Night's Honor

EIGHT

He couldn’t remember the last time he was so irritated with himself. Slicing his hand through the air, he rejected her words with the gesture. “We should start over. Or better still, we should meet on another night.”

He watched her lovely mouth compress and counted three of her quickened heartbeats. Then she said in a measured, courteous tone, “How did your trip to New York go? Good, I hope?”

Coming from her, it was a major effort at conciliation. Just as abruptly as his temper had flared, it faded completely. “It was good, thank you. How has the training gone these last six weeks?”

She glanced at him from underneath her lowered lids, a sly, wary look. “It’s been eventful. A lot of hard work.”

His mouth twitched. Watching her attempt polite conversation with him was rather excruciating, and he didn’t know whether to be amused or irritated by it. “I’ll have the real truth now, if you please.”

“It’s been bloody awful,” she confessed in a rush. “I know he’s a friend of yours, but Raoul is a sadist.”

His eyebrows shot up. Whatever he had expected from this conversation, this wasn’t it. “He is?”

She nodded. “Ibuprofen has become a staple in my diet, but I can now run for a full hour, although I slow down quite a bit toward the end. I can also strip and load four different guns, and hit the bull’s-eye on the target nine times out of ten. And I still have no idea what the daggers at dinner mean.”

He repeated, “Daggers at dinner.”

“You know, the little ones that are set at the twelve o’clock position at each dinner plate on a formal table setting.” She glanced with undisguised longing at the opened bottle of Chateau Sauvignon sitting on the table beside her chair.

He pinched his nose and smiled. “Do help yourself to some wine. I’ll call for a fresh glass.”

She sat straight and reached for Raoul’s wineglass. “Thanks, don’t bother. I don’t mind using this one. It’s not like anybody at the estate is sick.”

“True enough.” He watched her pour the wine into the glass. Its color wine was lovely in the firelight, red like rubies, like blood. “I’ve asked Raoul to prepare his phlebotomy equipment. It’s past time you offer blood. Unless, of course, you wish for me to take it from the vein.”

She drank half the glass at once. “If you’re leaving the option up to me, I would rather not yet.” Her dark gaze regarded him around the edge of the wineglass. “Unless you’ve changed your mind?”

“I do not change my mind about things such as this.” He watched her for the tiny tells, and they were certainly there. The slender muscles in her throat flexed as she swallowed, and the way she held her mouth changed. Her expression seemed too complex for mere relief, but perhaps contained a hint of disappointment as well.

Was she disappointed that he did not live down to her worst expectations, or was she disappointed in herself for not agreeing to a direct blood offering? Given her tenacious nature, she must be battling a serious revulsion for the act. Troubled, he frowned down at his clasped hands.

“The daggers at the dinner settings is a very old Vampyre custom, dating back to the early Roman Empire,” he said. “It is meant as a gesture of courtesy from the host.”

“But what does it mean?”

“Often weapons were forbidden in palaces when a ruler was in residence. The dagger was a symbol of trust, a way of saying to the guest, you may go armed in my presence, and we are still at peace.”

She nodded slowly. “So it would actually end up being a really terrible thing to pick it up. Kind of a betrayal against the host?”

“Yes, except on one occasion. The dagger was also used by the guest to prick herself to offer blood in a show of fealty to a Vampyre lord. At large gatherings like a banquet, it simply wasn’t feasible for the host to take a direct blood offering from everyone personally. This way, a cup was passed from guest to guest. They could prick their fingers, add a few drops to the cup and pass it on. At the end of the round, when the cup had made it back to the Vampyre lord, he would take it and drink.”

She frowned. “Was this a ritual for humans, or for Vampyres?”

He stretched out his legs and crossed his ankles. “It was for both. For example, Julian could insist on a blood fealty from all the heads of the Vampyre houses along with human officials that live within his demesne, but the ritual is no longer enacted. Still, the dagger is laid out in formal situations as a tradition. In some households, quite a bit of money is spent on the daggers, encrusting them with jewels and gold. They’re pretty baubles, nothing more, and are usually about as dull as a letter opener.”

