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Rising with Brenna nestled against his chest, Roshan left the house.
Brenna was close to death when they reached home. Her lips were turning blue; her skin was cold to the touch. He lit a fire in the hearth. Sitting on the sofa, he cradled her in his arms, one hand gently stroking her cheek. She was cold, so cold.
"Brenna, tell me what to do," he begged, but she was past hearing.
He stared down at her. They had often discussed what it was like to be a vampire. She had asked how he felt about being one, but they had never really talked about how she felt about becoming what he was. It was one of the things he had intended to talk to her about later, after they had spent more time together, after she'd had time to understand more fully what being a vampire entailed. He had foolishly assumed they had years to discuss the subject. She was so young, there was no hurry for her to accept the Dark Gift. Better she should continue to live a normal life for another ten or fifteen years before she gave up the sun.
But she no longer had twenty years. He doubted she had twenty minutes. He could feel her life force slipping away, and he knew, in that moment, that he could not let her go. Fate had brought them together. He could not lose her now.
"Brenna, forgive me," he whispered, and lowered his head to her neck.
Brenna woke slowly. Eyes still closed, she thought about the dream she'd had. A strange dream, filled with violence and death. She had been frightened, more frightened than she had ever been in her life, as she watched her life's blood drain away. And then she had heard Roshan's voice calling to her, drawing her up out of the darkness.
With a sigh, she turned over on her side. And realized, abruptly, that she wasn't alone in bed, and that she was wearing her nightgown. In that same instant, she realized the bed beneath her felt strange.
Her eyelids flew open and she found herself staring into Roshan's face.
"Oh!" she exclaimed. "You startled me." She frowned as she noticed several things all at once. She wasn't in her bedroom. There were no lights on, and yet, even in the dark, she could see his face clearly, the fine lines at his eyes, the apprehension in his expression. She glanced around. "What am I doing here?"
"Brenna… "
She ran her hand over her wounded arm. There was no bandage, no scab, no scar. She touched her side. There was no pain.
"It works," she murmured. She looked up at Roshan. "Loken's elixir, it does work," she said, and then she frowned. She had seen the warlock die a horrible death, but that had been nothing but a bad dream. Hadn't it?
"No, Brenna," Roshan said quietly. "It doesn't work."
"But my arm, my side… the wounds are gone."
"Yes."
She was confused by the pain in his voice. Sitting up, she took a deep breath, her senses filling with a myriad of sounds and smells— a car backfiring on the street outside, the hum of the refrigerator upstairs, the scent of Roshan's skin, the faintly musty smell of the bricks.
She squinted as light suddenly filled the room, gasped as a sudden sharp pain knifed through her stomach. She moaned as the pain grew worse.
"What is wrong with me?" she asked. "Does it have something to do with the blood he made me drink?" The thought of dying the same way as Anthony Loken filled her with mind-numbing fear. "Am I going to die the way he did?"
Sitting up, Roshan drew her into his arms. "No, my love."
"Why not? He drank your blood and it killed him, and he… he made me drink your blood." She looked at him in wonder. "Why did it not make me sick?"
"Because you'd already tasted my blood," Roshan said, stroking her hair. "Only you got it directly from me. That's the only way it works. That's why your body was able to accept the blood he forced on you."
"Then what's wrong with me?" She looked at him, her heart pounding with fear. "Am I dying?"
"You're not dying, my love." He took a deep breath, his arm tightening around her. "You're just hungry."
"Hungry!" She moaned again. "What kind of hunger hurts like this?" she demanded.
She stared at him, waiting for an answer.
His silence told her everything she needed to know.
CHAPTER 27
Brenna stared at him, not wanting to believe what she knew to be true. Pushing him away, she held up her hands, turning them this way and that, seeing them as if for the first time. Sliding out of bed, she walked a few steps away and turned her back to Roshan. Standing there, she ran her hands over her face and her body. She felt the same and yet different.
And all the while a fierce hunger burned deep inside her. With one arm wrapped around her stomach, she turned to face him.
"What have you done to me?" she demanded. "Tell me you did not make me what you are."
"I couldn't let you die. I couldn't let you go, not when I had the power to save you— "
"Save me! You have condemned me to a lonely hell on earth!"
"What the devil are you talking about?"
"You said it yourself. Vampires are territorial predators, not social creatures. You have condemned me to a life alone!"
"It doesn't have to be that way, not for us. You're not my enemy. I'm willing to share my house, my territory, and my life with you." He ran his hand through his hair, then lowered his arm to his side, his hand curling into a tight fist. "Call me a selfish bastard if you will, but I've been alone too long, love you too much, to lose you now."
"No! I cannot be what you are! I will not be what you are!" She stormed across the room, rage churning inside her. "Let me out of here!"
Rising, he unlocked the door and followed her as she ran up the stairs. He unlocked the second door, followed her down the hallway into the living room, stood in the archway while she stomped through the room, her anger growing with every breath. Grabbing a lamp, she hurled it against the wall. A second lamp followed. She smashed everything breakable in the room, including a chair and a small table. She overturned the sofa and then, chest heaving with exertion, she thundered into the kitchen.
She opened the cupboards and began tossing out the contents— bowls and cups and saucers, plates and glassware. She opened a drawer and tossed it and the silverware it contained through the window, hurled pots and pans against the wall.
And still her rage grew stronger.
She opened the refrigerator, her nostrils filling with the scent of butter and eggs and milk, apples and oranges, mustard and ketchup. And chocolate pie. Placing the container on the counter, she picked up a plate that lay miraculously unbroken in the pile of crockery, grabbed a knife, and cut herself a huge slice of pie.
