Elijah (36 page)

Anya watched Syreena march back into her guarding position with two steps and an about-face that would have put most of the General’s fighting corps to shame.

“I noticed you left the room for a few minutes just now, half-breed,” she remarked coolly, not even looking at the other woman.

“I…” Anya cleared her throat. “I was thirsty,” she agreed, knowing full well she’d rather dehydrate than ever leave the Queen unprotected. Just as much as Syreena knew it.

“Anything…uh…unusual happen while I was…um…”

“Out of the room?” Syreena prompted. “Not a thing.”

“Good.” Anya smiled an amused smile. “Good.”

In the darkness, Anya could swear she heard the stoic warrior her people had feared for centuries chuckling under his breath.

The medics left Gideon’s room, letting nature do what it could do best. They had done all they could, and the rest was up to Destiny and the Ancient’s own resiliency.

Bringing his life signs back had been easy enough. So long as it was soon enough, an Elder Body Demon could time his own vital signs to take over those of the victim’s, rather like a person-to-person bypass mechanism. The Elder took over the damaged autonomic systems, bringing the victim instantly back to life. However, healing the body fast enough and far enough to take over on its own had been the trick. Gideon had suffered enormous damage to vital organs and a blood loss that few could recover from.

The medics believed it was only Gideon’s age that had saved him. Everything else aside, his was the fastest-healing immune system in the world. The only thing he was not capable of doing was replenishing his own blood supply rapidly enough. Nor was Gideon able to do the deep, complex healings that, while in reach of some of the Elders, lacked his artistic finesse for
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perfection. It had been difficult to sort out venom and rabies, bacteria and bone marrow, the clots and the residual scarring that had polluted his systems.

He should have died. Might still die. It was only his natural healing that could save him from whatever they had missed or had deemed out of their range of skill.

Hours passed and darkness swept over the castle that doubled as a hospital. There were guards outside all of the doors, a mixture of Demon warriors and Lycanthrope Elite that was eerily unprecedented. More so, the Lycanthropes brooked no argument to their demands to guard the door of the Warrior Captain and his bride themselves.

Baffled by Noah’s command to comply, the warriors did so despite the loyalty that tempted them to disobey even the King’s command. The castle was swarming with other forces, most of them out of doors, protecting the perimeter. Noah had left his sister long enough to spell Corrine, who had been given the care of her sibling’s baby. Sitting by the comfort of his fire, holding the snug bundle of warmth over his heart, Noah could allow himself to release his pain.

He was not an emotionally demonstrative man in public, but in his solitude of the moment, with only the nameless child to witness it, he allowed himself to be so in utter silence.

The weight of the little babe upon it was the only thing keeping his heart from splitting apart.

In the darkness of the recently fallen night, a figure of perfect stealth moved with imperceptible speed toward the guarded perimeter of the Demon King’s home. He would pass the guards completely undetected, his skills so far beyond anything they could perceive that he would be able to do so with an almost laughable ease.

He could sense the occupants around and within the stronghold with just a sweep of his eyes, the body heat they all exuded flaring infrared within his remarkable sight. He knew the cooler, more pinkish blobs of heat indicated Demons, whose body temperatures ran colder than the others by a few degrees. There was a human signature in a distant room, and then about a dozen beings who bore the bright red heat of the Lycanthropes. It was the one he determined to be in a horizontal position that attracted his attention most. He stepped past the perimeter of guards with silent speed, springing up with silent ease from the ground to the second-floor balcony that led into the room.

The Vampire Prince hesitated before using the door, sensing that someone was in the room besides the Lycanthrope Queen. Whoever she was, and he could sense that she was indeed a female, she was alert to her duty. If her heart was anything to judge by, she had noted his intrusion. Her fierce heartbeat was unbelievably compelling, so strong and so fast that it was circulating her blood almost too fast for her to oxygenate her cells.

“Come.”

It was a whisper, spoken on such a soft, feminine breath that at first Damien thought he had mistaken the challenge. Intrigued, the Prince actually smiled in anticipation as he drifted in through the sliding glass door that stood already open, hovering a moment before resting softly on the flooring.

