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“We’re working on that,” Connor said. “And we’ll figure it out.”
***
It took ten minutes for Ronan to burst in, two vampires behind him, all of them changing the air in the room. Georgia’s mouth pinched into a hard line, either unhappy with the vampire or the fact that he was in her house.
Ronan ignored us, kneeled beside Carlie. He pulled back her lids, scanned her eyes, then put a hand on her wrist to check her pulse. “What happened?”
I told Ronan the same story I’d told Connor and Georgia as Ronan made his examination. Silence fell when I’d finished the retelling and he finalized his work. Then he looked at me.
“How long did you feed her?”
“Minutes,” I said. “Ten maybe? I fed her until she let go.”
“How long since you stopped?”
I had no idea how much time had passed. It felt like hours, but guilt and worry had pulled time, stretched it. I looked toward the windows, found the sky was dark. “I’m not sure.”
“About twenty minutes,” Connor said.
Ronan nodded, rose, looked at me. “After the initial feeding, there’s a period of rest followed by supplemental feedings over the three days. So you accidentally did the right thing.”
His voice was hard now, tinged with admonishment, but his words still had relief moving through me.
“She’ll be all right?” Connor asked.
“We don’t know that yet. Not all survive the transition, particularly when the vampires making them are not old or strong enough.” He looked at me. “You are not a Master. You don’t have the experience or the skill to do this.”
“You may have missed the part of the story,” I said, barely managing to control my tongue as guilt burned off, replaced by anger, “where I either bit her or I let her die.”
“Don’t imagine yourself a savior,” Ronan snapped out. “She may die anyway, and there will be more pain in between.”
I moved closer. “I did what had to be done in the moment. I’m experienced enough to know that giving her a shot at life was better than letting her die. I won’t apologize to you for that.” If Carlie demanded an apology, that would be different. But I’d have to worry about that later.
“I’m also experienced enough to know that she needs to be with you—with vampires—during the transition. Not here. I called to ask for your help. Do you want to help, or do I need to find someone who will?”
There was condescension and irritation in his eyes now. He didn’t think much of me, and he thought even less of my request for help. But one of his vampires came forward, probably at his telepathic order, and picked up Carlie.
“Come with me,” Ronan said, and turned for the door.
“Find Alexei,” I heard Connor say to Georgia behind me, and he followed me out.
FIFTEEN
Of course he has a limo,” Connor muttered as we slid into the long white vehicle parked outside Georgia’s cabin. It was an Auto, a woman’s voice requesting in sultry tones that we please take our seats and engage the safety belts.
Carlie had been laid on the limo’s carpeted floor, a vampire holding her head, and another at her feet to help keep her stable. Connor and I took seats along the reverse-facing bench, just far enough apart that our bodies didn’t touch.
Ronan sat on the side-facing seat, one hand draped over the back as he stared out the window. His vampires stared at me. Unlike the shifters, their expressions were shielded; I guessed that was due at least in part to deference to their Master. But they couldn’t hide the bristling magic that peppered the air.
We drove southwest, following the old main road that paralleled the lakeshore before diving inland onto a two-lane road roofed by arcing trees.
Connor sat silently, brow furrowed, gaze on Carlie.
I couldn’t blame him. I watched her, too, checking for sign of transformation or distress. But she was so still, so motionless, that it was difficult to imagine anything was happening at all. And that we hadn’t lost her despite my efforts.
I knew Connor was worried about her, but it was impossible to ignore the emotional wall that seemed to be rising between us. And it wasn’t difficult to imagine why he’d constructed it. I’dhurt someone he loved—used fangs and blood against her—and dragged him into a political nightmare in the meantime. I’d become exactly the kind of liability Miranda had warned me against.
“A little rebellion,” Miranda had called me, “because he can’t afford you.” If relationships really were a kind of math—good qualities measured against bad, benefits measured against costs—tonight would certainly have changed the balance, and not in my favor. Not as long as he sat in measuring silence.
