Dominion (Book 1 of The Dominion Series) (23 page)

"There," he says, standing up, keeping his eyes on mine as if to gauge my response at what he's about to tell me. "My pilot informs me that we're in for some turbulence between here and Boston. Might get pretty choppy, so you'll need to keep this on."

I swallow, hating turbulence and the feeling that's growing in me - my heart pounding at the prospect. I'm afraid of looking foolish more than death. Death is inevitable - looking foolish likely is too, but at least one could fight that.

"Would you like a drink? It might help calm you."

"Isn't it a bit early?"

Soren laughs. "As we say in the forces, the sun is always over the yardarm somewhere in the world."

"What have you got?" I ask, my voice a bit shaky.

"Very good cognac. Here," he says and goes to a small bar, pulling out a bottle of the liquor. I watch as he un-stoppers the bottle and pours the amber liquid in crystal snifters, turning the snifter on the side to gauge the amount.

"Perfect," he says, handing me one of the snifters. "Do you drink cognac?"

I shake my head. "My father did. I rarely drink. When I fly, at social gatherings."

He nods. "Hard to lose a father."

I frown. "He's not dead."

He glances up. "Might as well be, considering you haven't seen him for so long."

"Why are you bringing him up?"

"You're the one who brought him up." He holds up a hand. "Please, relax." He sits down in his seat, strapping himself in and then takes the snifter in his hand. He holds it up and nods to me. "Cheers." He takes a sip, smacking his lips and letting out a sigh of appreciation. Another sip and then he places his snifter down and opens his briefcase. "I've got a lot of work ahead of me," he says, and opens a file thick with paper. "I'm afraid I won't be very good company, Eve."

I nod, glad that he's going to be busy with work. I open a
National Geographic
and begin exploring the issue, but soon close it and my eyes, leaning my head back, planning to read once we level off. After a few moments, I feel the plane move and open my eyes.

"Well," Soren says, putting down his papers and leaning his own head back. "We're off."

The speed increases and I look at the window, glad in a way that the shutters are pulled. This way I can pretend I'm still in the limo and we're just driving really fast and up a steep hill.

The plane rises and falls softly as we climb higher. I hate that feeling, preferring the bumps of a firm highway beneath tires.

After what seems like an eternity, we level off and one of the pilots comes back to us. He's dressed in fatigues, his dark hair cut very short, his brown eyes set in a face of such innocent youth I wondered how he can be old enough to fly this plane.

"Miss," he says, nodding at me then smiling at Soren.

"James," Soren says, smiling and putting his papers down. The young man leans against the desk and looks at Soren.

"We've reached cruising speed and altitude. We'll be in Boston on schedule. Your flight leaves at 2030 hours. Is there anything you need now?"

Soren shakes his head. The pilot returns to the cockpit and I to my magazine. It's as I'm contemplating Soren's identity that I feel the first bumps of turbulence. Small at first, like riding in a small craft on a choppy sea, they grow in intensity and soon, Soren downs his cognac. He picks up another document, though, and reads it over, flipping pages as he scans the material, unconcerned.

Of course, I'm fearful and likely white as a ghost. The pilot's voice comes over the intercom.

"Colonel, we've got a system in front of us. I'm going to ascend and try to clear it, get out of this turbulence."

"Please do," Soren replies, flipping the page of his document. Then, I feel a huge drop followed by several moderate bumps as we hit a pocket of air. Soren's snifter falls to the ground, and rolls around on the soft carpet.

"Don't worry," Soren says, as if sensing my growing fear. "We'll be over this in a few moments, and it'll be a lot calmer."

I close my eyes and can't help but mouth the Twenty-third Psalm in my mind. Despite my atheism, it's something even I resort to when under extreme stress – like when flying.

"Are you Catholic, Eve?" he says softly.

How the
fuck
did he do that? Is he reading my mind at a distance? I nod, repeating the psalm, gaining some comfort from it even though I really don't believe any of it. I feel our ascent but the turbulence only seems to worsen and all at once I feel an incredible drop. My neck jars from it, my teeth grinding together.

