Chapter 1
New Orleans
Hayden stumbled out of the bar into a sea of people even more drunk than she was and that was saying something. Well, who could blame her if she’d spent the past few hours drowning her sorrows? She was dying—again—and she was damn sick of it.
The crowd carried her along, steering her toward nowhere in particular. Someone pressed up against her from behind and pinched her ass. Under normal circumstances she would have whirled around on the jerk and kicked him in the crotch. Now she didn’t even glance over her shoulder, preferring to let the revelers jostle her forward. The psychedelic cacophony of Bourbon Street after dark used to fire her senses with its sounds and colors. But it all seemed vaguely soothing tonight, the landscape of her hometown so blurred it was no more threatening than an impressionist painting.
She had the booze to thank for that. And the fact that she was starving for blood.
Dying for it, actually.
Eventually she’d make it back to the furnished one-bedroom apartment she’d rented off Jackson Square, at which point she would collapse onto the cheap sofa bed and drift into a dreamless sleep. Or try to. Sleep had been something she’d had gotten much of as of late.
Not to mention food.
Make that blood.
How long had it been since she’d fed? A week? Two? Like everything else, the days ran together and she couldn’t get a clear idea of how much time had passed since she’d turned.
Sixteen. The number inserted itself into the forefront of her brain, asserting its importance.
Sixteen days was a long time. Granted, she’d never spent much time around vampires before Valentin Grigorievich sank his teeth into her neck so she had no point of reference. For all she knew vampires could go months without blood, years even.
Based on her current state, she doubted it.
Ever since she’d left him the morning after he’d changed her she’d been getting weaker, paler, as if she were losing substance, fading away a little more each day. Her jeans slipped down over her hips now and her collarbone was alarmingly prominent. Her breasts—never her best feature—looked like the breasts of a prepubescent girl. A few more days and she could burn her bras because she definitely wouldn’t be needing them anymore.
She didn’t feel like a vampire, she felt like a ghost.
How many more days could she go without blood? She’d thought eating regular food would keep her alive (such as it was) but that didn’t seem to be the case. Even steaks so raw they made her gag didn’t help.
Nothing did.
She had to have blood but she didn’t want it—couldn’t bring herself to drink the stuff—
and she didn’t have a clue how to get it. Vampires had fangs, she knew that much. But as far as she could tell she didn’t have any. When she ran a fingertip across the rim of her teeth they felt the same as they always did.
Maybe there was a kind of release mechanism, like the gas lever on cars. Well, if there was she’d sure as hell like to know how to activate it.
You could call him.
No. Whatever happened, she was not going to cave. She was not going to call Valentin. Even if she might have been falling in love with him. Especially if she’d been falling in love with him.
He’d used her.
Not just used her, destroyed her. Or come very, very close to it.
He saved you too, her overactive sense of justice insisted on pointing out. Yes, he’d saved her when he could just as easily have stood by and watched her die. But in her current state she wasn’t all that sure she was glad he’d done it.
“Hey, cut it out!”
The voice reached her as if it were coming from someplace far off but she knew she couldn’t trust her senses anymore. Everything seemed far away, half hidden behind the veil of hunger and pain that perpetually clouded her vision.
“I said STOP.”
Hayden stood perfectly still and tried to get a sense of where the voice was coming from. She’d reached the edge of the Quarter and the crowd had thinned to a mere trickle of weekend partiers. Up ahead, a tour guide ushered gaggle of tourists toward a dilapidated town house. A couple leaned on each other for support as they veered into a bar and the sound of a lone saxophone echoed out across the silence.
No sign of the woman who’d cried out for help.
Had she asked for help? The woman hadn’t actually used the word—it was really none of Hayden’s business—but the cop in her couldn’t let it go. Adrenaline surged through her, banishing the veil and giving her new strength.
To her right, an alley disappeared into darkness.
She crossed toward the entrance, her hand reaching for the place where her holster would have been. Nothing there, not anymore. Before she’d left Boston she’d resigned her position on the force and turned in her department-issued Glock. She felt naked without it, absolutely vulnerable.
