Night's Honor (17 page)

“There's no harm in starting the meditation tomorrow evening,” he said gently. “We're undertaking a journey, not running a race. Overall, you've been working quite hard and doing a very good job. I'm pleased with the progress you've made.”

Her tired eyes brightened. “Really? You're not just saying that?”

He shook his head. “I'm not just saying that.”

“Thank you.”

“You're welcome.” He inclined his head. “And now to try this one more time. Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

They took the waltz position, which was another thing she did very well. She held her head high, shoulders back. He pulled out the stereo remote and keyed the music to start, then dropped the remote back into his jacket pocket and took her hand.

They waited, and as the first strains of music filled the ballroom, he met her gaze and mouthed,
Backward.

She took a deep breath, nodded and they stepped into the waltz together.

For a full minute and a half they achieved a thing of beauty. Her slender body moved lightly and gracefully through the steps, at one with his. Her expression lit with excitement, and he smiled to see it.

Then she stepped on his foot.

He stopped immediately, and before the dismay in her eyes could dampen her expression, he said, “Well done!”

She had opened her mouth, he knew, to apologize, and his words caught her off guard. “You don't really mean that.” Her voice wavered upward at the end, turning it into a hopeful question.

“Of course I do. I think that time you got a chance to see how the waltz really feels, which will make tomorrow's lesson go more easily. And I never say anything I don't mean.” He took one of her hands and bowed over it. The courtly gesture was decidedly out of date, but it felt good to indulge the impulse. “If I were you, I would take the compliment and call it a win.”

Still bent over her hand, he tilted his head to glance up at her and caught her wry smile. “If you insist.”

“I will tell Raoul that your presence will not be required until lunchtime,” he told her as he straightened. “Enjoy your morning off. You've earned it.”

Her smile widened into real pleasure. “Thank you.”

“
De nada
. Good night.”

“Good night.”

After watching her step out of the ballroom, he turned off the stereo and the lights. Whistling Strauss's
Blue Danube
underneath his breath, he went to look for Raoul.

He found the other man in the gym, immersed in paperwork in his office. When he appeared in the doorway, Raoul looked up from his work. “How did it go?”

Fortuitous. Behoove.

A ripple of laughter waltzed silently through his soul. He admitted, “There were some frustrations.”

Raoul barked out a laugh. “That bad?”

“Actually, we ended the evening on a positive note.” Crossing his arms, he leaned against the doorway. “I've given her the morning off. We need to adjust her schedule. We can't expect her to start at dawn while also working late into the night.”

Raoul lounged back in his seat, swiveling to face him. “Of course. I should have thought of that already. It'll be no problem to begin a few hours later.”

Xavier paused as he regarded the other man. Raoul had been with him for a long time, and they knew each other well. “I want you to stop trying to drive her away.”

Raoul gave him a sour look. “Did she complain?”

“No, she didn't. She made a joke about it, but I could still read the subtext.”

“Well, for what it's worth, I'd already decided to stop this morning after she ambushed me.” Raoul twirled a pen between his fingers. “She wants to take things to the next level, and I'm going to oblige.”

“Good. That's good.” He nodded absently as his thoughts turned in another direction. “You're the one who orders supplies for everyone, so you must know what size clothes she wears, yes?”

“Of course.” The other man's expression turned guarded. “Why do you ask?”

He turned decisive. “I want you to order a ball gown for her.”

Raoul's eyebrows took a slow, incredulous hike up his forehead. He repeated, “Order a ball gown.”

“Yes, one with a long, full skirt. Make it a dark blue one.” Tess would look good in dark blue. He remembered the quip she made about Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire, and added, “Don't forget to order high heels either.”

Tossing his pen onto the desk, Raoul rose to his feet and strode over to him, enunciating, “What. Are. You. Doing?”

“What do you think I'm doing?” Xavier's eyes narrowed at the other man's attitude. “I'm teaching her to dance.”

“She doesn't need a dress to learn how to dance!”