"Shit!" I can't help but cry out.

"The pilot has to dive to get out of the worst of it - pretty bad - he was unable to clear through it. We'll have to drop down below it."

He takes my hand in his and his touch is cool, his skin dry and smooth against my damp palm.

"Don't worry," he says. "We'll be fine."

This act of kindness, this attempt to calm me, makes me thankful for contact of any kind, even with him, and yet I hate him. He has Michel under his control and can do what he wants with me. I wonder if I can beat him in a fight if necessary.

As the turbulence worsens, I turn to him. I don't know what I think he'll do - save us from crashing? If he's some sort of fallen angel, I feel certain he has powers to do such a thing, and I can't help but hope he will, almost willing to beg him to stop this, stop this terrifying descent.

"Do
something
," I whisper, closing my eyes.

He squeezes my hand again and after a very long moment, I feel the plane level out, slowly at first, then more rapidly until we're almost level. I open my eyes and look into his pale ones – he's been watching me. He doesn't smile; he doesn't say anything. Just lets go of my hand, but before he does, a sense of familiarity sweeps through me at his touch. I can't identify it, but it feels as if I know him. When he turns back to his closed briefcase, to retrieve his document, I understand the source of the feeling.

He's the River Man.

Soren puts down his paper and unfastens his belt. He picks up his snifter and then retrieves the bottle of cognac, pouring more for himself and then coming to my side, standing directly in front of me holding the bottle up. "More?" he asks.

I look away, the realization that he's the killer filling me with dread.

"I said, did you want some more?"

I nod. The liquid sloshes in the crystal glass and I drink it down quickly. He then fills it once again and sits back down.

I drink that down, too, and lean back, the warmth of the liquor comforting, heat burning down my throat and in my belly. We sit in silence for the rest of the trip, Soren reading his documents. My mind is unable to be blank, and I wonder if he'll let me go. Will he let me leave the plane, return to Michel or will I be a captive?

I remember the dark wing-like shadows that spread out from his shoulders from the previous day. I've always accepted that there are such things as vampires. Am I now going to have to accept that there are also fallen angels?

The liquor makes me drowsy and I must have fallen asleep for when I blink awake, we're descending towards a small airport near Boston.

"See," Soren says. "That wasn't so bad. I let you sleep. I figured you needed it after everything that's happened."

Once the plane taxis off the runway and over to the terminal, we disembark into the dusk, the sun having just set.

I follow him, watching the way he exudes confidence, as if he owns the world. We reach the entrance to the hangar and there's a limo waiting for me, the driver at the open door.

Soren extends his hand to me and I'm glad that I've put my gloves back on before we left the plane. Yet, I hesitate. I feel like a fraud to be shaking his hand, as if we're just a couple of professionals who shared a flight and are not enemies.

"I'm sorry," I say quietly, turning my face away from him. "I can't pretend to be your friend, considering who I am and what you are and that you have both Michel and Julien in your control."

"Oh, Eve," he chuckles, putting his briefcase down and grabbing me in a hug. I feel stiff, startled to be pulled into his embrace. "You think you know what I am," he whispers in my ear, his cheek pressed against mine. He squeezes me tightly, one hand going to the small of my back, pulling me against his body. "But you're wrong. You don't even know what
you
are."

He slips a hand into my jacket pocket and I feel something hard and heavy slide to the bottom of it, clinking against my keys and change. Then he kisses my cheeks, one after the other, his tongue touching my skin the way Michel kissed me, and he's off, his briefcase in hand.

I watch the swell of people close around him as he makes his way into the terminal. He's tall enough that I can watch him, his pale head bobbing above the crowd. He makes such a striking figure with his white skin such a contrast against his dark clothing. I see him bend down to someone and hear his deep mellow voice laugh out loud, jovial, full of exuberance.

I slide my hand in my pocket and pull out a piece of fired red clay, cuneiform lettering stamped into its surface and a figure carved on it in relief. It appears to be a piece of broken pottery. Egyptian? Or even earlier – Mesopotamia? The figure depicts a half-lion half-bird. I rub my thumb over the rough edge of the semicircular piece of clay. Soren has given me a clue of some kind - he wants me to know who or what he is. He claims to know my true identity.