The Vampire’s eyesight was excellent in the darkness even when he didn’t use his infrared capabilities. He made out the silhouette of a distinctly feminine figure. She was standing at a perfect placement near a window, no doubt on purpose, letting the moonlight backlight her so even with his keen vision he would only see shadows.

But it was not just the smooth curve of a cocked hip and strong bracing of well-shaped female legs that stood in relief against the incoming light. One arm hung straight down the length of her body, pushed out by that jutting hip, the gun in her hand winking its nickel-plated gleam as if she held a star instead.

“Bullets?” he queried, his deep voice rich and compelling even in his obvious humor. “An anomaly in a Demon household.”

“I am not a Demon,” she pointed out, her tone still soft, still quite sultry in its mysteriousness.

“True. But if you shoot me you will only be wasting bullets. Surely you realize this?”

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“I know,” she assured him.

That was when her other hand parted from the rest of the shadow that was her body, the swift, nimble twirl of a wooden instrument rotating like a propeller between her fingertips for a breathtaking second.

Damien laughed, noting the object had once been the fourth leg of a now three-legged chair that sat behind her shadowy figure.

“You know that is a myth, do you not?” he asked, folding his arms over his chest.

“Of course,” she confirmed again. “However, a stake through the heart has a way of causing traumatic bleeding that will weaken you considerably and quickly.” Damien saw her teeth flash as she smiled. “So perhaps you best tell me why you are here, Vampire.”

“Your Queen requires healing or she will die.”

“I do not need you to tell me that, Blood Drinker.”

She took a step closer, finally coming into the light.

Damien had never seen her like in all of his long life. She was a Lycanthrope, no doubt about it, but her coloring and her fragile figure clearly hid surprises and mysteries he could not even begin to guess at.

Then he realized who it was that confronted him.

He had first heard stories about her little more than a century past, and then nothing until recent reports of brief glimpses of an unusual Lycanthrope female had been delivered by his ambassadors who had made the odd visit to Siena’s court over this most recent decade.

“You would prefer she die, Princess, and make you Queen in her stead?”

Damien heard her breath catch and saw the infrared flush of heat as her anger exploded through her chemistry.

“How dare you suggest such a thing,” she hissed.

“I dare,” he interrupted her quickly, “because I know nothing about you except that you are the daughter of an accomplished, albeit insane, warlord who manage to plunge these people who now shelter you and your Queen into three hundred years of war.”

“Self-righteousness from the Vampire Prince who warred with the Demons himself for a historic century of his own?” she bit back sharply.

“Touché,” he agreed. “But like you, I was young and foolish then. That was well over a half a millennium ago, though, not a mere fourteen years.”

“I am neither young nor foolish, except perhaps in your estimation. What concern is it of yours whether the Lycanthrope Queen lives or dies?”

“That I cannot tell you. Suffice it to say, it will serve all of our interests if she does live. Including yours, if your concern is legitimate.”

“And I suppose you are going to offer this magical healing, Vampire? By taking her blood, no doubt, and letting the magical aftereffects of your bite cure her? I believe she would rather die than allow anyone, friend or foe, such a liberty.”

“No. That is not my intention, Princess. I am surprised you do not know that it is forbidden for my kind to attempt to feed on other Nightwalkers. A category which your species unfortunately belongs to, or I would indeed offer those services. When I heard what had occurred—”

“I should like to know how you heard such speedy gossip,” Syreena interrupted coldly.

“The Nightwalker world is not so thin in Europe as it is everywhere else. Like a small village, news of such things travels quickly.”

“How remarkable,” she said softly, clearly unimpressed.

Damien smiled in spite of himself, his even teeth flashing in the moonlight, no sign of retracted fangs to be seen in the charming grin.

“If I may continue?”

She gave him a dark smile of her own, her eerie harlequin eyes flickering in the moonlight.

