Demon Moon (20 page)

“I believe it would utterly destroy them. And I've no desire to become a starving poet. I'm content placing my failure at Shelley's feet; I blame the poem for your resistance, not my recitation of it.”

She met his eyes and bit the inside of her cheek to hold back her laughter when she saw the mirth reflected there. “You knew him, didn't you? Shelley? Hugh once mentioned that you'd known John Polidori, and that you were near Lake Geneva the same year as he and Byron. So you must have encountered the Shelleys.”

She didn't miss the sudden darkening of his gaze before he nodded. “Yes. His wife had some sense, but Shelley was a bloody fool—though I suppose I was no less, at the time.” He paused, and a pleased expression lit his features. “Did you read his work for his connection to me, sweet Savitri?”

“Hugh was a literature professor for years, and 1816 is a rather famous summer in the literary world. Ghost stories and competitions and all that. I also had a phase when I was a teenager and read tons of Romantic poetry. I don't forget anything easily.” She worried her lip with her teeth, then added quickly, “But I'll admit that I reread
Frankenstein
and
The Vampyre
after learning you were there. We've gone on a tangent: a century?”

If he triumphed, he hid it well. “Auntie has lived here almost half that, and she still carries an accent.”

“But her first language is different, and when she's not hosting at the restaurant she's talking to her friends in Hindi or Marathi. You speak English.” Was it possible that he didn't talk to many people in San Francisco? Perhaps he only came into frequent contact with Hugh and Lilith—and more recently, those at SI.

“That is true. I confess I prefer to speak English rather than American.”

She rolled her eyes, smiling. Or maybe he was reclusive because he preferred his own rarefied company to the plebs'. “You are such a snob. You probably have
Masterpiece Theater
on all the time at your house. Do you call it a ‘telly'?”

His shoulders shook. “No.”

“At least there's that, as televisions weren't in development until the 1920s. If you did, it'd be proof of your affectation. You still say ‘bloody' a lot, though.”

“Given my lifestyle, it's frequently appropriate.”

Her laughter was cut short by a gasp as he whipped into an alley, plowed through a chain-link fence, scraped past a Dumpster, and accelerated onto a street, now headed in the opposite direction.

Savi unclenched her fingers from his upper thigh and her door pull, and ran her palms down her jeans to wipe away the sudden perspiration. “Well,” she said shakily. “That's one thing the symbols are good for: preventing scratches in your paint.”

“I'd have warned you, but I rather like where your hand went.” He reached down beside his foot and fished for the IR detector that had flown from her grip.

The vampires didn't follow them through; she watched for them until Colin drove down another side street and her heart eased into a normal rhythm. “Gadgets, car chases, a suave British gentleman. I'm officially a Bond girl. I shall call myself Curry Delicious from this day forth.”

He didn't laugh; instead, he ran a slow perusal of her form. “The decorator and I performed the final walk-through of my house today. I have a new theater in the basement, and a collection of Bond DVDs. You should make use of me, Miss Delicious.”

Her breath caught. “My Bond phase ended two years ago.”

“My film library is ridiculously large. What is your newest obsession?”

“A repeated one: horror noir anime. Why so extensive?”

“I've little else to do during the day. My daysleep only comes upon me every five or six days, and I prefer to paint in the predawn hours.”

“You can go out in the sun; you could leave your house.”

“Yes, but it's extremely uncomfortable.”

Her brow furrowed in confusion. “In Caelum, you were out for hours.” For the first time she noticed she could think of Caelum without that familiar tightening in her throat, the dread of memory. Only a sense of wonder and loss.

His tone echoed the same. “In Caelum, it was not painful.”

She averted her eyes and studied the IR display with more attention than it deserved. The green blob wasn't completely formless, she realized—it was the leather of his seat, absorbing his body heat.

“Do you appear on any display? Film, digital cameras, video?”

“No,” he said softly.