He shook his head. “Raoul, nobody waltzes in exercise pants.”

She needed to learn how to deal with the long skirts and high heels, along with everything else, should the occasion call for it. Oh, lord. He braced himself at the thought.

Raoul stuck a finger under his nose. “It was one time. In the last forty years, as far as I know, an attendant has been asked to dance with a guest one time, and yet now you're squandering hours and hours of
your
time to make sure that Tess knows how to waltz.” He paused to let the sarcasm in the room marinate for a few seconds, then added, “Should the subject ever come up in her lifetime.”

Xavier focused on the opposite wall. “I don't see that there's an issue.”

“I know what you're doing,” Raoul said.

“Do you? Please do enlighten me.” He was very interested to hear what the other man had to say, because he didn't have a clue what he was doing.

“You're beginning to invest time and trouble in her—a ball gown, Xavier. Really? Soon you'll grow attached, and your protective instincts will kick in. Then you'll never be able to send her out on assignment.” Raoul spread both hands wide. “Which is assuming we get that far, and frankly, right now, that's a bit of a stretch, since she hasn't made the most basic of commitments to you yet. And that means all of this will have been for nothing.”

Patiently, Xavier heard him out. When Raoul paused to take a breath, he said calmly, “I disagree with you on several counts.”

Raoul glared at him. “Such as?”

“You're assuming an end goal that has never been decided upon. Yes, I saw potential in her, but I never committed to sending her out on any assignments.”

Pausing, Xavier considered again how her appearance had changed, and how memorable she had become, and the same thread of disquiet rippled over him again. He had good instincts. They had been honed by personal disaster and tragedy, and he had no intention of ignoring them now.

He continued thoughtfully, “There are any number of factors that may keep me from sending her on assignment, including the fact that she came to me very publicly through the Vampyre's Ball.”

“Many people ask for interviews, and it never goes anywhere,” Raoul pointed out. It was not for the first time, since they had begun to discuss Tess's potential merits and shortcomings.

“That may be so, but
I
don't ask for many interviews at the Ball, and there are those who take note of every move I make,” he said. “And even if I did offer her the chance, we don't know that she would accept. The only thing I ever offered her—and she accepted—was the chance to become an attendant. That's all we have the right to expect, and right now she's showing signs of becoming an excellent one.”

The other man frowned. “Fair enough.”

He met Raoul's gaze. “I also disagree with what you said about her not having made the most basic commitment, because I think she has. She's done everything you've asked, and she's done everything I've asked as well, and we've not been easy on her. She's taken every bruise and every fall without complaint, while you've worked her to the bone.”

“True, but she hasn't made a direct blood offering, has she?”

“No, but I like the fact that she hasn't.” Changing position as he leaned back, he faced the opposite side of the doorway. “I like that it's difficult for her, because it will have significance when she does it. You know as well as I do that most of the humans at the Vampyre's Ball would have given a blood offering without a second's hesitation to any Vampyre who asked for it, while the act itself would reveal nothing about their abilities, character, or their capacity for loyalty. As a ritual, it's become outdated and meaningless.” He murmured, almost to himself, “And it shouldn't be.”

Raoul heaved a sigh. “I hate it when you're right.”

One corner of his mouth lifted in a smile. “That is your cross to bear, since I am right so often.”

“Yes, well . . .” Raoul turned back to his desk and sat down. “And none of that pertains to teaching her how to waltz, but fine, I'll order a ball gown for her to practice in. A cheap one.”

He contemplated the toe of one shoe. “A blue one.”

“A cheap, blue one,” said Raoul, as he scribbled it on a Post-it note. “Along with cheap high heels.”

He heaved a sigh. “Raoul, don't do that to her feet. You do want her to be able to run in the mornings, don't you?”

“Fine.” Raoul crossed out the Post-it note with strong, dark lines and wrote another one. “Good high heels. Are you satisfied now?”

He smiled. “I am, thank you. Have you scheduled meetings for me this evening?”