“HELP ME! PLEASE!”
The voice died immediately but it didn’t matter this time. No question it was coming from the alley. No question about it being her business. Hayden set off down the alley, running full speed.
“STOP! POLICE!”
Not exactly true, but Hayden figured the woman wouldn’t mind if she stretched the truth a bit. At the other end of the alley, two shadows detached themselves from the darkness, a woman and a huge hulk of a man whose hand was clamped over her mouth. The two of them were pressed against the side of a building, the man’s body blocking the woman’s face from view. Up and down the alley, windows remained dark.
With his free hand, the man fumbled to unzip his pants.
“STOP! POLICE!”
He glanced over his shoulder and went back to what he’d been doing. Pushing the woman’s head back against the brick wall, he shoved his fingers up her skirt.
Hayden’s hand went to the stitch in her side. Waves of pain shot through her, forcing her to slow her pace. Another few seconds and she had to stop altogether. She leaned against a brick wall to steady herself and doubled over, taking in great gulps of cool air.
Jesus.
She’d run, what, maybe ten yards?
Another glance in her direction. This time the man actually smiled, revealing crooked, yellowed teeth. His eyes were glassy drunk and heavy with lust. Behind him, the woman struggled wildly to free herself from his grasp.
Hayden staggered forward a few more feet before collapsing against the building. She slid to the ground a little at a time, fighting the fall the entire way. Why hadn’t she brought her cell with her? What in the name of God was happening to her—the old Hayden, the cool, controlled detective with a reputation for perfectionism, would never have made that kind of mistake.
“Enjoy the show,” said the man, returning his attention to his victim.
He yanked down the woman’s panties and pushed himself between her legs. Tears ran down her cheeks, twin rivers flowing black mascara. Even from where she stood, Hayden could see her begging him with her eyes. Pleading. But her desperation only turned him on.
She felt her own eyes begin to fill, another departure. The old Hayden never let anything get to her, never allowed emotion to interfere with taking down the bad guys.
Why couldn’t she get up? Pressing both palms against the pavement, she managed to push herself to her feet, only to collapse against the building a second time.
Using her shoulder for balance, she propelled herself forward a few inches. She wasn’t going to make it to the woman before he finished raping her. By the time she got there—if she got there at all—it would be too late.
He’ll kill her when he’s done. And then he’ll come for you too.
The realization shocked her. In all her years as a cop she’d never witnessed a murder. Sure, she’d seen cops hit and had investigated more than her quota of dead bodies. But she’d never been there when a murder was actually happening. Or a rape.
He was inside the woman now, thrusting and grunting, inflamed by her terror, the superficial scratches she’d managed to inflict on him with broken nails.
Hayden wondered how much longer he could last. Now that there was nothing to stop him, she just wanted it done. At least that way it would end.
Would it end this way for her too? What was the point of Valentin “saving” her only to be beaten and violated in a dirty back alley? And when it was over—when the rapist tried to kill her—what would happen?
Could vampires die? Or did they go into some kind of eternal stasis—or was there something else, something much worse than death or stasis?
She had no idea. Her eyes met the woman’s and a moment of complete understanding passed between them. The woman wanted to die. She wanted nothing more of this life.
Just like Hayden.
Gripping the wall again, she inched forward. “Don’t give up,” she whispered, unsure if she was speaking more to the woman or to herself. “You’ve got to hang on a little longer.”
Just as the man thrust a final time and groaned with release, a figure appeared at the far end of the alley. Bathed in the light of a streetlamp, he looked like an angel with his bright hair and light overcoat flowing out behind him.
“Call 911!” Hayden shouted. Her voice wasn’t her own—it was hoarse, full of fear—but at least she’d gotten his attention. Of course, she’d also gotten the attention of the rapist, who extricated himself and hurriedly adjusted his pants.
The angel didn’t pull out his phone. Instead he entered the alleyway, walking briskly in their direction. Not running, not pulling out a weapon, not yelling. Just moving at a moderate pace, as if he were out for a little exercise on a clear night.
When he got close enough for her to make out his features, Hayden noted with alarm the lack of expression on his face. He looked calm, unruffled, almost serene.
