Christina swiveled her head toward Lucien. “What is it you are doing, Luc?”
A slow smile spread over Lucien’s lips. “Nothing,” he said, lifting the goblet to his mouth. “Nothing at all. Her thoughts are her own.”
Khamsin blushed and kept her head down. She could feel the blood pounding in her ears. “May I be excused, please?” she asked.
“You are not hungry, wench?” Petros asked. “The food is excellent.”
“Not for food she isn’t,” Lucien said softly. He sipped from the goblet, looking at his woman down the stem. When she glanced his way, he cocked an eyebrow in challenge. Lowering the goblet, he licked the wine from his lips and as her gaze strayed to his moist tongue, he watched her shiver.
“Go, Sweeting,” he said. “I’ll be along shortly.”
Khamsin could not get up from the table quickly enough. She fled the room, leaving behind her knowing looks.
“You’d best take her soon, Luc,” Christina advised. “She is ripe for it.”
“Before the night is o’er,” Lucien acknowledged.
* * * * *
Once in her room, Khamsin paced the elegant confines. Her palms were slick with perspiration and she was drawing ragged breaths into her lungs. She knew when next she laid eyes on the handsome prince of Modartha, he would exercise his right to her, and mixed emotions were roiling in her gut.
He was an exceedingly handsome, virile man beneath whom most women would love to lay. His hard muscles, silken hair and wide chest looked as though they had been cast from a master painter’s easel. There was nothing offensive about him…or at least nothing she had either seen or smelled. If truth were told, he had a sensual odor that hinted of cinnamon and leather.
“I promised to take you for a ride tonight.”
Khamsin swallowed nervously and turned. He was standing in the doorway, one hand braced against the lintel. Her eyes traveled down his tall frame and her attention locked on his black leather boots.
“Would you like to go riding in the moonlight?”
“I…” Khamsin shook her head. She was shivering and wrapped her arms about her.
Lucien strolled into the room, coming to stand before her. He reached out and lifted her chin with the crook of his index finger. Staring down into her troubled eyes, he ran the pad of his thumb along the edge of her jaw.
“Why do you fear me, wench? Do you truly think I would hurt you?”
She felt tears gathering in her eyes. “No, but…”
He studied her lovely face, peering deep into the swirling depths of her gaze and what he saw there made his heart ache.
“Who hurt you, little one?” he asked.
Tears fell slowly down her face. “Please, Lucien, I…”
“Give me his name and I will tear him apart with my bare hands,” he said through clenched teeth.
Khamsin knew he meant what he said and it was a good thing the man who had taken her innocence was far away, long gone now. “He’s dead,” she said. “He won’t ever hurt anyone again.”
Lucien’s eyebrows drew together. “When did this happen? Where?”
“On the cruise ship,” she answered. “I was thirteen.”
Cold fury hardened Lucien’s green eyes and he reached out to draw Khamsin into his arms—putting his hand on the back of her head and pressing her cheek to his chest.
“I am sorry, wench,” he said.
She felt safe in his strong arms, her palms pressed to his rock-hard pectorals. Beneath her cheek, she could feel his heart beating and something gave way inside her soul.
“I believed all the old tales,” she said softly, her fingers caressing him through the fine white linen of his shirt. “I was taught Revenants were evil things, dead things who butchered their herds and…”
He slid his hands to her upper arms, and pushed her gently back from him and looked down into her face. “Some Revenants are that way. Stavros’ coven is but neither mine, nor Gideon’s nor is Francisco’s. We are honorable men.”
“I thought you were dead things,” she repeated, shivering. Her fingers plucked at his shirt.
“I know,” he said softly. “A rotting corpse was what you expected, wench, wasn’t it?”
“I still don’t understand the differences between you,” she confessed. “What are vampires and where did they come from?”