“Yes, the first one, Marc, will be in to see you at midnight, if that's okay? I've scheduled one meeting per hour, for each of the five men.”

“That sounds perfect.”

“Do you know where you'll send Marc? I think he would do well with a challenge.”

“I thought he could keep an eye on either Justine or Darius,” he said. Unlike Tess, one huge advantage of all five men was that they had been recruited in secrecy. That widened his choices considerably in choosing how to use their services. “Let me know who you would recommend to send to the other. I want an extra pair of eyes on both of them right now.”

“That assignment might be too weighty for Scott,” said Raoul, tapping his pen against his lips as he thought. “I'd like to see him get an assignment that builds on his confidence. Right now, I'd have to pick Brian.”

“Good enough.”

He left Raoul's office and the gym, and strolled back to the main house. The night was sparkling clear, with thousands of stars sprayed along the wide, dark expanse of sky like crystals sewn on velvet.

Tess would look good in a dress made of black velvet too.

He glanced at the attendants' house. Her room was in darkness. Detouring from the path to the main house, he walked over to the attendants' house, listening carefully to filter out all of the sounds made by the others.

She was in her room, and her breathing had turned deep and even. He imagined how she looked. Did she wear a nightshirt, or did she sleep nude? When he had entered her bedroom before, she had worn a dark red shirt that had come to the tops of her thighs.

The bedcovers would drape around her slender form in a gentle canopy. Her hair would spill onto the pillow like black silk, and the lines of her angular face would be relaxed and peaceful.

He would like to see her look peaceful. Unguarded.

But it was none of his business how she looked when she was alone, asleep in bed. Despite all his clever arguments, Raoul had the right of it. He was in danger of growing too attached.

Turning, he made his way back to his own silent house.

ELEVEN

L
ate the next morning, after everyone else had started work and Tess relished the quiet of an empty house, she made a pot of coffee and sat down to read through several newspapers.

Even though print newspapers were dead, apparently Xavier's household hadn't gotten the memo. Daily, twenty or more newspapers from all over the world were delivered to the estate, including all major human news outlets and several Elder Races newsletters and papers that she had never heard of before she had come to work for Xavier.

One of her duties was to keep abreast of current events, but she didn't mind doing it. She wanted to read all the news she could get her hands on, and the papers saved her the trouble of trying to figure out how to glean information from the Internet without leaving any kind of discernible trail.

Ten minutes later, she rested her elbows on the dining table, propped her forehead in her hands and stared in horror down at the
Boston Herald
spread out before her.

U.S. SENATOR'S SON DIES

Eathan Jackson, twenty-one-year-old son of Massachusetts senator Paul Jackson (R.), died off the coast of Florida Saturday afternoon in what officials are calling a “freak boating accident.” A senior undergraduate at Harvard, the younger Jackson was taking a long weekend break with his girlfriend and two other friends. The four had gone sailing on an otherwise cloudless day, when a sudden squall capsized their boat.

Jackson's girlfriend and friends were able to employ an inflatable emergency dinghy until help arrived, while Jackson disappeared from sight. His body was discovered several hours later. . . .

Pain filled Tess's chest like a gigantic bruise. As tears pricked the back of her eyes, she rubbed her face and thought, Freak squall, my ass.

Eathan had been a spoiled, ungrateful boy who had carried around a sense of entitlement wherever he went, but he hadn't deserved to be killed for it. She had always hoped there was something finer in him that would emerge as he matured.

Now he wouldn't have the chance. He was dead, and she knew in her bones that Malphas had killed him.

It had been an entirely unnecessary murder. While the senior Jackson was a politician of some repute and sat on several Senate committees, Eathan hadn't known any state secrets or carried any kind of deadly, magical Power.

He wasn't a player, in any sense of the word. He hadn't even finished college.

Killing him had been an act of pure, deadly spite.

All the tentative hopes and dreams she had begun to nurture about building a new life vanished like so many illusions. Malphas hadn't forgotten or let go of anything. He simply hadn't gotten around to finding her. Yet.