“You’ve got to call 911,” she called out to him again, pulling herself up to her full height. “Can’t you see he’s—
Before she could finish the sentence the rapist reached into his jacket and pulled out a small object that caught the light. A switchblade.
He sank the blade into the victim’s gut quickly and expertly, once, twice, three times. Then he released his hold and watched her crumple into a heap at his feet. Moaning.
With a sharp kick of his boot, the rapist bashed in the woman’s skull. The moaning stopped abruptly, the only sound the sound of his footfalls as he raced toward the opposite end of the alley, escaping via the same route Hayden had come in by.
The angel—or whatever he was, since her first impression was clearly bullshit—stood over her as she bent over and vomited the contents of her stomach onto the pavement. The reek of alcohol assaulted her nostrils, setting off another round of vomiting.
“Are you finished?” he finally asked.
She looked up at him through damp hair that smelled like vomit. Most people would’ve asked if she was all right. Not this guy. “What the hell do you care?”
He sighed. “I don’t, at least not in the way you mean. It’s hard to believe you’ve got anything else left inside you, but if you’re not done by all means, don’t let me interrupt you.”
He was right. There was absolutely nothing left inside of her. Nothing at all—though she wished there was so she could spew it all over his shoes.
“You watched him kill her,” she said coldly. “You stood there and did nothing.”
“So did you,” he said, seemingly untroubled by any responsibility he might bear for the woman’s death. “Not to get technical or anything, but you saw exactly what I did.”
She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear and took a step toward him. “I was trying to get to her. In case you hadn’t noticed, I can’t move.”
“Again, not too get hung up on technicalities, but you’re moving now,” he said. “Aren’t you?”
She wanted to slap him hard across the face. Or maybe punch him in the gut, in the exact spot where the dagger had entered the victim. “Yes,” said through gritted teeth. “I am. Just consider yourself lucky I’m not at my best right now.”
“I’m in your debt,” he said drily.
“Well, at least there’s one thing we agree on.” She took another shaky step toward him. She hoped her breath stank, she really did. She hoped she repulsed him. If she died right there in front of him—and God knows he’d never call an ambulance—she’d die a happy woman. Anything to wipe that peaceful expression off his face.
When she fell against him he laid both hands on her shoulders and held her steady. “There’s something else we agree on,” he said, furrowing his brow ever so slightly.
“And what’s that?”
“You’re dying.”
For a second, she thought she’d misheard him. Then in a moment of panic she wondered if she too had been stabbed and was imagining the entire scene. “Dying?”
“To answer your question—well, the question you no doubt have been asking yourself these past few days—vampires can die. Well, not so much die as rejoin the ranks of the inanimate. It’s difficult as hell to bring them back once they’ve passed a certain point, a point you’re very close to. So you’ve got to eat.” He turned her away from him so that she faced the slain woman’s crumpled body. A pool of blood seeped out from the spot where the dagger entered her abdomen. “No point in letting a good meal go to waste.”
The worst part was that she wasn’t totally repulsed by the idea. Not totally, anyway. Part of her wanted to feed, wanted to drain the corpse of every last drop of blood. “Please tell me this is a dream. Because I really, really, really want this to be a dream. All of it.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, but it’s not. On the other hand, you’re pretty lucky yourself. Another day or two without blood and you wouldn’t have woken up, dream or no dream.” His hands were still on her shoulders and he was close behind her, so close she could feel the warmth of his breath against the back of her neck. Whoever or whatever he was, he wasn’t a vampire. Or one of the undead. But if this guy was human she had a whole new conception of humanity.
Summoning all her strength, she wrenched herself from his grasp. “I’m not touching that body.”
Another sigh. “I was afraid you’d be difficult.”
“Is that what you call it when someone doesn’t want to pull a Hannibal Lecter in a dark alley?”
“She’s already dead,” he pointed out.
“Is that another one of your technicalities?!” She hadn’t meant to yell but she wasn’t sorry she had.
“All right, all right,” he said. “I get it. You don’t want to feed off the victim. Looks like we need to move to plan B.”
