this is my story.

He moved as one of the shadows beneath the overhung roofs, along the twisting, narrow streets.
 
He detested the fact that he was here, walking among
them
.
 
Some passed so near he could have touched them, simply by raising a hand.
 
He felt the heat of their bodies, saw the steam of their warm breaths in the chill night air.
 
He felt the blood pulsing beneath their skin, and heard the rapid, healthy patter of their hearts.
 
He felt like a wolf slinking silently among timid rabbits.
 
With his preternatural strength he could kill any of them without taxing himself.
 
It frightened him to know he was capable of doing just that, if I pushed.

For an instant, murky images of the distant past clouded his vision.
 
Air heavy with dust and the scents of sweat and blood.
 
Fallen men, like autumn leaves upon the damp, brown earth.
 
Hooves thundering as the riderless horses fled in a hundred directions.
 
One man, a boy, in truth, remained breathing.
 
The lowly squire in ill-fitting armor sat high upon a magnificent, sooty destrier.
 
The horse pawed the ground with a forefoot and blew, eager for more.
 
Only silence came in answer.
 
The silence of death, for it surrounded them.

The young Roland saw the blood-coated broadsword, the crimson tears, dripping slowly from its tip.
 
As the red haze of fury began to fade, he let the weapon fall from his grasp.
 
Stomach lurching, he tugged the steel helmet from his head, then the mail coif, and tossed both to the ground.
 
Aghast, he stared at the carnage, too sickened just then to be thankful their faces were hidden by helmets, their wounds covered by their armor.

The boy felt no elation at what he'd done.
 
No, not even later, when he was personally knighted by King Louis VII, for heroism and valor.
 
He felt nothing but a grim and disgusting new self-knowledge.

For he had enjoyed the killing.

Roland shook himself.
 
Now was no time for remembrances, or regrets.
 
He reminded himself that despite his likening of them to rabbits, some humans were capable of ultimate deceit and treachery.
 
Past experience had taught him that.
 
And if the report he'd just had from the States were true, one of those humans, more treacherous than any, might even be a few yards from him.
 
It was that possibility that had drawn Roland into the village tonight, in spite of his self-imposed solitude.

His plan was simple.
 
He would slip unnoticed through the medieval-style streets of L'Ombre, and into the inn called Le Requin.
 
He would listen, and he would watch.
 
He'd scan their thinly veiled minds and he'd find the interloper, if, indeed, there was one to be found.
 
And then he'd deal with it.

The night wind stiffened, bringing with it the scents of late-blooming roses, and dying ones, of freshly clipped grass and of the liquor and smoke just beyond the door he now approached.
 
He paused as the door swung wide, and the odor sharpened.
 
A cluster of inebriated tourists stumbled out and passed him.
 
Roland drew back, averting his face, but it was an unnecessary precaution.
 
They paid him no mind.

Roland squared his shoulders.
 
He did not fear humans, nor did many of his kind.
 
More that he feared
for
them, should he be forced into an unwanted encounter.
 
Besides that, it made good sense to avoid contact.
 
Should humans ever learn that the existence of vampires was more than just the stuff of legends and folklore, the damage done would be irreversible.
 
There would be no peace.
 
It was best to remain apart, to remain forever a myth to those endlessly prying mortals.

As the door swung once more, Roland caught it and slipped quickly through.
 
He stepped to one side and took a moment to survey his surroundings.
 
Low, round tables were scattered without order.
 
People clustered around them, sitting, or standing, leaning over and speaking of nothing in particular.
 
The smoke-laden air hung at face level, stinging his eyes and causing his nostrils to burn.
 
The voices were a drone, punctuated often by the splashing of liquor and the clinking sounds of ice against glass.

Her laughter rose then, above all else.
 
Low, husky and completely without reserve, it rode the smoky air to surround him, and caress his eardrums.
 
His gaze shot toward the source of the sound, but he saw only a huddle of men vying for position near the bar.
 
He could only guess
she
must be at the center of that huddle.

To push his way through the throng of admirers was out of the question.
 
Roland had no desire to draw undue attention.
 
No, nor indeed, any desire to renew his timeless acquaintance with her.
 
To resume the slow torture.
 
He ignored the surge of anger he felt at the idea that any of the humans might be close enough to touch her.
 
He would not wish to witness the clumsy gropings of some drunken mortal.
 
He didn't really believe he might break the fool's neck for such an offense, but there was no need pressing his temper to its limits.

He could learn as much by listening, and he did so now, attuning his mind as well as his hearing, and wondering what she was calling herself these days.
 
For although he sought confirmation, he had no doubt about the identity of that seductive laugh's owner.
 
No doubt at all.

"Do another one, Rhiannon!"

"
Oui, cherié
. 'Ow about zome rock and roll?"

A chorus of pleas followed, as the willowy, dark form extricated herself from the mass.
 
She shook her head, not quite smiling in that way she had.
 
She moved with such grace that she seemed to float over the hardwood rather than walk on it.
 
The slightly flared hemline of black velvet swaying a fraction of an inch above the floor added to the illusion.
 
Roland had no clue how she managed to move her legs at all, given the way the full-length skirt clung to them from midshin on up.
 
She might as well have paraded naked before her gaping admirers for what the garment hid.
 
The velvet seemed to have melded itself to her form, curving as her hips did, nipping inward at the waist, cupping her small, high breasts like possessive hands.
 
