Serpent's Kiss (15 page)

She wasn’t ready to stop touching him just because he had decided it was time to change forms. She fussed at his tousled shoulder-length hair, running her fingers through the length to smooth out the tangles.

“Don’t you ever comb this mess?” she grumbled. It was gorgeous. She refused to say that. It was bad enough she’d already slipped and called his gryphon form stunning. “Or wear jeans that don’t have holes in them?”

“I’ll buy new jeans when I get back to the city, just for you.” He turned his face into her hands and closed his eyes. She bit her lips and let her hands flow around him, her fingers framing those warm, lean features that were so handsome they made her chest ache.

“I’m scared,” she said. The words fell out of her mouth, and more tumbled out after. “Before I wasn’t letting myself feel anything. I’d gotten to a place where I accepted what was happening, and I was ready for it to be over with, but now I’m feeling everything again. I’m feeling too much, and I’m really, really scared.”

His arms came around her as she talked. He pulled her down and around, until she sat sprawled across his lap. Her head remembered the perfect fit in the hollow of his neck and shoulder, and she burrowed back into that place. He held her with his whole body, one hand cupping her head. She felt strange, surrounded by his strength. She felt breakable, and somehow cherished. One of her arms crept around his neck, and she found herself clinging to him.

“It’s all right,” he said, and for a moment she thought he was uttering stupid platitudes. “It’s all right to be scared. This is scary stuff.”

“I’d rather face monsters,” she muttered. She buried her face in the warm skin at his neck and inhaled his clean masculine scent. “Monsters are easy. This isn’t easy.”

“No, it isn’t,” he whispered. He rocked her a little.

There they were again, the strange new feelings he prompted in her, the sense of all her doors and barriers opening inside. Even though her caftan kept her covered down to her ankles, she felt naked and exposed. “I don’t know how to cope with the thought of my memories changing,” she breathed. “Even when I’ve lost everything and everyone, I always knew I could rely on myself. Now I don’t even have that. I don’t know what to rely on.”

“Rely on me,” said Rune. He pressed his lips to the fragile skin at her temple. “Listen to me. I am not sorry I saved you from that whipping or tried to make a horrible situation better for you, but I am profoundly sorry I did it without thinking through the real consequences of what might happen. Still, I do not believe that
you
—you at your essence—have changed. And you know that things
must
change if you are to survive, correct?”

She nodded.

“You could try to surrender to the experience and let change happen.”

“Change or die?” she said.

“Yes. Change or die.”

“You might have noticed, I don’t do surrender very well,” she told him in a dry voice.

“No, I don’t either.” He sighed and was silent a moment. Then he asked, “Did you choose to become a Vampyre, or were you turned against your will?”

She shivered. She did not know this person huddled against Rune’s chest. She said, “I chose it. In fact, I heard rumors and went in search of it.”

She felt him nod. He told her, “You embraced a change once that was so profound, it altered the definition of your existence. You can do it again if you have to.”

“I was a lot younger then,” she muttered.

His chest moved in a quiet chuckle. “Now you have experience to help guide you. Think back to that time and how you embraced the change. I have faith in you. I know you can do it.”

She soaked in his humor as she rested against his body’s support. When had his every move become important to her? How had she let that happen? She asked, “Why do you have that kind of faith in me? What did I do to deserve it?”

His chuckle turned into an outright laugh, the husky sound vibrating against her cheek. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that when everyone around you had a lifespan of perhaps forty years if they were lucky, you outlived them all by over four and a half thousand. You survived the rise and decline of the Egyptian, the Roman and the Islamic Empires. The gods only know what you did for shits and giggles during the Crusades or the Spanish Inquisition. And you were one of the principal architects for how the Elder Races demesnes interact and coexist with the U.S. government.”

“You did all of that too,” she muttered. She plucked one of her long hairs off his black T-shirt. “The Spanish Inquisition, shits and giggles and whatever.”