“No one knows from whence either of us came,” Lucien said, “but it has been suggested that neither Revenants nor vampires are native to this world. Some even say there is a third race called Reapers but I’ve never seen one. If that is true, I imagine vampires are the bastard children and Revenants are the rightful race.”
“What of the Reapers then?” she asked, seemingly fascinated by the tale.
Lucien shrugged. “If such things exist, I imagine they are but a pale imitation of Revenants.”
She smiled slightly. “Why could it not be the other way around?” she suggested.
Lucien snorted. “Vampires drain the blood from their victims, change the victims they want to keep into either mindless thralls or into beings like themselves who kill without conscience,” he continued, apparently unwilling to contemplate such a thing so dismissing it. “They do not merely take enough blood to survive—they take it all, killing without remorse. They cannot abide sunlight because evil has always been shown for what it is in the light of day. The gods cursed them in such a way that light will destroy them, send them up in howling flames, and anything holy—like water blessed by a priest or a crucifix, anything pertaining to the religious life—will cause them terrible pain. Their souls are so hideously ugly they cannot see their reflections in mirrors for then they would see the evil they had become. They can’t cross running water nor can they consume food. They are truly the undead.”
“But Revenants are undead,” she said, confusion showing in her eyes.
“We are,” Lucien agreed. “The differences between Revenants and vampires are vast. As I told you, we are not harmed by sunlight as the vampires are. It simply drains us, depletes us. On the other hand, the night revives us, fills our souls. Religious things do not harm us and we can look into a mirror and see ourselves as we really are, although…” He sighed. “I doubt Stavros can.”
“Are there other similar traits between Revenants and vampires?”
“A few,” he replied. “We both make fledglings in a similar fashion—by injecting a venom from our blood into the new one. Vampires must share their blood, though, in order for a victim to become like them. When Revenants bite, we bite for a reason, not just at the whim of our bloodlust. Though we inject venom just as the vampires do, we can control the amount we inject. Being bit by one of us doesn’t necessarily mean you’ll become a Revenant. Chances are if one bites you without the intention of turning you, you’re on your way to being drained and it’s a moot point.”
“What happens when one Revenant bites another?”
“Such is not likely to happen, wench,” he replied. “Rarely do we exchange blood—even between lovers.”
“Why not?”
“Because you can track those you are seeking through their DNA. Vampires fancy themselves so powerful they don’t mind one of their newlings to know where they are. Revenants feel differently. It is not to your advantage to have someone capable of tracking you wherever you are. I don’t know if such is the way with the so-called Reapers but I know I don’t like the notion of anyone being able to know where I am at all times.” He frowned. “It’s bad enough Sibylline does!
“It would have to be a very special circumstance for me to offer my neck to anyone,” he said.
“That explains why Revenants do not take blood from other Revenants,” she said. She cocked her head to one side. “What happens when you run out of blood from those you keep in the corrals?”
“It won’t happen,” he said.
“Why not?”
“We’re very careful in how we take blood as Marc told you, Sweeting. We use methods like the blood banks from before the Great War, harvesting blood and keeping it to be consumed later. We never indiscriminately bite someone’s neck like the vampires do. We only bite when we want to make a fledgling and that doesn’t happen that much anymore.”
“Are there any more similarities?”
“We can both shape shift but I’m told vampires can only assume evil shapes like bats and an occasional rabid wolf. It takes power to change into something like a dragon or an eagle.”
“Power such as Revenants have?” she asked, grinning.
“Aye,” he said, not hearing the humor in her voice. “We can both read minds and send thoughts. Being able to mesmerize is also a common trait.”
She lifted her head and looked up at him. “Are you mesmerizing me, Lucien?” she asked. “Have you made me fall in love with you?”
Lucien stopped breathing. Her words had shocked him.
“I didn’t want to,” she went on. “I tried not to but when I look at you…”
“You like what you see,” he stated.
She shook her head. “It’s more than that though. It is something electric that goes through me.”
“Aye, well, that’s the testosterone,” he said with a sigh.