Two hundred years, with nothing to confirm his existence but the gaze of others, his determination not to lose himself.
Look at me
. How many times had he asked her—begged her—to do that in Caelum? But she hadn't…couldn't.

He obviously didn't feel sorry for himself; so why did she suddenly feel like crying?

She stared out the window, and asked nothing more the rest of the way.

Auntie's sat between a beauty salon and a laundry, its colorful awning stretching over the sidewalk. It was a restaurant without pretension; though the menu boasted of authentic Bombay cuisine, an outline of the Taj Mahal surrounded the restaurant name. The décor was a mix of old Hollywood and new Bollywood, unapologetically invoking a stereotypical, homogenized vision of India. There was nothing subtle about it, and it catered to anyone who wanted spicy fare and an atmosphere that screamed foreign, exotic, and unreal.

And it smelled incredible—Savitri, saturated. The few times he'd accompanied Lilith and Castleford, Colin had left starving, salivating, his hunts more desperate, the bloodlust deep.

He dared not attempt several hours inside without soothing it first.

Music pounded from the Bentley's speakers; he'd turned it on to cover the silence that had fallen between them—the lull had been awkward for him, but apparently not for Savitri. He'd hoped she would interrogate him on his latest obsession with British punk, but she'd only closed her eyes and leaned back against the headrest.

She looked at him when he lowered the volume, then frowned as he pulled over in front of the restaurant and double-parked beside a green sedan. “You aren't coming in? No kiss for Nani?”

He watched her features carefully as he said, “I need to feed.”

Her lips parted. “I assumed you'd already…” She smiled brightly, then gathered her bag from the floorboard. “It's probably best if you go anyway; she'll just try to force you to eat.” She blinked. “Eat
food
. Well, I'll see you later then. Nani will give me a ride home after we close, so don't worry about that.”

That inane babbling. That ridiculously sunny smile. She'd worn the same expression outside Castleford's house while thanking him for the night at the club. The smile that meant she'd thrown her shields up full-force.

“I'll return when I've finished,” he assured her.

“Why?” Her smile wavered before it fixed to her lips again. She swung open the door and stepped out. “Oh. Of course. Happy hunting, Colin.”

Bloody fucking hell. “Savi—” The door didn't slam; its design prevented such inelegant noise, no matter the force with which it closed. And she couldn't have heard him. He clenched his jaw and wiped away the congealed drops on the dash.

The bell above the restaurant door jingled as she disappeared inside.

Why?
Her question, and one she'd quickly answered for herself. He'd hoped his mention of feeding would pique her curiosity, stir her arousal. But he'd only succeeded in reminding her why he'd begun this slow chase and seduction, reducing the desire and budding friendship between them to fangs, blood, and his pursuit of her scent.

A horn blared behind him. He suppressed a crude gesture and slid back into traffic. When had she forgotten his motives, that remembering them had engendered such a reaction? Certainly not on the ride over. So what new fear had he inadvertently raised?

Unless it was not fear, but jealousy—and she'd reinforced her shields to prevent him from sensing it.

Oh, sweet Savitri. He was grinning as he found a space in a parking lot two blocks away. The more he considered the notion, the more it made sense and the better it pleased him. An emotional entanglement might initially frighten her, but if he cultivated it along with her physical attraction, she'd be more likely to overcome any scruples she might have had in straying from her future husband.

Poor sod. No matter how suitable he proved to be, he was going to lose Savi before he'd met her.

Colin tucked his hands into his pockets and wandered from the parking lot to the courtyard of an apartment complex. He leaned his shoulder against a wooden trellis and waited; someone should happen by before too long. A more fascinating hunt waited back at Auntie's—tonight, he'd let his prey come to him.

A tired, feminine sigh alerted him to the woman's presence before he saw her through the beveled-glass security door. She was dressed to go out in a flirty pink dress and heels, but she'd topped it with a worn beige coat. The bloodlust rose up within him, and he stroked his tongue against his fangs, soothing the hungry ache.