“I was going to suggest another alternative you are probably unaware of.” Damien turned slightly to look at the Queen in the darkness, the heat from her blistered skin glowing a violent
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red in his vision. He turned back to Syreena. “There is no cure for this degree of sun sickness.

She will die unless you stray from your conventional methods of healing,” he assured her.

“She will not die.”

The suddenness of the low voice made both the Vampire and the Lycanthrope turn sharply.

Elijah’s eyes glowed pale green in the single beam of moonlight that struck his face as he coalesced into solid form. Syreena moved up suddenly, bringing herself around the Prince—directly to his side, in fact, so he was not blocking her line of sight.

The warrior was still as cool as ever, that drilling gaze pinioning the couple across from him with shrewd assessment. The circle of gold and moonstones around his arm gleamed tellingly in the moonlight, giving Damien a bit of information his gossiping sources had failed to acquire.

Apparently Elijah had sensed the tension between himself and the Princess and had come to protect…to protect his bride, of all unexpected things.

“My…” Syreena cleared her throat. “My lord, Anya and I will guard the Queen with our lives, I assure you—”

She stopped when Elijah suddenly moved forward, the fire of his eyes flicking over the Vampire Prince sharply.

“Damien, I welcome your concern,” he said, “but like Syreena, I do not see how you can help us.”

“Elijah, your mistrust is misdirected. We have fought together at the Battle of Beltane, and for no reason other than my desire to assist your people. I promise you, assistance is all I am here to give tonight as well.” He took a breath, even though breathing was unnecessary for him. “Do not push me away until you have heard me out, warrior, or you will be consigning your mate to death. A terrible death. It could take weeks of extraordinary pain before she finally—”

“She will not die!” Elijah barked out. “Damn it!” His tone turned to pure venom. “I would rather be dead myself than see Siena go through this because she panicked over my safety! I do not need you to stand there and give me a blow by blow of how she is going to suffer for that!”

The door to the room opened suddenly, admitting Anya, who had heard Elijah’s raised voice.

She surveyed the room with wide eyes for a moment, shook her red head helplessly, and then retreated back behind the closed door muttering softly under her breath. “And now Vampires…”

Syreena suddenly lifted her head, her gray eye sparkling in the half-light as she narrowed her gaze on the Vampire, trying to connect ghosting thoughts as the two men turned back to each other.

“I cannot heal her myself, but there are those who can,” Damien said to Elijah softly.

“Foreigners.”

Both men looked at the Princess piercingly, one with surprise, the other with confusion.

“Yes,” Damien supported her thoughtfully. “I was about to suggest—”

“Goddess, what is her name?” Syreena muttered, interrupting the Vampire as she bit her lip and she searched her memory. “A Mistral,” she clarified to them, though Elijah seemed to be the only one not following her. “Siena knows a Mistral. A few days ago she mentioned a Mistral who she thought could somehow help her on another matter.”

Syreena skipped over the details of that, not wanting to reveal to Elijah how desperately Siena had tried to rid herself of his influence over her before she had finally come to peace with her fate. No sense opening old wounds or exposing secrets that were Siena’s to discuss with the Demon Consort.

Damien lifted one black brow, clearly impressed with Syreena’s reasoning, also curious about how the very breed of Nightwalkers he had been about to suggest had suddenly popped out of the Princess’s mouth.

“Unlike most healers in the Nightwalker species, Mistrals can heal universally,” Damien said thoughtfully, his steady, dark eyes skimming the small female before him with blatant interest.

She did not blush or look away under his bold appraisal, impressing him even more as she stood her ground and glared right back at him.

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“But at a price,” Elijah said knowingly, interspecies abilities being his area of expertise. His duty, in fact. “The Mistral Siren sings to heal, to soothe, and to facilitate meditative states. The price is total vulnerability. If the Siren wishes to walk up to her subject and stab her through the heart in the middle of a singing, she can do so and her victim wouldn’t be able to lift a finger to defend herself. Also, anyone in earshot will be drawn into the song, so it is not as though someone can stand guard. Siena would never stand for that. Neither would I.”