There’d been a slight twitch, a valiant effort to close them, to hold on to her. His eyes held hers to the very end. She’d seen the life die out of them, though his hand didn’t slacken for some moments afterward. She held on to him anyway, believed that he was holding on to her from the other side. Maybe he was making sure she could step through death’s door right after him, to get away from this terrible pain. When Victor had yanked her away like a rag doll, she’d cried out in anguish, even more than she’d felt when he slammed her up against his cage, breaking ribs. He’d forced her to stay in this world, with all this anger and hate, pain and suffering.
She knew this was the height of stupidity, that she should be cowering, running for that Jeep, but when she looked toward the girls, she couldn’t. She met Malachi’s eyes directly for the foolish second time of the night, took a deep breath. “No. I won’t go back to the house. I can help you—”
She had more to say, but sucked it in on a gasp as Mal moved. Or she assumed he did, because she never saw it. All she had was the glimpse of dark, piercing eyes, a yank on her arm, and then, before she could do more than yelp, she was standing on the roadside nearly out of sight of the landing strip, a hundred yards away from where they had been, screened by foliage.
Great, giddy aunt. She blinked; her knees turned to water. She was gripping his forearm hard. He gave her time to steady, but his forbidding expression helped her with that. As soon as she thought she could manage without falling down, she released him, folding her hand against her flopping stomach.
He crossed his arms and scowled. “Say what you’re going to say. Out of hearing of the fledglings.”
She’d been ready to be chastised, to have to stick a word in here or there wherever she could manage it, knowing she was desperately close to going back on that plane. Put on the spot, she led with emotion, blurting out what was foremost in her mind.
“You can’t frighten them. They’ve been afraid and alone, too much in their lives. The only thing they’ve known from male vampires is brutality. If I’m there, it helps. It helps calm them—”
“That’s plenty.” He silenced her with a raised hand and a look. “Elisa, Danny gave me the impression you are a reasonably intelligent girl. So prove it by listening to me.”
“I can’t stand for them to be afraid. I won’t bear it. Do you understand? I won’t.”
She couldn’t stop the words from pouring out of her mouth, rushing right over his. She’d never acted like this toward an employer. And a vampire . . . God in Heaven, humans didn’t argue with vampires, unless they had little value for their own skins. Even Lady Danny could get that cold look in her eye, her line in the sand. Dev pushed over it more than anyone—or rather, he was the only one who could get away with it—and then only within limits.
But she couldn’t take it back. She had enough sense left to keep her gaze on his T-shirt where it stretched across his chest, because vampires took it as a direct challenge if a human met their gaze head-on, and she’d already done that one too many times. Right now, she expected she’d find his expression more than a little intimidating. She noted an impression of blue and white feathers in the ridged pattern of that biceps tattoo, perhaps some kind of cat etched out by the ink, before it disappeared up his short sleeve. “Please,” she whispered.
A sigh. When his hands descended, she flinched, but he was only settling his palms on her shoulders. She stilled beneath that touch, particularly when one finger touched her cheek, a mildly impatient but not ungentle tap that brought her eyes back to his face.
“Have you ever ridden a bicycle, girl?”
“No. I’ve ridden a horse.” Willis taught me. She didn’t say it. She couldn’t risk what saying his name aloud would do to her.
“Were you afraid, the first time?”
“Yes.” But only for a little while. Willis had been there, after all. Right behind her, guiding her hands on the reins.
“You got over it when you learned the way of it, right? It’s learning the difference between fearing things you should fear, and being afraid of the ghosts that plague you.” Seeing he had her full attention now, he nodded. “You have to step out of the way and let that happen for them.”
She was nonplussed. He was talking to her, not at her, a complete flip from his high-handed treatment of a moment ago. However, he still looked stern and a bit annoyed. “They know you can’t stop me from doing anything I want to them. Your agitation tells them there’s a reason to be afraid. That’s why I don’t want you there right now. You’re no good to them like that. But if you calmly go back to the house, get settled in the guest quarters, what does that say to them?”
He was right. That intelligence Danny had praised knew it. But her heart resisted it. Without them to occupy her mind and time, her ghosts might carry her away. Given how he was looking at her so intently, she wasn’t so sure he didn’t know that. Those eyes made her feel too vulnerable, as if he’d peeled back a scab to stare at the wound it hid.
A Jeep engine startled her, causing her to lurch into him, catch his forearm again. She immediately pulled away, flushing, especially since it deepened the bug-under-a-microscope look. As the vehicle rolled up next to them, she saw the female staff person driving it. Thomas was in the back. Malachi turned her toward the passenger side as the monk got out to help her into the vehicle.