He captured her hand and brought it to his mouth to kiss her fingers. He said, “Yes, but there is a fundamental difference between us. I only did what was already in my nature, and lived.
You were human.
You not only transcended your nature, you found ways to excel through some of the most misogynistic times in human history. It is incomprehensible to me how you can have such a sense of pride, but no real sense of self-worth.”

“Well,” she said with a frown. “I don’t think people like me very much.”

She hadn’t meant it as a joke, so she was startled when Rune clutched her tight and guffawed. He leaned back to look at her with dancing eyes. The impact of his handsome face laughing full bore into hers was a sucker punch she hadn’t seen coming. She struggled to find some sense of inner equilibrium and failed utterly. The sight of him filled her to the brim, and all she could do was cling to him and stare.

Rune told her, “You know the real reason why I snatched you up when you went over the cliff? I knew you were about to swim the ocean. I was just saving Tokyo, baby.”

She shrugged with a blank expression. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

His expectant expression turned to disappointment. He said, “I just called you Godzilla?”

She rolled her eyes. “Of course you did. Your reference to Tokyo made it so obvious. No doubt I should have picked up on it immediately, just as I should have known the identity of the hairy man with spectacles on that awful T-shirt of yours.”

“Clearly, this is a teasing session that has not gotten off on the right foot,” he said. “You’ve got to start watching old monster movies on TV. Oh, and football. Otherwise we’re going to run out of things to talk about.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I’ll be sure to get right on that.”

“Actually,” he confided with an intimate smile, “I was more afraid you would melt when you hit the water.”

She pointed at him. “I got that one. You think I don’t know people have nicknamed me the Wicked Witch of the West?”

He grinned and kissed the tip of her finger. “And a very accomplished lady she was too, if a bit combative.”

“You’re ridiculous.” Somehow her hand slipped, and she stroked his face. She felt like she could spend forever like this, resting against his long sprawling body, talking and laughing in the lazy, late afternoon. She might not be able to feel the warmth of the sun directly on her skin, but she could feel how it warmed Rune’s, and the heat from his body sank into hers.

The laughter in Rune’s face died away, and was replaced with an expression that was edged and raw. His gaze darkened and fell below hers, his mouth level and unsmiling. Realization pulsed. He was watching her with such hunger it was a palpable force. She licked her lips and saw in the flicker deep in his eyes that he tracked the movement.

He was going to kiss her, and she wanted it. Gods, she wanted it, full-bodied and openmouthed, both of them tearing into each other like there was no tomorrow, because there really might not be a tomorrow, and all they had was here and now.

This was such a fleeting treasure, this sense of ephemeral beauty, this gorgeous, impossible ache that came when the passions of the spirit turned flesh. This was what it meant to be alive and to be human, to cup the abundant, champagne light of a goddess’s pendant in one’s hands but never be allowed to grasp hold of it.

She took a breath and trembled.

He turned his head and looked away, and the light flowed out of her empty hands. The muscles in his lean jaw flexed. He said, “Are you ready to get serious again?”

She let her hand fall from his lean cheek. Disappointment tasted like ashes. She had done that to him. First she had struck him so hard and cruelly, she had drawn blood. Then she had knocked him away with such violence, she sent him sprawling to the ground. She had spelled and threatened him too, whereas he had shown her nothing but generosity and kindness.

An accomplished lady, she was, if a bit combative.

Really, it was for the best. She had no time for inconvenient attraction, or the luxury to explore strange new feelings or indulge in lazy sun-filled afternoons. If something didn’t happen to change the normal course of events, soon she would have no time at all.

“Of course,” she said, her voice toneless. She pushed off of his lap. She told herself she was not further disappointed when he let her go.

He stood and held a hand out to her. She took it, and he lifted her to her feet. The wind and their struggle had tangled her waist-length hair. She gathered it up impatiently, wound it into a messy knot and tucked the end into the knot itself to anchor it away from her face. Rune watched her, his hands resting on lean hips, his expression inscrutable.

“Do you remember the conversation we had just as you were fading?” Rune asked.