Her long, slender arms were bare, save the bangles and bracelets adorning them.
 
Her fingers were be ringed and tipped in lengthy, dagger-sharp nails of blood red.

Roland's gaze continued upward as she moved across the room, apparently unaware of his presence.
 
The neckline of the ridiculous dress consisted only of two strips of velvet forming a halter around her throat.
 
Between the swatches, the pale expanse of her skin glowed with ethereal smoothness.
 
His sharp eyes missed nothing, from the gentle swell of her breasts, to the delicate outline of her collarbone at the base of her throat.
 
Around her neck she wore an onyx pendant in the shape of a cradle moon.
 
It rested flat on the surface of her chest, its lowest point just touching the uppermost curve of her breasts.

That swan's neck, creamy in color, satiny in texture, gracefully long and narrow, was partially covered by her hair.
 
It hung as straight and perfectly jet as the velvet dress, yet glossy, more satin than velvet, in truth.
 
She'd pulled it all to one side, and it hung down covering the right side of her neck, and most of the dress.
 
It's shining length only ended at midthigh.

On her left ear she'd hung a cluster of diamonds and onyx that dangled so long they touched her shoulder.
 
He couldn't tell whether the earring had a mate on her right ear, due to her abundance of hair.

She paused, and bent over the man on the piano bench, whispering in his ear, her narrow hand resting on his shoulder.
 
Roland felt himself stiffen as the beast buried deep within him stirred for the first time in decades.
 
He willed it away.
 
The man nodded, and struck a chord.
 
She turned, facing the crowd, one forearm resting upon the top of the piano.
 
With the first rich, flawless note she sung, the entire room went silent.
 
Her voice, so deep and smooth that were it given form it could only become honey, filled the room, coating everything and everyone
 
within.
 
Her expression gave the lyrics more meaning than they'd ever before had.

She sang as if her heart were breaking with each note, yet her voice never wavered or weakened intensity.

She held the mortals in the palm of her hand, and she was loving every minute of it, Roland thought in silence.
 
He ought to turn and leave her to make a spectacle of herself in this insane manner.
 
But as she sung on, of heartache and unbearable loneliness, she looked toward him.
 
She caught his gaze and she refused to let go.
 
In spite of himself, Roland heard the pure beauty of her voice.
 
And though he'd had no intention of doing so, he let his eyes take in every aspect of her face.

A perfect oval, with bone structure as exquisite and flawless as if she were a sculpture done by a master.
 
Small, almost pointed chin and angling, defined jawline.
 
The slight hollows beneath her cheeks and the high, wide-set cheekbones.
 
Her eyes were almond-shaped and slanted slightly upward at the outer corners.
 
The kohl that lined them only accentuated that exotic slant, and her lashes were as impenetrably dark as the irises they surrounded.

Against his will he focused on her full, always pouting lips as they formed each word of the song.
 
Their color was deep, dark red, like that of wine.
 
How many years had he hungered for those lips?

He shook himself.
 
The fruit of those lips was one he must never sample.
 
His gaze moved upward to her eyes again.
 
Still, they focused solely upon him, as if the words she sung were meant for his ears alone.
 
Gradually he realized the patrons were growing curious.
 
Heads turned toward him to see who had caught the attention of the elusive Rhiannon.
 
He'd fallen under her spell as surely as any of these simpering humans had, and as a result, he'd been unaware of the growing risk of discovery.
 
Let her behave recklessly, if it pleased her to do so.
 
He wouldn't risk his existence to warn her.
 
More likely than not, his remaining here would result in trouble.
 
Her nearness never failed to stir the beast to life, to bring out his baser instincts.
 
That she did so deliberately was without doubt.
 
Though if she knew the whole of it, she might change her mind.

He gripped the door, his eyes still on her, and jerked it open.
 
He made himself step out into the bracing chill of the autumn night even as she held the hauntingly low, final note, drawing it out so long it ought to be obvious she was no ordinary woman.
 
Yet, a second later, Roland heard no one questioning her.
 
He only heard thunderous applause.

*
   
*
   
*
   
*
   
*

Rhiannon felt the sting of the slap she'd just been issued.
 
Her anger rose quickly, but not quite quickly enough to prevent her feeling the hurt that came along with it.
 
So Roland could look her over so thoroughly and simply walk away, could he?
 
He could ignore the dress she'd chosen simply to entice him.
 
He could pretend not to hear the emotion with which she'd sung or even to notice the song she'd chosen.
 
Well, she supposed she'd need more drastic measures to get his attention.

She stepped away from the piano, quickly muttering that she had a headache and needed to slip away without her male attendants surrounding her.
 
The piano player, François, tilted his head toward a door in the back, and Rhiannon made her way toward it.
 
She paused only long enough to grip the upper arm of the drunkest male in the room.
 
She pulled him, stumbling in her wake, out the door.

She could only just make out the dark shape of Roland's retreating figure, farther along the narrow street.
 
She didn't call out to him.
 
She wouldn't beg him for something so simple as a hello, after decades of separation.
 
She had a better idea.

She pulled the drunken man with her a few yards farther, then turned him, her hands s6pporting his weight mostly by clenching his shirt front.
 
She shoved his back against a building.

For a moment, she studied him.
 
He wasn't bad-looking, really.
 
Red hair, and freckles, but a rather nice face, except for the crooked, inebriated grin.