“If you think I’m moving to any plan that involves you, you’re crazy.”
“Now that,” he said, the corner of his mouth tugging upward, “is a definite possibility. But you’ve got to come with me if you value your life and beneath all that false bravado I’m guessing you do.”
She didn’t answer him. She hated him for being right. Hated that she didn’t have any other option but to trust some callous jerk.
It wouldn’t be the first time.
“Why don’t you just force me to go with you?” she asked. “It’s not like you couldn’t make me, if you wanted to.”
For all his reserve, he didn’t look weak. Quite the opposite. He wasn’t overtly muscular but beneath his could his shoulders were broad and his stomach looked pretty well defined. Plus he had a good six inches on her. And then there was the small matter of him not dying. It wouldn’t exactly take much effort to force her to do whatever he wanted.
A group of college girls started down the alley and turned abruptly, hurrying away in the opposite direction. It was dark but apparently not dark enough. They’d seen the body. Even worse, then seen the two of them. Seen her. Visions of being arrested by the guys she trained with in the police academy flitted across her mind.
Turning back toward the man in the trench coat, she tried and failed to come up with a way out of the situation that didn’t involve him. She wanted to ask how he’d known what she was. Or why he just happened to turn up when he did. But most of all she wanted to get the hell out of there. “All right,” she said tersely. “What’s plan B.”
Was it her imagination or did he look relieved? “There’s not much to it,” he said. “You come with me to my home. And I give you what you need.”
“As in blood?”
“As in blood.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve got a basement full of corpses stashed away.”
“Don’t be facetious.”
“I wasn’t.”
“As I said I can’t make you do anything,” he said. “But we can’t waste any more time. Someone’s bound to call the police soon. So if you’re coming with me, let’s go.”
As if on cue, the distant wail of an ambulance cut through the night. She didn’t protest as he wrapped an arm around her and led her back toward the street, where he piled them both into a waiting taxi and tapped the glass divider.
It was only after the taxi pulled away from the curb that she realized he hadn’t given the driver an address.
***
“Drink up,” he said, setting down a pint-sized glass of inky red stuff that could only be one thing onto the table before her. “In a few minutes you’ll be feeling better. Much better. Considering the seriousness of your, er, state, you really should have a transfusion. But there isn’t time.”
Hayden stared at the glass of blood and wondered what it would taste like. Her memory of the one time she’d fed—the night she’d spent with Valentin—wasn’t all that clear. She’d still been recovering from losing most of her blood and hadn’t quite known what she was doing. Of course, the lovemaking part was still vivid. She wouldn’t have minded if that memory faded but no, she could still remember the cool feel of the vampire’s lips against her skin. Still craved it.
“Can I have a straw?” she asked.
“Sure,” he said, a bemused look lighting his face, as if she’d requested something particularly whimsical or extravagant. He crossed to the other side of the kitchen and pulled one out of a drawer. “I’d offer you some celery to go with it, but you don’t want anything to interfere with the absorption.”
“It’s not a damn blood Mary.”
He returned to where she sat and laid the straw onto her open palm. “Isn’t it?”
She inserted the straw into the drink and braced herself. So strange to be drinking human blood, especially in a room that looked as if it belonged on the pages of an IKEA catalogue for rich guys. On the far side of the room floor-to-ceiling French windows opened out onto a brick courtyard. The cabinets were white and surprisingly modern, as were the table and chairs. Everything was light, open, spacious, almost a complete inverse of Valentin’s gothic mansion back in Salem with its ornate antiques, erotic colors and pockets of darkness. Aside from its location in the Garden District—home of Anne Rice’s vampires—nothing about the town house seemed remotely connected with the supernatural.
Yet here she was. About to drink a pint of blood and extend her stint as one of the undead. She’d pulled her hair back into a ponytail but she knew she still smelled bad. The scent of vomit in combination with the coppery smell of blood was almost too much. How could she force herself to drink?
Because if she didn’t she wasn’t going to make it. She didn’t have a choice.
