And I could barely breathe.
Because it was working.
His chest was harder to look at, doing strange things to my brain as it writhed and churned in a way flesh was never designed to. But the same process was happening there, with random bits of material coming together into a shirt once more. Like the body underneath, which was starting to look like a man again, and like the hands . .
I’d barely had the thought when Jules’ beautiful, graceful hands rose up from his stomach like two birds, still encased by the bubble, but no longer trapped.
Like the pages of the book, I realized. They suddenly fluttered out of my grasp, as if they had a mind of their own. A gust of that strange wind caught them, and they fell in a single, rippling cascade, decades passing like seconds.
Shit! I grabbed for them, but they had an almost frictionless surface, impossible to hold. Until I finally slammed myself down in desperation, trapping the still bucking and moving book under the full weight of my mental body.
And at last, it was enough.
“Cassie—” someone said, and I glanced at Jules. And then stared, transfixed, as color bloomed on once-pale cheeks, as blond hair lightened, as a beard sprouted and then retreated and then sprouted again—
“Cassie!”
Marco’s voice rose in my ear, loud and panicked, as I slashed my hand through the bubble. It evaporated in a flash of light bright enough to make me close my eyes. And when I opened them, I saw Jules, still sprawled on the carpet but flexing two perfectly fine hands with a look of stunned wonder on his face.
And Marco, who was pale and tight-lipped. And Fred, who looked like he was about to faint. And Rico, the brunet member of the trio, a daredevil type who was famously unafraid of anything.
Except me, I thought, meeting eyes that held that unmistakable emotion, before quickly skittering away.
“What is it?” I asked, staring from them to Jules. Who was still flexing his hands—his pink and healthy and obviously perfectly fine hands.
“My God,” Fred whispered.
“What?” I asked again, starting to worry. “It worked. He’s back to normal—”
“Normal?” Marco asked fiercely. “You call that normal?”
I looked at Jules, who finally looked up. His eyes were a little different as they met mine, bluer maybe. And his skin looked different, too, almost . . . sun kissed. If anything, he looked better than before.
“Yes?” I said, growing more confused by the second. “What do you call it?”
Jules gripped my hand again, and this time, his was . . . different, weaker, warmer. And I could swear I felt a pulse in the wrist he held against mine. And there were fine freckles, which a moment before, had been glamoured away. And—
No. No, it couldn’t be, I thought, staring at him in disbelief.
“Human,” Jules said hoarsely.
Chapter Twenty-six
I went back to bed.
Not because I wanted to. But the room had started to telescope around me when I tried to get up, and Marco had put his foot down. And then threatened to drag me if I didn’t go by myself.
I’d managed to avoid being carted off like a sack of potatoes, but only just. And now the ceiling of my bedroom seemed to be pulsing in and out, even with me flat on my back. It was kind of trippy, but it was also disturbing.
But not as much as what had just happened to Jules.
Oh God, what had I done?
It was a stupid question. I knew what I’d done. I’d stripped Jules of his master status, destroyed his position in the family, which was pretty much everything to a vampire, and reduced him to a servant at best, prey at worst.
I hadn’t just ruined his life; I’d destroyed his death.
And okay. He’d just finished saying how much he longed for a do-over, but that was Jules. He should have been an actor, because he was a drama queen and everybody knew it. And he’d been facing a situation where even a normal human life had probably looked pretty damned good by comparison. But tomorrow? The next day? The day he looked at his beautiful, unchanging face in the mirror and saw the first wrinkle?
I tried to tell myself that it would be okay. Once the ceiling stopped waving around, I’d figure everything out. I’d sit down and take his hands in mine and . . . and do the opposite of whatever I’d just done.
Except that I didn’t know what I’d just done.
It seemed like he should be just a slightly younger version of a vampire. But I hadn’t been trying to shave off a little time; I’d been trying to lift a curse. And some people considered vampirism to fall under that category. So maybe my power, which frequently had a mind of its own, had misunderstood.
And decided to lift all the curses.
That would explain the imagery of the book, which had been so different from the less-than-creative calendar flip my brain usually showed me when I time-shifted. But a calendar wouldn’t be appropriate if I was regressing Jules through his life rather than just through time. So it got clever and came up with a biography instead.
Okay, I could go with that.
