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"I'm not what you think, Gabrielle."
He sounded so reasonable, she almost believed him. "I saw what you did. You murdered a man, Lucan."
He calmly shook his head. "I killed a human who was no longer a man - hardly human at all, in fact. What had once been human in him was bled out by the vampire who made him into a Minion slave. He was as good as dead already. I merely finished the job. I regret that you had to see it, but I cannot apologize. And I won't. I would kill anyone, human or otherwise, who means to do you harm."
"Which makes you either dangerously overprotective, or just plain psychotic. To say nothing of the fact that you sliced that guy's throat open with your teeth, and drank his blood!"
She waited for another composed reply. Some other rational explanation that might make her consider that even something as unbelievable as vampirism could actually make sense - could actually exist - in the real world.
But Lucan didn't give her any such response.
"This isn't how I wanted things to go between us, Gabrielle. God knows, you deserve better." He muttered something low under his breath, in a language she could not understand. "You deserve to be brought into this gently, by a male who will say the right words, and do the right things for you. That's why I wanted to send Gideon - " He raked his fingers through his hair in a gesture of frustration. "I am no emissary for my race. I am a warrior. At times, an executioner. I deal in death, Gabrielle, and I am not accustomed to making excuses to anyone for my actions."
"I'm not asking you for excuses."
"What, then - the truth?" He gave her a wry smile. "You saw the truth last night when I killed that Minion and drained him dry. That was truth, Gabrielle. That is who I truly am."
She felt a keen sickness in her belly that he hadn't even tried to deny the horror of what he was telling her. "You're a monster, Lucan. My God, you're something out of a nightmare."
"According to human superstitions and folklore, yes. Those same stories would tell you to fight my kind with garlic or holy water - all farce, as you've just seen for yourself. In fact, our races are very closely intertwined. We are not so different from each other."
"Really?" she scoffed, hysteria clutching at her as he took a step closer, forcing her to retreat again. "Last time I checked, cannibalism wasn't high on my to-do list. Then again, neither was screwing the undead, but I seem to be doing that with a bit of regularity lately."
He exhaled a humorless laugh. "I assure you, I am not undead. I breathe, like you. I bleed, like you. I can be killed, though not easily, and I have been living for a long, long time, Gabrielle." He came toward her, closing the small distance that separated them in the kitchen. "I am every bit as alive as you are."
As if to prove it, his warm fingers closed around hers. He brought her hand up between their bodies and pressed her palm against his chest. Through the soft fabric of his shirt, his heart pounded strong and steady. She felt his breath flowing in and out as his lungs expanded and contracted, the warmth of his body seeping into her fingertips, permeating her weary senses like a soothing balm.
"No." She pulled away from him. "No, damn you! No more tricks. I saw your face last night, Lucan. I saw your fangs, your eyes! You said that was who you truly are, so what is this? Everything you present yourself to be now - everything I feel when I am near you - are they illusions?"
"I am real, as I stand here now... and as you saw me last night."
"Then show me. Let me see the other you again instead of this one. I want to know what I'm really dealing with, it's only fair.">Not yet. He might decide to play again.
But if he didn't remove himself from her current needy grasping, he might be tempted to drain Nurse K. Delaney past that delicate tipping point and right into death.
He dumped her off his lap without ceremony and rose to his feet.
"No," she complained, "don't go."
He was already crossing the room. The sumptuous folds of his silk robe skated around his calves as he strode out of the bedchamber and into his study across the hall. This room, his secret sanctuary, was filled with every luxury he desired: exquisite furnishings, priceless art and antiques, rugs that had been woven by Persian hands at the height of Earth's religious crusades. All mementoes of his own past, objects collected over countless ages for the pleasure they gave him, and recently brought here, to the New England base of his budding army.
There was another recent artistic acquisition, too.
This one - a series of contemporary photographs - did not please him at all. He stared at the black-and-white images of various Rogue lairs around the city and could not contain his snarl of fury.
"Hey... those aren't yours..."
He flicked an irritated glance to where the female now sat, having crawled after him from the other room. She slumped on the palace rug behind him, her face screwed into a little-girl pout. Head lolling on her shoulders and blinking dully as if scarcely able to hold her focus, she was staring at the collection of photographs.
"Oh?" he asked, not really interested in playing games, but curious enough to know what it was about the images that had managed to sink through her muddled head. "Whom do you think they belong to?"
"My friend... they're hers."
His eyebrows rose in response to the innocent revelation. "You know this artist, do you?"
The young woman nodded sluggishly. "My friend... Gabby."
"Gabrielle Maxwell," he said, turning around, his attention distracted truly now. "Tell me about your friend. What is her interest in these places she photographs?"