Short dark hair.

He shifted impatiently when she paused in the lobby to check her mailbox; disturbed by his movement, the air swirled and the odor of rot wafted around him.
Feed
. Warily, he tested the scent—winter cuttings, mulch.

Just a false association. He forced the memory away, recalled himself to the woman as she neared his location.

She couldn't overlook him; beside the concrete walk, landscaping lights flooded the trellis and surrounding greenery. He'd deliberately selected a well-illuminated spot. Her fingers tightened on her purse strap and she gave him the half-hearted, quick glance so common from a woman alone at night.

She stopped. Disbelief emanated from her psychic scent. Her pulse pounded, and she turned to him with her eyes wide. Silently, without expression, he let her stare; she'd make the decision now—to speak with him or not.

“I know you,” she said.

He was not surprised. Inevitably, this happened—he was too old for it not to, now and again. “When did you know me?”

As if his soft question had been a command, her gaze unfocused. “Twenty-three years ago. I…dreamed of you. You came to me one night and I invited you up—” Her voice failed, and her cheeks filled with color. Blood, just under her skin. “It was a good dream.”

He couldn't keep the bitter smile from his lips. A night of extraordinary pleasure from a stranger, and he always became a drunken hallucination or a dream. Yet she remembered him better than most; he must have remained in her bed throughout the night instead of immediately forcing her to sleep.

“And you're still so beautiful.” A wistful note lilted in her voice, but she glanced down at her hands, not at Colin. His gaze followed hers. Age had not settled deeply on her fingers, but he could see the slight loosening of the skin, the veins more prominent than a young woman's would have been. “Will you come up again?”

He placed her hand in the crook of his arm. “Yes.”

Walking drew his attention to the stiffness of his cock. He'd not noted it over the bloodlust, but now it annoyed him—how vulgar it was for one's prick to lead the way to dinner when its destination should be to bed. He loved the blood, he loved sex, but the mindless rutting that often accompanied the bloodlust could not even be considered fucking.

Not that they were of a mind to complain once he began feeding.

That did not mean, however, that he had to be an animal up to that moment. He'd have little choice if the bloodlust demanded the rut—and if she willed it. But until he lost that choice, he refused to devolve into barbarity or to rely upon the rapture for his pleasure and hers.

He looked down at his companion as they stepped into the lift. A mirror screamed at him from inside the tiny cube; his focus narrowed to a swath of pink silk. “I pity the gentleman for whom you meant that astonishingly lovely dress. Did he see you in it before he cancelled? He must not have.”

“No.” She blinked and shook her head as if to clear it. “How—?”

Her skin shivered beneath his fingertips as they followed the U of her neckline from shoulder to the upper swell of her breast. “One does not cover beauty with drab.” Smiling, he tugged on the collar of her well-worn mackintosh. “This is the coat of a woman who has no fear that her lover will arrive early.” After a glance at her left hand, he amended, “Or her husband.”

“Barely. We're reconciling, but his standing me up tonight reminds me why we split.” Self-consciously, she checked her reflection—and didn't notice Colin wasn't there. The lift doors opened, and he pulled her quickly through.

She hesitated in front of her flat. He took the keys from her, and once inside, there was no hesitation in her kiss. Colin kept his eyes open, surveyed the room. The edge of a mirror frame was visible in the hall; he'd not take her to the bedroom, then.

It hardly mattered; the front door worked well enough. Her mouth moved beneath his—experienced, aroused, but not hungry for him.

Savitri had been starving for his touch, her lips and tongue eagerly seeking his, her body a sweet weight, the scent and sound of her passion all the flavor he needed.

Until the bloodlust.

He edged the pink silk down over her breast, licked and suckled; she was lovely, but there was no flavor here, just the need to bite, to feed, to take the blood inside his mouth and fuck.

I don't want you tonight. Only your blood
.