The question knocked her out of her preoccupation. She focused, thinking back. Oh yes.
Sometimes I think I hate you
, she’d said. She’d forgotten to add that to her list of things she’d done to him. She had to hand it to herself. She had quite a bag of tricks, and none of them were charms. She rubbed her forehead. “Look, I’m sorry about what I—”

He interrupted, his tone impatient. “Do you remember what I said? Because I don’t think you do. I think you were already gone.”

She shook her head, her mind a blank.

He watched her expression closely. “I told you I figured out what was bothering me. I said, what if Vampyrism is not a disease? What if it’s something else?”

“Something else?” Her eyes widened.

“Your research chronicles the history beautifully,” Rune said. “Reading through it, I got to watch it all happen in fastforward. But you were immersed in it. You lived it all at a much slower pace. You were part of the scientific discussion in the nineteenth century with brilliant scientists who were engaged in cutting-edge medicine. It all made so much sense at the time that now virtually everybody accepts the premise to be true. Vampyrism has so many characteristics of a blood-borne pathogen, but Carling, to me you seem perfectly healthy.”

“How can that be?” She struggled to absorb what he was saying. He kept taking hold of the ground and yanking it out from underneath her, like a magician yanking away a tablecloth set for dinner. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” he told her. “At least I’m sure of what I sense. Wyr have highly developed instincts and senses—and the older the Wyr, the more sensitive they are. The older Wyr can smell sickness and infections, tainted food, and many poisons undetectable to others. To me, you do not carry any scent of disease. You have the characteristic tinge to your scent that all Vampyres have, but I do not register that as an unhealthy scent.”

“If you’re right,” she said, staring at him. “Everything I’ve done—or anybody else has done in the last hundred and thirty years—has been based on a false premise.”

“Yes,” he said.

Not a disease. If he was right, no wonder her research kept stalling. All the vaccines she had tried to create, all her experiments, had been wasted effort. She coughed out an angry laugh. She whispered, “All that time.”

She had lived for so long, she had forgotten what a precious commodity time was until now, when it had nearly run out. She turned to walk back toward the cottage.

He fell into step beside her. “I’ve had several more hours to process this than you have,” he told her. “And I still don’t know what to make of it. I did think about all the physicians you listed that you worked with. Were any of them Wyr?”

She shook her head, frowning. “No. In fact I don’t know of any Wyr pathologists who have made Vampyrism their subject of research. Humans and Nightkind are the ones who study the subject in any real, serious way. We’re the ones with the vested interest.”

He nodded. The day had melted into early evening. The slant of the sun picked up the gold glints in his hair. “There’s a chance even a Wyr physician wouldn’t have caught this, especially if he or she were a younger Wyr with less developed experience or senses, because Vampyrism
does
have so many characteristics of a blood-borne pathogen. I had to get right up to the subject and consider it in depth, read about all your blind alleys and dead ends and get puzzled as to the why of it—and then also come into very close contact with you repeatedly before it ever occurred to me.”

“God, the implications,” she muttered.

“So what do we have?” Rune asked.

She said bitterly, “We’re back to square one and we’re running out of time.”

“No,” he said. He threw her a chiding look. “You’re still reacting. If you wiped out all the research, you would be wiping out all the realizations that came from it, including this one. A negative answer is still an answer.”

“Fine.” She gritted her teeth, and forced herself to think beyond feeling poleaxed. “If the research didn’t exist, logic would still have us deducing that Vampyrism is a disease.”

“So we’re not back to square one.” They reached her cottage, and he held the door for her and let her precede him. “We’ve reached some other square where no one has ever been before. Now we’ve got to figure out what to do next.”

She sat at the table and put her head in her hands. Immortal Wyr, interacting with aged Vampyre, made for one shaken cocktail. On the rocks.

Rune leaned against the table beside her. Naturally. The other chair was too far away on the other side of the table, and apparently he couldn’t be bothered to retrieve it. She was already expecting it when he placed his hand on her shoulder, expecting and looking forward to his touch.