Touch The Dark

Mircea put a light hand under my elbow, just enough of a touch to guide me into the chair. "Louis-César will not sit when a lady is standing, dulceaţă." My dear one: his pet term for me when I'd sat on his knee and listened to his stories. I hoped he meant it; if Rafe was my only friend in the room, I was in trouble.

I plopped down and the Frenchman knelt in front of me. He smiled reassuringly. I blinked. The man—no, the master vampire—had dimples. Big ones. "I wish to attend to your wound. If you permit?"

I nodded cautiously, not convinced that a vamp was the best person to clean off blood, especially one who had looked pretty hungry earlier. But the dried variety doesn't appeal to them and besides, it wasn't like I had a choice. He was being polite, asking my permission as if it mattered what I said, but I knew better. There were two Senate members in the room; they could play gentlemen as long as it amused them, but when it came down to it, I would do what they wanted. They knew it, and so did I.

Louis-César smiled approvingly and I suddenly realized why he was making me jumpy. This close, I could tell that he was one of the most human-looking vamps I'd ever seen. Barring Tomas, who'd had a reason to look as human as possible, most vamps forget little things like breathing, making their hearts beat and turning their skin a more believable color than new-fallen snow. Even Rafe, who was fairly convincing, usually remembered to blink only a few times an hour. But I could have passed this one on the street and mistaken for him for human, assuming he got a wardrobe change. I found myself counting the seconds between breaths to see if he missed any. He didn't.

Growing up I'd seen thousands of vamps from all over the world, some as flamboyant and otherworldly as the Consul and some as normal-looking as Rafe. Before today I would have sworn that I'd know one anywhere, but Tomas had fooled me at close quarters for months, and Louis-César could have done the same if he'd wanted. I didn't like that—it made me feel like a nonsensitive, like one of the millions with no protection from the supernatural world because they can't even sense that it's there. I'd grown up around vamps, but the power the Senate members radiated was like nothing I'd ever experienced. It had me wondering what else I was overlooking, and the thought made me cold.

Louis-César was examining my face slowly, I think more to give me a chance to get used to him than out of any real need. It didn't work. When a glossy brown curl, which had come loose from the cluster at his neck, brushed against my shoulder, I jumped as if he'd slapped me. His hand, which had been reaching for my hair, immediately stilled. "Mille pardons, mademoiselle. But perhaps you will pull your hair back for me? It would help to see the extent of the injury."

He handed me a golden clip that he'd pulled from his own hair. I took it, careful not to brush his fingers with mine. My hair was barely shoulder length, but I got most of it into a messy ponytail as he watched. I tried to talk myself out of the near panic attack I was having, but it didn't work. Some instinct older than reason, older than polite phrases spoken in well-lit rooms, wanted me to run and hide. Of course, that could have been a reaction to the night I was having, but part of me definitely didn't like him so close. I forced myself to sit still as he finished his examination, to pretend that my arms hadn't broken out in goose bumps and that my pulse wasn't racing through my veins like I was already fleeing for my life. I didn't understand my reaction, but harsh experience had taught me to trust my instincts, and every one I had was loudly begging me to get away. "Ah, bon. Ce n'est pas très grave," he murmured. Seeing my expression, he smiled, and it lit even his eyes. "It is not serious," he translated. I fought not to scream.

Louis-César rose and walked to a nearby table, and suddenly I could breathe again. I tried to figure out what there was about him that so alarmed me, but there was nothing tangible. His face, which was set in pleasant, friendly lines, looked to be that of a man maybe five or six years older than me, although if his clothes were anything to go by, he'd been around for centuries. His eyes were mild—a calm blue with flecks of gray that held no discernable attempt to influence me—and his movements, while graceful, were nothing a mere mortal couldn't have imitated. Admittedly, my nerves weren't in great shape—even I wasn't used to almost getting killed twice in the same night—but that didn't explain why, out of all the possible candidates, it was Louis-César who was freaking me out.

He returned, and my panic rose with every step he took. I watched him the way a small animal does a predator, staying quiet, barely breathing, in hope that the big, bad thing won't pounce. He knelt again in a puddle of gleaming satin and lace, and the overhead lights glinted on a few strands of auburn threaded through his hair. He'd brought back a first aid kit, and he lined up an antiseptic, several gauze pads and a packet of baby wipes on the tiles in front of the fireplace. "I will clean the wound, mademoiselle, and bandage it for you. A nurse will come tomorrow and improve on my clumsy efforts." He was relaxed, even cheerful, but it took every bit of self-control I had not to run for the door.

A pale, slender hand framed in cascading white lace engulfed my filthy, blood-stained one. His fingers were cool and his grip light, as if he thought his touch would give reassurance. It didn't. No matter how careful he was, I knew that hold could tighten in an instant, trapping me as securely as a steel handcuff. I felt the fingers of his other hand moving deftly over my scraped skin, then the barest brush of the cloth as he began cleaning it. Although the antiseptic stung only lightly, I shuddered and closed my eyes. I had a very bad feeling that I knew what was coming.

"Mademoiselle, are you ill?" His voice came from a distance and echoed hollowly in my ears. I felt a familiar sense of disorientation wash over me, and I fought it with everything I had. I struggled harder than ever before, trying to push it back inside whatever part of me usually held it, begging it to go back to sleep. Whatever it wanted to show me, I was absolutely certain I didn't want to See it. But, as ever, the gift was stronger than I was; it always had been. I gave in to the inevitable when I felt a cold chill settle on my face. It wasn't cold in the sitting room, but part of me was no longer there. I took a deep breath and opened my eyes.

The chill came from a window partially open to the night.

The breeze was nipping at my bare skin, raising goose bumps all along my exposed flesh. The window looked sort of like stained glass, except that there was no color and no pattern, other than small diamond shapes where its many panes had been joined together. The glass was thick and wavy, like in some of the historic houses in Philly, and it gave back only an indistinct reflection. But it was enough to make me begin to breathe faster.

I looked around in panic and my eyes lit on a mirror across the room. The image it returned was also dim, but more because of the faint light, which came from a few candles and a low-burning fire, than because of poor construction. In fact, it was a masterpiece of a mirror, huge, with a massive gilt frame, opulent like the rest of the heavy, carved-wood furniture. The room had a feeling of luxury about it: the dark cherry of the great four-poster bed gleamed with reflected flames from the marble fireplace, and echoed the color of the heavy velvet drapes of the canopy. The walls were stone, but hung with tapestries, their colors as bright and vibrant as if they had been completed only that day. A bouquet of deep-red roses sat on a nearby table in a painted porcelain bowl. I was in no mood to appreciate the scene, though, being far too distracted by the reflection in the mirror.