My mind turns these facts around as I step into the limousine for my drive back to Boston and Michel, wondering whether I'll see him tonight. When I'm almost home, I get a text from Ed, telling me I can take the rest of the night off and just go home.

Thank God. I feel like crap after that hellish flight, the cognac and the stress of being with Soren.

All I really want to do is go home and have a hot bath, then go to bed. Soren, the case and this whole business with Michel and Julien will be there in the morning.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

"The heart wants what it wants."

Emily Dickenson

Once back at my apartment, I run a hot bath, needing to soak the chill out of me. Rain pelts at my window and I wonder when the storm will break and we'll finally get nice weather. I fill the tub with bubbles and a drop of my perfume that Michel liked so much, then lie back in the tub and relax, trying to blank my mind of everything and just let the heat soothe me. Of course, I can't blank my mind. I'm on edge from the trip with Soren, wanting to speak to Michel about it, find out if he was compelled and what he thinks about the meeting, but I'm exhausted and a bit lethargic from the cognac on the plane.

Of course, I can't keep my mind blank and it moves back to Michel. I no longer know what I feel about anything. I thought I'd be doing my mother's life work, finding a magic bullet to kill all vampires so I could get my revenge and eradicate their plague from the face of the earth. Instead, I'm falling in love with one and all I want is to have him, to be his, to be whatever I can be to him and it feels like a betrayal of my mother and myself.

It's just that he's so not what I thought about when I imagined vampires. I saw them as monsters, evil, bloodsuckers. Instead, I see them now as humans who met a tragic end that didn't kill them. Now, they must face an eternity addicted to blood and trapped by night, their senses heightened, acutely aware of everything – sound, sight, scent, touch, their emotions magnified. They have forever to regret their mistakes, superior to humans in strength and senses, and yet loving us – loving that which they inevitably either kill or watch die from old age.

I think of him, so beautiful and so soulful despite what he thinks of himself, how he mourns his lost innocence and how he mourns the Church he lost that day when he thought his beloved brother was dead.

I want him so
much
…

Lying in the warm water, I can't help but let my mind wander back to Michel. He's just so intense and I want him so much, my body warming to the thought of him lying on top of me on my bed the other night, his kiss so passionate, and the way he made me orgasm – wanting to relieve my lust but not feeling able to fuck me for real because – because of what? He said I had no idea and that I wasn't ready yet.

I lie in the warm soapy water and can't resist touching myself because I'm so aroused and frustrated and sad that we won't become lovers unless I pass some test. I need some sweet release to make me feel better. I imagine him restraining my hands like he did on the bed, his lips on mine, his tongue touching mine, then his mouth moving over my body to my breasts. I imagine his teeth teasing my nipples, then his mouth moving lower, finding my flesh and making me gasp with pleasure…

My fingers slip between the lips of my sex and find the hard nub of my clitoris and I stroke…

A knock at the door brings me right back to reality and I take my fingers away in guilt and sit up.

Who the
hell
is bothering me at this time of night?

"Eve," Michel calls out. "It's me, Michel."

Oh,
damn
…

I don't say anything, my mind flustered that he's caught me in the middle of a self-makeout session in the bath.

"Eve, I can tell you're in there. I can
smell
you…"

Oh, hell..
. That admission just does something to me.

"I can't come to the door," I say, my voice quivery from being so close to an orgasm. "I'm in the bath."

I hear the key in the lock. Oh,
damn
. I forgot he has the duplicate. My heart flutters for he's coming in and the bathroom door is open. I don't have time to get out and put a bathrobe on, so I sink down into the bath and try to hide under the bubbles. I hear his boots on the hardwood, and then the sound of them dropping on the floor as he removes them. Then he's in the bathroom standing in the doorway, looking at me like a lion looks at a baby gazelle and I can barely breathe. Some part of my still-functioning brain knows I'm in trouble even if I want this.