She looked up and found him staring at her, his blue eyes on hers. He didn’t look like a vampire—he had the beginnings of a tan and his dark blonde hair was streaked with natural highlights that could only have from time spent outdoors. Then there was the warmth of his skin. He didn’t dress like a vampire either, not that she was an authority when it came to haute couture for the undead. Still, his worn jeans and plaid flannel shirt didn’t seem to fit with her conception of the breed.
No, no a vampire. But not a normal human being either. “I don’t even know your name,” she said warily.
“I guess you deserve that at least,” he said, leaning back against the granite countertop. “Leilan. Leilan Donovan.”
“Dare I ask where this came from?”
He shrugged. “Don’t know, actually. Well, at least I don’t know who it belongs to. But if your conscience is troubling you, I assure you it came from the local blood bank. I have a friend who works there.”
“And he just happens to supply you with pints of blood?”
“She understands what’s necessary.”
Hayden opened her mouth to protest but he headed her off before she could get the words out. “Cut the bullshit, Hayden,” he said sternly, pointing at the full pint. “You’ve stalled long enough.”
He was right. Again. Which annoyed her beyond belief but she was beginning to get used to it. She stirred the drink with the straw a few times and looked up in surprise at the sound of his laughter.
“You’re worse than a kid,” he said, making an effort to regain his composure. “Do you know that?”
She didn’t smile back. “The funny thing is normally I’m not. Or at least I never used to be—I was always 13 going on 50. I spent most of my life with my nose in a book. Never had many friends, never had much fun. If only I’d known—what would happen—I would’ve done things differently. Gone out more. Traveled. Had lots of sex.”
If her last admission fazed him he didn’t show it. The mask was back in place, his expression placid, unreadable. “Don’t beat yourself up about it. What’s done is done. Anyway, it’s understandable, considering your situation.”
The conversation skipped a beat.
“What situation would that be?” she asked.
“One thing at a time,” he said, folding his arms across his chest. “Right now we’re working on saving your life.”
“And how do you know my name?”
“Drink first. Talk later.”
“Is that a bribe?”
“I prefer not to think of it that way.”
“Okay, okay,” she said, bending forward and placing the straw between her lips. She took a sip, felt the liquid fill her mouth. Not bad, actually. She took another sip, longer this time, and another, not stopping until she’d emptied the entire glass. The draw made a sucking sound as she tried to siphon off every last drop of blood from the bottom of the glass.
Leilan reached over and took the empty glass from her. “More?”
She nodded.
When he returned from the stainless steel refrigerator this time she didn’t bother with the straw. Wrapping both hands around the pint she lifted it to her mouth and drank until there was nothing left. She set the glass down onto the table, resisting the impulse to lick it clean.
“More?”
“Yes,” she said, a little self-consciously. She knew she must seem like a glutton but she couldn’t stop. After 16 days of near starvation she didn’t have the willpower to resist. She remembered stories about starving people dying after gorging themselves and wondered if that happened to vampires too.
Well, she didn’t care. She wanted only the sensation of blood coursing through her, filling her with life and strength. Until this minute she hadn’t realized how weak she’d been, how unlike her former self.
It wasn’t until she’d polished off a fourth glass that Leilan cut her off. “That’s enough for now.” He scooped the glass off the table and set it down in the sink. “That should hold you for a few days, if not more. I’m going to give you more packets, enough to keep you strong for another couple of weeks after that. Then you’ll have to learn to hunt. People are best, unfortunately, but animals will work too. And in the meantime, you have to promise me to use moderation. Ration out the packets, make them last.”
“Sure, whatever,” she said quickly.
“Not whatever,” said Leilan.
“I’ll use moderation,” she repeated, feeling like a teen-ager being lectured on the perils of alcohol. “I promise. Happy now?”
“That doesn’t quite cover it,” he said. “But yes, I guess you could say I’m somewhat convinced you’re not going to overindulge and end up killing yourself all over again.”
“I am getting kind of sick of it,” she agreed. “The whole dying thing’s overrated.”
“So they tell me.” Something—pain? amusement?—flickered behind his eyes but he quickly suppressed it. “You’ll need to get some sleep too. You don’t look as if you’ve been doing much of that lately either.”