She had listened intently, her eyes wide with fascination. “Thank you for the explanation.”

“De nada,” he said. When she lifted the bottle of wine and looked at him in inquiry, he gestured for her to help herself to a second glass.

Silence fell between them as she did so, and they sat for a few minutes, each wrapped in thought. He noted that her fear had subsided somewhat as they talked, and he watched the flames in the fireplace as he considered that.

Finally he stirred and sighed. “You present some interesting challenges, Tess Graham.”

She straightened in her chair. “I’m sorry. What can I do to make it better?”

“That is what I am trying to decide.” He set his empty glass aside. “I’ve already told you that you must make a proper blood offering freely and willingly by the end of the trial year, and that is not an arbitrary requirement. There are reasons why it is necessary.”

“I think I understand,” she said. “Without your bite, I can’t give as much blood as the others, or as often. Also, it would give me increased speed, strength and healing capacity, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes, among other things. Regular blood offerings also establish a connection between us—it’s nothing like telepathy, mind you. It just increases my awareness of where you are in a crowd, which can be a handy safety measure.” He rubbed his forehead. “But I’m afraid your capacity to give a blood offering won’t be enough.”

Her expression turned wary again. “What do you mean?”

Meeting her gaze, he said, “You have to do more than confront your fear. You have to conquer it.”

“I—I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

He leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees and frowned at her. “You walked into this room directly toward me, despite the fact that every instinct you had was telling you to run the other way. Didn’t you?”

She shifted uneasily under the weight of his stare. “Yes.”

He would have smiled, except that it saddened him too much. She was certainly brave enough. An edge of bitterness entered his tone. “I respect the courage it takes for you to do so, but that’s confronting your fear. It’s not conquering it. As you grew closer, I heard your heart rate accelerate, and I could taste the pheromones of your fear in the air.”

He paused to read her expression, but he could see no real comprehension on her face. She merely looked trapped and frustrated.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“No,” he said. “This is not about sorry. I cannot in good conscience set you loose in a room full of predators. Many of them have far fewer principles than I do, and a few have absolutely none at all. They would circle around you like sharks drawn to a pool of blood. Even if my reputation held off most of them, you would certainly not go unnoticed, and that defeats any purpose you may serve for me. It is not acceptable. Do you see?”

The comprehension he had been looking for dawned in her eyes, and it looked very much like dismay.

“I do now,” she whispered. She squared her shoulders. “I’ll change it. I just have to figure out how.”

Such tenacity. Her surface emotions might be all over the map, but underneath it all, she had a spine of steel.

Oh, he liked her. Far more, in fact, than was good for his peace of mind.

“Are you sure you want to?” he asked gently. “You may have chosen to come here, but I do not think you have yet chosen to stay.”

Her eyes widened, and he saw that he had scored a hit. He liked that she didn’t rush to answer him. Instead, her gaze turned troubled and she studied the remaining wine in her glass for a few moments.

Then she looked up and leaned forward, her angular expression firming into determination. “Yes, I want to.”

“Very good,” he said. He smiled, and even though she was still uneasy in his presence, she returned it. Then he turned brisk. “Starting tomorrow evening, we will add two more things to your training schedule.”

“You want me to do more?”

Her dismay had returned, but he ignored it. “You will begin daily meditations and focus on a series of biofeedback exercises. There are techniques you can learn that will help you to control your body’s reaction to stress, especially your heart rate. That should help to dampen the fear pheromones.”

Her gaze sparked with interest. “I would love to learn that. What’s the other thing?”

He adjusted one shirtsleeve. “I will take over your etiquette lessons. Prolonged exposure should help you master your aversion to Vampyres, at least enough so that you can mask your true feelings.”

He did not have to look at her to gauge her reaction. He heard it in the loud thump of her heart. Still, she replied without a second’s hesitation, “That makes sense. Thank you for taking the time to work with me.”

Buried underneath all her tension and nerves was the heart of a lion. He smiled and heard himself asking, “Do you dance?”