But his hands lifted her against the door. He closed his eyes. Savi had wanted him. He'd not needed to pierce her shields to sense her desire. Ten minutes of seduction, and she would have willingly been his. One taste of rapture, and she'd not want to relinquish it. If he'd had her here, in the car, standing or lying…it would have been of her free will.

Why the bloody fucking hell was he taking a substitute?

Fear crashed through him—not his. He looked at her. She stood frozen, her body taut. Her lips trembled. Her eyes filled with tears.

“You're so beautiful.”

He didn't need to hear it from this one.

Only your blood
. He covered her eyes and turned her face away from him, pushing her cheek flat against the door panel and exposing her neck. He struck deep; liquid life pulsed into his mouth. His left hand tore at pretty pink silk and underclothing.

Until it flowed into him, with the electric slide of her blood over his tongue:
I don't want you
.

His cock ached with need, but the bloodlust immediately retreated, regathered and shot upward, until there were only fangs and feeding. She shuddered against him, cried a name that wasn't his. He smoothed her skirt down over her thighs.

And he drank.

“Oh,
naatin
, he is very handsome.”

Savi grinned at the note of pleasure in Nani's voice. Her grandmother leaned forward in the chair, squinting at the computer screen to read the text beneath the picture. The restaurant's office was small, and Savi barely had room to maneuver around the desk to scroll down the e-mail to find his stats.

“Manohar Suraj. He only has a master's, but it's a terminal degree in his field.” And better than anything she had to offer, Savi added silently. But it was probably best not to break Nani's good mood by reminding her of her granddaughter's shortcomings. “He's a software engineer and he lives in Stonestown. He recently bought a condo there.”

“You've spoken with him?”

“Just e-mail. But I'm meeting with him tomorrow; we're going to that little coffee shop off Wawona.”

A small expression of distress furrowed Nani's brow. “This is not how it is usually done,
naatin
. I should speak with his family.”

“This is better than you talking with his parents and then having to withdraw later if we don't like each other. Let us see if we are compatible, and if we aren't, it'll save you any embarrassment.”

Nani gave a little headshake of assent. “What of his family? It cannot be good that they placed an advertisement; they must have no connections at all.”

Savi had gone around that—found out who had paid for the matrimonial and then contacted Manu directly. “His father is at Cisco Systems. You might be able to ask Mr. Sivakumar if he knows him.” It would go a long way toward easing Nani's fears if someone she knew could vouch for the family, and the son. “You should call Mrs. Sivakumar tomorrow.”

Again that headshake. “Did you send a picture?”

Savi nodded, trying not to laugh. “He wasn't horrified. He still agreed to meet me.”

“It looks better today,
naatin
. But still—”

“I know. I'll grow it out. My braid will be as long as yours before the wedding.”

“Hopefully you marry before then,” Nani said, smiling. “Your mother cut her hair when she first started university, and it took eight years to reach this length again.”

Savi couldn't remember her mother without a
chotee
. Her father had often tugged on it, laughing. And when she'd brushed it out, it had fallen down her back like a waterfall of ebony satin.

Her only memory of her mother's short hair had come from pictures.

Savi's chest tightened, and she wrapped her arms around Nani's shoulders. Neither she nor Nani were given to displays of affection, but there was no surprise or rejection in her grandmother's form.

It was brief; Nani patted her arm and pulled back. “Do not make me cry,
naatin
. Have you eaten?”

The ache beneath Savi's heart faded, replaced by amusement. Her grandmother would stuff her full, as if food would heal all of her ills, ease any grief. “Not yet, but I'll get something in a moment—there's not much here to do. Ranjit has been keeping it up well.” Though Savi had once been her grandmother's sole help with the books, during their vacation to India and her subsequent fever, another employee had maintained them…and continued to do so. As Nani seemed comfortable with the arrangement, Savi hadn't done more than act as fill-in when he took time off. Like tonight.