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This? What this? What had they done? Reason reasserting itself, he shook her off and surveyed the scene. To his relief, both of them were still fully clothed, but pseudo-Jackson lay slumped in a heap, his jeans caught around his ankles.
Dead.
What they had done was kill him.
Dominique screwed his eyes shut and shook his head. No, not they. He, Dominique, had killed this man by taking part in a feed he could have stopped, but didn’t. Hadn’t even considered stopping it.
Memories flooded him. Another night, not so long ago. He had come out of a blood swoon much like this to find his lover dead beneath him. Then, as now, his mouth was still wet with her bloi
He clutched at his belly as it heaved in a way it had not since his mortal days. A stream of blood shot out of his gorge and splattered across the corpse. Limbs shaking, he leaned against the wall. What a lie he was living. This is what he truly was: a brutal, bloodthirsty demon.
Just as Jackson believed.
The rain came harder now, sluicing down his face and reaching long, icy fingers into his collar and between his shoulder blades. The vomited blood spread around his boots.
“What a shame,” she said, hunching into her coat and sounding somewhere between disappointed and resigned.
“How dare you?” he demanded in a guttural snarl, but by the time he spun around to confront her, she was gone.
And in the torrential downpour, so was her scent.
9
Thanksgiving
Samantha’s first call went to voice mail. The second was picked up after the fourth ring. “Ready?” she asked.
A long groan. Then, “What time is it?”
“Five-thirty on a gorgeous Thanksgiving morning.”
“Oh my God. You were serious.”
“You won’t regret this, Cass. Besides, you’re awake now, and what else are you going to do?”
The silence on the other end told her she had stepped in it. Big time. There was nothing Cassidy would be doing this time of day, not lately anyway. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“I’ll be there.” The line went dead.
Samantha put the phone down and berated herself for letting her enthusiasm make her forget what was going on with her friend. It was hard, though. Thanksgiving was her favorite holiday, and Cassidy was as close to family as she could celebrate with.
The best part about the holiday wasn’t the turkey dinner—she was a devout vegetarian—or the pie—she shunned sugar—and definitely not the football—too violent. It was this—her very own predawn pranayama and meditation ritual to reflect on the blessings in her life, something she felt Cassidy desperately needed this year.
She exhaled, releasing the unwelcome tension with a mental image of hands opening to the universe. “What must be, will be,” she chanted softly. This was her mantra since Serge had come into her life.
On her way to the beach, she passed her immortal pirate prince lazing on his landed vessel, staring up into the hazy night sky. She kissed his cheek and continued on her way. Because he drank from her, he knew her mind, and he would know where she was going and why. She still marveled at the magic of him.
Only a sliver of gray was visible on the eastern horizon, and a half-moon struggled to illuminate the roiling surf through wispy fingers of fog. A small flashlight helped her avoid driftwood and stones in the sand, but there was enough natural light to see the lone silhouette against the ocean’s soft glitter. The figure moved rhythmically, freezing in deliberate poses, handling what looked like a sword with stunning coordination.
Dominique Marchant.
Great. Much as she would have liked it to be otherwise between them, the idea of meeting the youngling vampire alone on a dark beach inspired a fair amount of anxiety. Still, he was nothing if not mesmerizing. Also, Serge was only a thought away, and she wouldn’t delude herself into thinking that Dominique didn’t already know she stood there, gawking.
Such was life with vampires.
She drew her meditation shawl more tightly around her shoulders and continued to the spot where the dune curved a little to make a flat area sheltered from the wind. That location turned out to be a front-row seat to Dominique’s doings. This would be no end of distracting for her, and probably intolerable for Cassidy, whom Dominique had been avoiding all week. She kept walking, searching for another spot, when Dominique materialized before her. Her heart leapt onto her tongue, and she staggered back several steps.
His lean-muscled torso and arms gleamed in the weak light. She couldn’t see his eyes through the wind-tousled shock of hair falling across his forehead, but she could feel them skewer her well enough. Which made her think of his teeth piercing her skin. They never had. Nor were they likely to. Serge, as the older, stronger vampire, had laid some sort of unspoken claim to her. Not that this dissuaded her from daydreaming about the titillating possibilities—none of which were about to materialize.