But he would, and when he did, he would be so much more spiteful toward her than he had been toward Eathan. Eathan had just been a mark that got away. She had actually worked for Malphas, and she had owed him a certain amount of loyalty.

It wouldn't matter that she had never promised to stand idly by and watch while he trapped people into making crippling gambling debts just so that he could enslave them. She had taken away something he wanted, and he was never going to let that go.

Wiping her eyes, she noticed the time. She was late for her session with Raoul. She tried to care, but after so many weeks of trying so hard, she felt as if something had broken inside.

Still, if she didn't show up, he would come looking for her. Forcing herself to move, she pushed upright and cleaned the table, bound her overlong hair back with a rubber band and got to work.

When she entered the gym, Raoul was waiting for her. He said, “You're late.”

“I know,” she said. “I'm sorry.”

She tried to inject something that sounded like genuine emotion into her voice but knew she had failed from the look on his face.

“What's wrong? Didn't you get enough rest?”

She shook her head. “I'm fine.”

His gaze was too keen and made her uncomfortable. “Are you sure? Xavier pointed out we've been pushing you too hard, and he's right. That doesn't mean I'm going to stop pushing you, but you can say if something gets to be too much.”

Her gaze fell to the training mat. It was the wrong time for him to show her kindness. She would not cry. She wouldn't.

Forcing words to come steadily out of her tight throat, she admitted, “I'm having an off day, but it will help to focus on something.”

“Very well.” He started to stroll in a circle around her, not to engage, she could tell, but simply to move. “Yesterday, you said you wanted to change the conversation. Why?”

Other than following him with her gaze when he was in sight, she didn't bother to move. After all, he hadn't told her to be on guard, or said “if you please.”

Thinking of Eathan, she replied, “Because I don't want to just run away my whole life. Sometimes you need to stand and fight.”

“Agreed.” He came to stand in front of her. “As long as you remember, in most cases you really should fight to run away. Even when you complete the blood offering—and your speed, healing and strength have become enhanced—the reality is, at your best, your abilities will always be at the level of a newly turned Vampyre or a younger Elf. Many Elder Races creatures will still be faster and stronger than you.”

She noticed Raoul said “when” and not “if” she completed the blood offering. He was beginning to believe in her. Seemed like rotten timing, all the way around. She clenched her fists and bit the inside of her lip until it bled.

“They won't necessarily be smarter,” she said through her teeth. “Or as well trained.”

“That's what I can give you,” he said, smiling. “I'll teach you weak points for each race, along with kill spots. Eventually we'll get members of each race in for practice bouts. Take trolls, for an example. If a troll manages to get ahold of you and he's intent on killing you, you're dead. But even as an unenhanced human, you move so much faster than trolls do, you should be able to get away—unless they set a trap. They can be cunning like that, so you have to watch out for it.”

As he talked, gradually she calmed enough to be able to focus. “What is a troll's kill spot? Do they have one?”

“Unless you have high-density explosives, they have just one—their eyes. Everything else about them is as hard as granite. A high-density explosive can stun one and damage their joints enough so that you can hack one apart with an axe, but that's a massively slow, cruel and inefficient way to kill one.” He pointed to one of his eyes. “But if you aim for the eye, you can hit their brain. That's quick and gets the job done.”

She gave him a leery look. He spoke with crisp dispassion, and as matter-of-factly as if he had dispatched a troll before. With his intimidating array of fighting skills, Raoul would have been a terrific assassin.

Maybe he had been one, once.

Except . . . He had said he'd worked for Xavier for forty-eight years, and he was now seventy-five. That meant he had come to Xavier when he was a young man of twenty-seven. Back then, he wouldn't have been nearly as proficient, which meant he had to have learned a lot of his skills while working for Xavier.

Once the thoughts had wormed their way into her head, they wouldn't leave. Tucking them away to consider at another time, she said, “Realistically, I'm not going to come up against any fighting trolls, am I?”