But that still didn’t explain how I’d done it.
Or how to fix it.
I put an arm over my face, trying to block out the room, trying to block out everything. But it didn’t help. I still saw Jules’ panicked face—his human face. Because whatever the reason, he was free of the disease that caused vampirism.
So if I aged him, wouldn’t he age as a human? And what if I got another of those crazy power surges, like the one that had regressed him eighty years in a couple of seconds? He didn’t have immortality on his side anymore. He could end up an old man.
Hell, he could end up dead.
Like me, when Mircea found out.
Because Mircea was going to kill me.
And it wasn’t like he didn’t have cause. Sure, he could make Jules a vampire again, but he’d start out a newborn, wouldn’t he? Just like everyone else. And there was no way to know if the delicate cocktail that made a master vamp would come together for him a second time. Part of the equation was desire, and the first time around, Jules had had it in spades. But now? When he knew he’d only go so far and no farther? When he’d had time to be disillusioned?
He might be lost to the family forever, thanks to me.
And that was . . . that was a very bad thing.
Jules hadn’t just been a vampire; he’d been a master. And master vamps weren’t exactly a dime a dozen. They were a precious part of any senior master’s property, more valued than money or land or virtually anything else except power, because almost anything else was easier to get. Any master could make a vampire, but to make another master . . . That was tricky.
A huge number of things went into the process that led to some vampires transitioning to master level, but the power of the one who had turned them was a large part of the equation. It meant that low-on-the-totempole masters, like Fred or Rico or Jules himself, had only a very small chance of ever producing a master. So much so that most low-ranking masters preferred to remain with their families rather than to strike out on their own and form another family they might not be able to protect.
But even in cases like Mircea’s, masters were still rare. Most vampires remained vampires, stuck as servants and errand runners, lackeys and paper pushers for all eternity. Having one transition to master status was a cause for celebration and a source of personal pride for his maker, and likely a status boost, as well.
When they spoke of wealth in the vampire world, they spoke in terms of how many masters you controlled.
And Mircea now had one less, thanks to me.
I stared at the phone gleaming ominously on my bedside, and wondered how long I had. It was late afternoon, so normally, Mircea wouldn’t even be up yet. Of course, his usual schedule couldn’t always be relied on these days.
The senate had lost a lot of its members in the war, which meant that every senator who remained had had to do the work of two. Plus, Mircea had been negotiating a treaty with the other senates, and doing some other stuff I wasn’t clear on, but that had to do with finding new senators to help carry the burden. He’d said that would be over soon, maybe by the end of the week. But right now, he was really busy, and there were a lot of people who needed his time and—
And I was a coward who should just woman up and call him, already.
My hand actually stretched out to grab the phone, because that was the one useful thing I could do while flat on my back. But then it dropped. Because where did I start?
And where would it lead?
It was the same problem I’d had all week. I loved Mircea; I didn’t like keeping things from him. But telling him anything was basically the same thing as telling the senate, like telling Jonas would have been like telling the Circle.
Only I wasn’t dating Jonas.
Which actually made things easier sometimes. I didn’t feel guilty that Marco had bum-rushed Jules into one of the spare bedrooms before Jonas had a chance to get curious. This was family business; it didn’t have anything to do with him. And I didn’t think Mircea would appreciate having the Circle learn that I could unmake masters now.
But, technically, the same argument could be made for the whole Pritkin thing, which didn’t have anything to do with Mircea.
Yet I felt guilty for not telling him anyway.
And that was such bullshit! Mircea wasn’t any better at sharing than I was; in fact, he probably took the closemouthed prize. From the vamp’s perspective, I was married to the guy, yet I didn’t know what his favorite color was. Or his favorite drink. Or what he did all the time when he wasn’t here, which was most of the time lately.
I didn’t really know that much about him at all, and it was maddening. But worse, I couldn’t even complain. Because then he might—hell, he would—suggest an exchange of information, and there was so damned much I couldn’t tell him. . .
I stared at the phone.
It stared back.
I chewed my cheek for a while and then got disgusted with myself. I wasn’t going to wait around like this for hours. I’d have a stomach full of ulcers by then to go with whatever was making me so exhausted. I was going to do it. I was going to call him. I was going to do what I should have days ago and just pick up the phone and—