They’d left her no choice. Suddenly she was tired. So tired. But she needed to tell him about William and Matthew. How Jeremiah was. What the girls would do if . . .
“Take them to the house, get them settled in guest quarters. And get her something to eat before she falls down,” Mal told the driver. He glanced at Thomas, who gave him a nod, then brought his gaze back to Elisa. The vampire stepped closer, pressing a knee into the Jeep’s running board so he could bend to eye level with her. “Remember what I told you. Once you’ve eaten a full meal and gotten eight hours’ sleep, you can tell me everything you think is of importance.”
“When can I come—”
“Once they’re settled and I’m confident you’re ready to follow some basic rules, you can see them.”
“I don’t need sleep and food. I—”
“That wasn’t an offer.” His voice was back to clipped, annoyed. “You may not be my servant, but while you’re under my protection I’m well within my rights to do what I see fit to serve your Mistress’s interests.”
Maybe because her nerves were so raw and exhaustion had gripped her so unexpectedly, Elisa didn’t think to mind her hands and feet, what they were doing. Her hand had settled on the front of his T-shirt, fingers curling into the cloth, feeling the hard male beneath. His gaze flickered to it, then back up to her face, his jaw tightening.
“They are children,” she insisted. His expression could be uncompromising, but she saw something in those depths, something from a moment ago that she thought she could trust. “Children who’ve seen too much, been through too much. Please, I know I’m nothing to you, but please, please don’t . . .”
Hurt them? Make them afraid? What wish would best match the trajectory of this falling star, make it come true? “Please.” That was all she could say. Like praying, she hoped the need would be understood and heard.
Malachi curled his hand over hers. His lean strength covered her cold fingers. His penetrating gaze swept over her face, the set of her mouth, then up to her brow and the curls that had escaped her hair arrangement from her dozing on the plane. She must look a sight, she realized. How could he take someone seriously who looked like an exhausted child? He might be right about her not being worth a brass razoo to him without the food and sleep. Held by those strong fingers, she thought she might need to trust him, at least a little while. Danny trusted him, after all.
It was clear the man worked with difficult creatures, because despite his boorish attitude, he had an oddly calming touch. His fingers squeezed, a brief pressure; then he put her hand back in her lap. “Take them up to the house,” he ordered. He glanced at Thomas. “And make certain she does as she’s told.”
Out of his sight, her worry spiraled back up and snagged in that fog of exhaustion, even as she tried to focus on Thomas and their driver, Chumani. Her Sioux name meant dewdrops, which Elisa found appropriately beautiful. The woman was tall and smoothly muscled, her thick dark hair plaited in a braid to her waist, the loose strands emphasizing her sculpted cheekbones and firm chin, the forest of dark lashes that framed her vibrant eyes.
As if the awkwardness at the tarmac had never occurred, Chumani directed their attention to the landscape like a seasoned tourist guide. Since it was nighttime for the comfort of the vampires, she couldn’t see detailed features, but Elisa noted dark silhouettes of thick forests, as well as open plains whose grasses were highlighted white-gold by moonlight. That same moon caused tiny sparkles off rock facets along cliff banks. They passed over and through quite a few freshwater sources. Creeks, ponds, waterfalls. The Jeep windows were open, so the evening breeze helped cool her cheeks, which were still heated by her exchange with Malachi.
The more her nerves settled, the more appalled she was with herself. All her life she’d been docile, obedient. The proper servant, whether she was maid, housekeeper or convenient whore. She closed her fingers together in a ball in her lap, not wanting anyone to see the tremor. That memory shouldn’t unsettle her. The two male employers who had used her that way might have been insistent, but they were unexpectedly kind about it, and she knew just how fortunate she’d been in that.
Why was it that what had happened in the barn that awful night seemed to be polluting not only her present, but flowing backward as well, a blood-colored paint changing the hue of her past?
Well, then, she’d just repaint it the way it should be. Mr. Collins, the first one, had been the most kind. She remembered his trim brown mustache, his grass green eyes and warm hands. He’d given her a bracing shot of brandy after he asked—he asked—if it was her first time. He’d seemed to even enjoy taking his time, touching her enough to get things slippery between her legs, and he hadn’t jammed himself into her like a hammer driving a nail into wood. It had hurt, but he’d kissed her tears, even caught one in a tiny little rose-colored bottle, tied with her hair ribbon. He’d kept it in his desk drawers with some other mementoes until it dried up. He’d told her it wouldn’t hurt like that again, particularly if they did it often. She’d been thirteen.