She hadn’t. The light—even a sliver of it—seeped through her eyelids, burning her retinas and keeping her awake through the nights. And the days. Come to think of it, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d dozed off for more than an hour or two.
Through the French doors, she could see a curve of moon shining behind a mass of clouds. The edges glowed so brightly she felt as if she were watching an eclipse. The city below was almost blinding in its luminosity, its urban skyline bathed in fiery white light.
The blood hadn’t only affected her sense of strength. Her vision was sharper now too, as was her hearing. Everything pressed in upon her, sensory impressions edging out rational thought.
“It does get better with time,” Leilan said softly, as if in answer to her unasked question.
“So they tell you.”
If he knew she was baiting him, he chose to ignore it. “You’ll need a coffin. You’re on your own on that one but you seem like the resourceful type. I’m sure you’ll figure something out.”
He made it sound as if tracking down a coffin was the equivalent of buying a used car. Thankfully, she at least had that—her Subaru had nearly 200K on it but it had gotten her to New Orleans and showed no signs of imminent death, which was more than she could say for herself. “Yeah, well, I hope so. I guess I missed that badge in Girl Scouts.”
He didn’t look as if he got the joke. “This is the home of the city of dead, after all. You’ll find something serviceable, hopefully sooner rather than later.”
For some reason, she found herself thinking back to the scene in the alley. To the way he hadn’t done anything, had barely reacted at all. “What if I asked you to help me?”
A quick shake of the head. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Not in the job description.”
“And just what might that be?”
Leilan pressed his lips together. He’d dimmed the track lights overhead when they first got to the townhouse but even in shadow there was something evanescent about him. Something almost beautiful, though that wasn’t the right word either. “You’re not some kind of angel, are you?” she asked, a little embarrassed by her lack of knowledge about the supernatural world she was now a member of.
“I stood by and watched someone rape and kill an innocent woman,” he said darkly. “Does that strike you as the kind of behavior you’d expect from an angel?”
She resisted the impulse to comfort him. Much as she wanted to absolve him, she couldn’t. What he’d said was true—how could there be any justification for his behavior? “Now that you put it that way, no. But you’re not human. You can’t be.”
“Why not?”
“Because there’s something—unearthly—about you.”
He raised an eyebrow. “So now I’m an alien?”
“No,” she sputtered. “That’s ridiculous. I don’t believe in aliens.”
“Just vampires and angels.”
He was baiting her now. The more she fumbled for an explanation, the more he seemed to derive satisfaction from her inability to find one. Well, she wasn’t going to play his little game. She’d had enough of games back in Boston. “You still haven’t answered my question.”
Before she could press him any further, he pushed himself away from the counter and walked out of the room. She watched him disappear down the hallway and wondered if he expected her to follow. But if he did, why hadn’t he said anything?
She’d made up her mind to go after him when he reappeared in the doorway carrying a thick white envelope. Crossing toward the spot where she sat, he laid it down before her. “That should tide you over for a good long time. Though if you need more, that’s not a problem.”
Hayden opened the envelope and glimpsed at the stack of bills. A very substantial stack of bills. “You know I can’t accept this.”
“I don’t know any such thing.” He pulled several credit cards out of his shirt pocket and set those down next to the envelope, fanning them out across the table. “These are all in your name. Most of them have fairly high limits but, if necessary, they can be raised.”
“I’m not taking any of this.” She pushed the envelope and the credit cards back across the table. “This doesn’t make any sense. The blood’s one thing but this is way over the top. And I don’t need your money to survive. I’ve got savings of my own and when those run out I’ll figure out a way to get by. I always have. I’m not about to start taking charity now.”
He made no move to retrieve the cash or the credit cards. “This isn’t any different than the blood. We’re talking about survival—your survival, which more than a few of us are interested in. And if it makes you feel any better, it’s not my money.”
“I’m still not taking it, I don’t care whose money it is.”
“How about we call it a loan?”
She hesitated. “The answer’s still no.”
He thought he had her—his triumphant expression told her that. “Once you get settled, you can pay it back.”