“You never know, but probably not.” He shrugged. “Usually they're pretty peaceful. I'm just using them as an example. For the most part, we're going to concentrate on creatures that you'll see most often, because those are the ones you would be most likely to engage.”

She cocked her head. “Like Vampyres?”

He smiled. “Like Vampyres. They are famously dangerous, but they also have quite a few vulnerabilities, such as they can't enter your house without your permission. That doesn't apply to public places, like hotels or hotel rooms. It also doesn't apply to any rooms you may occupy when you're a guest in someone else's home, so you need to know what your boundaries are and what's safe.”

“So if I'm a guest in a Vampyre's house, they can get to me wherever I am,” she said.

“Yes, or if you're a guest in someone's home, and they've already given permission to a Vampyre to enter, you can't revoke it. The older, more Powerful ones can mesmerize with their eyes or their voice, but that's one of the things a blood offering will help to protect you from. When you develop that connection with Xavier, another Vampyre won't be able to mesmerize you. Of course, you can kill a Vampyre with direct sunlight, but a total SPF sunblock or a well-made cloak will usually buy them enough time to find shelter. Any Vampyre with a grain of sense buys clothes made of UPF 50+ material that will block up to 98 percent of UV rays.”

“What about UV lamps?”

“Don't bother, unless you want to piss one off. They cause burns and pain, but they're not strong enough to incapacitate.” He made a slicing motion across his throat with one finger. “Decapitation works, and a penetrating blow to the heart, like a sword thrust. Brain damage also works, but it's got to be severe enough to be lethal. In other words, like the troll, you can shoot a Vampyre in the eye, and as long as the shot goes directly through the brain, it will kill them.”

She rubbed the back of her neck. “I feel funny talking about this, you know.”

His lean face creased as he laughed. “None of this is privileged information. It's not as though I'm imparting state secrets.”

The phrase caused her mind to wing back to earlier that morning, when she had discovered Eathan's death, and she winced. But now was not the time to focus on that either, so she forced herself to concentrate on the subject at hand. “When Xavier interviewed me at the Vampyre's Ball, he asked if I used drugs.”

“That's a whole other subject,” he told her.

She shrugged. “It sounded like it could do some damage.”

“Yes, but it tends to happen over a period of time. Luckily, most often, the problem can be caught before any damage gets too severe. When it doesn't get stopped in time . . .” He shook his head. “The results are ugly.”

As she listened, she tucked her fingers into the pockets of her pants and hunched her shoulders. “How do you mean?”

“If Vampyres feed regularly on blood that has been tainted with hard drugs, it warps them and turns them bestial. Given enough exposure, the damage becomes permanent.” He turned to the door. “I can see we're not going to get to any physical training today. Come on, let's walk outside while we talk.”

She followed him out into the sunshine. “But like you said, most of the time the damage can be stopped before it turns permanent, so it isn't really a danger, is it?”

“That's true, but the trick is, the Vampyre has to want to stop it.” He led her to the path that went down to the beach. While a steady breeze blew off the water, the day was sunny and warm, and he turned his tanned face up with evident enjoyment to the sun's strong, bright rays. “People persist in believing that becoming a Vampyre will solve all their problems, and it simply isn't true. Vampyrism isn't a panacea. Who you are as a person is who you will be as a Vampyre.”

“I don't understand,” she said as she fell into step beside him.

They walked along the beach, while the wild cry of seagulls sounded from overhead. “If you're an alcoholic when you're a human, you'll still be an alcoholic when you're a Vampyre,” Raoul told her. “You still have the issues that drove you to drink in the first place, only drinking alcohol itself won't have any effect on you.”

“I've heard of that.” She squinted against the bright sunlight. “Vampyres can't get drunk from alcohol they consume directly, right?”

“Correct. Just as they can't get nutrition from consuming food. They need blood to carry the nutrients, or the alcohol, in such a way that their systems will absorb it.”