“Probably not in the way that you mean,” she replied in a dry voice. “I’ve never taken formal dance lessons. The only kind of dancing I’ve ever done is in a nightclub.”

Bah. She meant modern dancing, which was little more than hopping around and waving one’s arms to disco music. Watching a crowd of people on a nightclub dance floor was like watching a school of fish smacking their fins in shallow water. It was all flapping and splashing, and entirely devoid of dignity.

He glanced at her, amused. “You are correct. That is not what I meant. I will teach you to waltz. Perhaps also a minuet. Those should cover the times when you might attend a function and be asked to partner someone.”

“How often would something like that happen?”

He shrugged. “Not often, but it is a situation that has arisen before. Someone might be alone and require a dancing partner.”

The spark in her eyes faded, to be replaced with a clear look of dread. “I suppose I should be prepared.”

“Tess, you are good for my soul,” he said. He gave her a completely serious look. “If I ever feel that I am suffering from an overabundance of pride, I shall look for you immediately so you can trample all over it.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, dismayed. Then she quickly tried to change course. “Or maybe I mean, you’re welcome?”

He almost burst out laughing, and considering that he had come to mirth when he had started out in anger, this conversation had ended up having a great deal of merit after all. “On that note, I believe we’re done for tonight. Please see Raoul on your way out, so that he can draw blood.”

She rose to her feet, but didn’t leave immediately. When he glanced up, she looked at him steadily. “Thank you again, for taking a chance on me,” she said. “I promise, you won’t regret it.”

Oh querida, he thought. I already regret it.

But he would not say so and crush such sincerity, so instead he smiled and nodded. He watched as she left, easing the door closed behind her.

Alone at last, he poured another glass of bloodwine, but the drink had lost its savor, so he set it aside and lost himself in the soothing contemplation of the fire, and tried to let the silence wash away the strain of the last six weeks.

It wouldn’t leave so quickly or easily. Scraps of memory from the last several weeks kept playing through his mind. The pressure on Julian right now was extreme, and therefore so, too, was the pressure on him.

There was nothing else he could do but hold steady in the storm. He sent out his people to gather as much information as he could, while his gut told him that they stood on the brink of some event.

The tension within the demesne was too high. Something must occur to release it, some event that destroyed the peace. Someone’s temper would flare. Loyalties that were already tenuous would snap.

The two likeliest candidates for trouble were Justine and Darius. If they weren’t the actual instigators, still, either one would be quick to try to seize power at the slightest provocation.

Both were very old Vampyres, much older than he. While Justine had come from Britannia, Darius had been turned only a few hundred years after Julian, during the decline of the Roman Empire.

Like all Vampyres, they retained the core identities they’d had while they were human. Darius had always been overly fond of the gladiator arena, and Justine’s beautiful face hid a vicious wolverine.

Neither of them had ever truly embraced the idea of the Nightkind demesne. They had no interest in protecting or preserving areas for other creatures of the night, or banding together to create a cohesive political unit. They certainly had no interest in any idea or cause that was greater than themselves.

They were wholly self-involved, quick to violence and eager for self-gain. He would have long since killed them both, if he could have gotten away with it.

He tapped his fingers on the leather-covered arm of his chair. Perhaps the opportunity to do so would still come. He could hope.

A quiet tap at the door interrupted his increasingly dark thoughts. He said, “Come in, Raoul.”

The other man entered, carrying a crystal goblet. The rich, heady scent of blood filled his nostrils as Raoul crossed the room.

Tess’s blood.

Out of nowhere, ravenous desire struck, and his fangs descended. He clenched against it, watching as Raoul approached to offer the fresh blood to him.

For a moment he didn’t trust himself to take it. Then he forced his hands out and very carefully received the goblet with its precious contents. It was warm from her body heat.

“How did she do?” he asked.

“Perfectly well,” Raoul said. “Her issue isn’t with giving blood; it’s with you taking it. She said it was all quite straightforward and clinical, like giving blood at the Red Cross.”

“Thank you,” he managed to say. When the other man made as if to linger, Xavier told him, “Good night.”