“You said people are interested in me. Why?”
“Not people.”
“Who then? We’ve already established you’re not a vampire.”
“I’m not sure we did. But you’re right, I’m not.”
“So . . . what are you?” she asked in exasperation. “And if it’s not your money, then whose is it? Can you at least tell me that?”
Leilan pulled up a chair and sat down next to her. His long legs were nearly touching hers, making her even more uncomfortable than she already was. “I can’t tell you where the money came from—or the credit cards. But both are given freely, with only with your best interests in mind. Please don’t let your ego get in the way of your survival. Too much is riding on your getting through this adjustment phase, difficult as it may seem.”
Valentin. The realization struck her all at once. Why hadn’t she seen it before? Leilan had to be working for him. Somehow Valentin had traced her whereabouts. It wouldn’t even be that difficult. He knew she was from New Orleans. Where else would she run to?
“I don’t want his payoff,” she said in a low voice, “let him feel guilty. If he’s even capable of that emotion.”
Until she heard herself say the words, she hadn’t understood the depth of her anger toward the man who claimed she was his soul mate. That she and Valentin were twin beings she didn’t doubt—she’d felt the connection between them from the start. It was unlike anything she’d ever felt for another being, unbreakable. But the bond between them had twisted itself into something altogether different, something ugly. Since she’d left New England, passion had turned to anger, affection to fear. The craving for union had been replaced by the need to put as much distance between them as possible. The intensity was still there—it would probably always be there—but it had reversed itself, like a photographic negative of love.
“What if I told you Valentin wasn’t the source of the funds?”
Well, at least Leilan wasn’t going to insult her by pretending he didn’t know who she was talking about. But that didn’t make her any more inclined to take the money. “What if I told you you’re lying.”
“All right,” he said after a pause. “Have it your way. But you know where to find me if you change your mind.”
“I won’t.”
He studied her face a moment. “Maybe not. But I’m not sure you understand what you’re up against. You think tonight was bad—”
A shiver ran through her. Someone walking on your grave, her grandmother would’ve said. What spirit would walk on the grave of one of the undead? She remembered the pints of blood she’d downed—the part of her that hadn’t wanted to stop, the part that longed for the taste of a dead woman’s blood as it ebbed onto the pavement.
She was a monster, an abomination. And she had Valentin to thank for it. The further she’d gotten from Boston the more she’d been able to steel herself against him. But if she saw him—touched him—she wasn’t sure she’d be capable of keeping herself safe behind the walls of her reserve. Here, in the city she’d grown up in, she was on her own turf. She might be a monster but at least she wasn’t his monster. She’d find her way on her own. Taking his money was the equivalent of saying that she forgave him. That she needed him.
Well, she hadn’t. And she didn’t.
She got up from the table. “I think it’s time for me to go.”
To her surprise, Leilan didn’t protest. “There’s a cab waiting outside.”
Of course there was.
He rose from the table as well and crossed to the refrigerator. Her stomach turned at the idea of taking all that blood but she didn’t have a choice. She’d come home to find her mother and unravel her past. To do that, she’d need to be strong and if that meant compromising herself, so be it.
Leilan walked her to the door and handed her the bag of “supplies.” Neither of them had spoken since their disagreement about the money. He still hadn’t told her what he’d meant by his remarks about others being interested in her, nor had he admitted Valentin had arranged for him to pay her bills. Nor had he revealed who or what he really was.
Come to think of it, she’d gotten almost no information at all out of him.
“Will I see you again?” she asked, not sure if she wanted to or not. Despite his good looks—and the fact that he’d saved her life, such as it was—there was something unsettling about him. He didn’t seem to lack a conscience and yet. . .
He didn’t answer immediately. “Only if you change your mind about the money.”
“I won’t.”
He held out his hand to her. “Then I guess this is goodbye.”
She took it, caught up for a moment in the warmth radiating from his skin. “It is,” she said. “I’d wish you good luck—
“—but you’re the one who needs it,” Leilan finished for her. “Since you insist on acting like a stubborn fool.”
“Trust me,” she said drily. “I learned from the best.”