“When you touch me, I feel warm inside. I feel safe.”
“You will always be safe with me, Khammie,” he vowed. “Should any man ever hurt you, he will answer to me.”
She tried to keep the thought from sweeping through her mind but the bruises left by the thrall’s fingers were still painful on her breasts and she could feel the slight discomfort as Lucien pressed her to him. She attempted to shut the memory into a closed room of her subconscious but it was easily plucked from her brain.
“Who?” Lucien demanded, his jaw tight and eyes narrowed dangerously. “Who dared lay hands to you?”
Khamsin knew the name—she’d heard it several times now—but she tried to hide it, instinctively knowing the thrall would pay dearly for what he’d done. She didn’t want to be responsible for another human’s fate.
“Let it go, Lucien,” she asked. “He…”
Lucien’s head turned to one side. “He pawed you?” he asked, delving into her mind easily. He shook his head gently. “Let me see your breasts.”
A dull blush spread over Khamsin’s high cheekbones. “Please, Lucien. I’m not ready to—” She stopped as the bodice of her dress ripped downward as though invisible hands were parting the fabric. She jerked, wanting to cover herself, but the material was laid aside, exposing the livid bruises on her flesh.
Lucien stood as still as a statue and stared at the dark stains on his lady’s body. His nostrils flared for he could smell the thrall’s scent—the oil from his fingers—still clinging to Khamsin’s flesh. Slowly, his eyes swept upward until he was looking into Khammie’s tearful eyes. Their gazes locked for a brief moment then he let go of her arms and spun on his heel.
“Lucien!” Khamsin called as he slammed out of the room. She ran to the door but even before she reached it, she heard Lucien bid the guards not to allow her to leave. She took hold of the handle but it did not move for the tumbler of the lock had already fallen into place. “
Lucien!
”
Pounding on the door, begging the guards to open it did no good. Khamsin slapped her palms against the heavy oak panel and turned her back on it to slide to the floor. Bringing her knees up, she circled them with her arms and sat there rocking, fear driving deep in her heart. There was no doubt in her mind that the thrall had breathed his last.
How long she sat there on the floor, Khamsin would never know. It was well past midnight and the keep was quiet and still. The guards were not talking quietly. Her rump getting sore from sitting, she finally stood up and went to the settee. About to sit down, she heard noise in the courtyard below.
A man’s angry shout rang out, drawing her to the window. Even before she leaned out and looked down to the courtyard five floors below, she knew whatever was taking place had something to do with her.
There were several men standing in the courtyard, holding torches. Aristotle Pavli—the thrall who had manhandled her—was bucking between Briton and another guard, cursing them soundly as they dragged him toward an upright. He lashed out at his captors, struggled mightily but he was no match for the men who held him. As he was tied to the upright, Khamsin could see blood running down Pavli’s face and one of his eyes was swollen shut.
Leaning further out the window, Khamsin found Lucien standing off to one side, Petros at his side. The Prince of Modartha was as rigid as a statue with his brawny arms crossed over his wide chest. His feet were planted wide apart, the stance suggesting he was barely in control of his emotions.
It took Khamsin a moment longer to realize what the other men were doing as they made their way to the upright and bent down—they were placing dry rushes at Pavli’s feet.
“No!” Khamsin whispered, shock nearly making her swoon.
Lucien turned his head up and caught Khamsin in his hawk-like gaze. His eyes were flint-hard and glowing with a deadly light that set her nerves on edge.
“No,” she said, shaking her head, knowing full well he had heard her denial though the word had been little more than a breath of sound.
The Revenant prince held her stare for a few ticks of the clock then looked away, nodding at the men who held burning torches.
Khamsin backed away from the window. She did not want to see a man being burned to death because he had dared touch her. She slammed her hands against her ears when the first fierce scream came from Pavli’s agonized throat then she ran to the bed and flung herself facedown, striving to block out the hideous shrieks coming from the courtyard.