Hesitating only for a moment, Raoul inclined his head. “Good night.”

As Xavier waited for Raoul to exit the room and leave him in privacy, his hands started to shake. Bloody hell.

He was not an animal. He was not.

He was a thinking and feeling, rational and ethical creature. He would not be ruled by this storm of feeling, whatever it was. Moving with care, he set aside the goblet and gripped the arms of his chair.

A direct blood offering was a powerful act. Drinking from the vein was intoxicating for the Vampyre, and those who offered up their blood were always in such a vulnerable position. Prone to euphoria and quick to lose control, they ran the risk of offering up everything to the one who drank from them, and some unscrupulous Vampyres did not resist.

Xavier would not, did not behave in such a manner. Not ever. He always took blood from the vein in the wrist, never the neck or anywhere else. Those other places were too intimate. Over the course of his long life, many humans had been desperate to give him everything—blood, body and soul—but he had never fallen into that oubliette of meaningless animal carnality.

Take, eat. This is my body, which was broken for you.

This is my blood, which is shed for you. . . .

People broke faith and committed atrocities in the name of God. He had watched it happen time and again over the centuries. Once he had gone to war over it. He had walked away so long ago from his vows and the Catholic Church, but the profundity of those words from scripture had never left him.

Blood was life. It was sacred.

There was no deeper covenant than a blood covenant.

No matter how much or little material wealth one attained in this world, the only things one truly owned were one’s soul, one’s body. The blood in the goblet was the most powerful thing Tess could ever give to him.

And he wanted the blood more than he had ever wanted anything, this most difficult, hard-won offering, because the intensity of her struggle was what gave the gift such sweet, sweet savor.

When he felt he had regained a measure of control, he picked up the goblet again. It was cooling and losing its potency. Once it had been removed from the donor’s body and turned completely cool, it lost all nutritive qualities for a Vampyre.

The only way to preserve blood in a way that was nourishing for Vampyres was the alchemical process used to make bloodwine, and even then, bloodwine did not nourish as fresh blood did.

He would not disrespect Tess’s offering by allowing it to be wasted, but neither could he bring himself to drink it.

After a few more moments of internal struggle, he growled, frustrated with himself, and launched out of his chair to stride through the spacious, silent house, out the back door and along the path to the attendants’ house, all the while carrying the goblet carefully so that he didn’t spill a single drop.

The night had turned opaque, the moon wreathed with filmy clouds. Most of his attendants stayed up well into the night, and the house was lit in various places. He could hear music playing in one part, while in the den, the TV was playing.

If he had walked in the front door, he would have been made welcome, but he didn’t. He usually avoided the attendants’ house, except when he had climbed into Tess’s room to confront her. That house was their space, so that they had time away from the demands of their patron. Instead of entering, he prowled around to stand underneath her window.

Her room was darkened with the curtains drawn, but he could sense her inside, moving around quietly. Her heartbeat had turned languid; she must be preparing for bed. He cocked his head, listening intently. The closet door opened and shut, and there was the sound of running water. He held the goblet with such tense care his fingers began to ache.

When she had turned the faucet off, he said telepathically, Tess, come to your window.

Startled, frozen silence. Then the languid pace of her heart exploded into a furious rhythm.

For a moment, when she didn’t move, he thought she might disobey and end their tenuous relationship. Then he heard the soft rustle of cloth, and the creak of floorboards. When she appeared in the darkened window, she looked shadowy, like the half-hidden, opaque moon, her skin pale like pearls and hair lustrous with darkness.

She looked down at him but said nothing.

He held the goblet up to show it to her. Are you sure you want to give this to me?

Because it mattered. It mattered what she said. While the struggle made the offering sweet, it was the act of the gift itself that was the vital part of the covenant.

She didn’t respond for long moments. He stood motionless as he waited, until finally she moved to put her hand to the windowpane.

Yes.

He inclined his head to her, brought the goblet to his lips and drank.

Pure, undiluted power slid down his throat. Like the delicate skin at her wrist, it was warm and perfumed with her scent.

Such precious, beautiful life.