A Hunger Like No Other

9

If Lachlain didn't want to tell her why he'd huffed and puffed and torn their hotel room to bits, then fine by her. After she'd thrown on a skirt, shirt, and boots and very purposely tied a folded scarf over her ears, she dug her iPod out of her luggage and strapped it on her arm.

Her aunt Myst called it the EIP, or "Emma's iPod Pacifier," because whenever Emma got irritated or angry, she listened to music in order to "avoid conflict." As if this were a bad thing.

And if the EIP wasn't made for a time like this…

Emma was pissed. Just when she'd decided this Lykae might be okay, that he'd finally begun leaning the right way in the sane-or-not conundrum, he had to go all big bad wolf on her. But this little piggy can compartmentalize, Emma thought, and Lachlain was cruising toward getting squared away in her mind forever.

His personality changed like rapid fire, from the soul-searing embrace in the rain when he'd pressed his naked chest against hers, to the howling attacks, to the gentle would-be lover in the bathtub last night. He kept her wary—an unfortunate and fatiguing state that she already tended to—and that frustrated her.

And now this. He'd left her with this ravaged room and no explanation. She could've looked like that chair.

She blew a curl out of her eyes, and found a wisp of upholstery filler had attached itself to her hair. As she swatted at it, she realized she was as angry at herself as she was with him.

Her first night with him, he'd allowed sun to burn her skin, and now, today, he'd used those claws—which had shredded the side of a car—in a frenzy while she'd slept unaware.

Why had she overprotected herself all her life, put forth the exhausting effort to do so, then thrown caution out the window regarding him? Why had her family taken pains to keep her safe, moving the coven to Lore-rich New Orleans to hide her, cloaking the manor in darkness only to have her die now—

Cloaking the manor…? Why had they done that? She never rose before sunset, never remained awake past sunrise. Her room was shuttered and she slept under the bed. So why did she have memories of running through their darkened home during the day?

Her gaze was drawn to the back of her hand, her trembling immediate. For the first time since she'd been frozen into her immortality, the memory of her "lesson" erupted in her mind with a perfect clarity…

A witch was babysitting. Emma was in the woman's arms when she heard Annika returning to the manor after a week's absence and struggled until she freed herself. Screaming Annika's name, Emma ran for her.

Regin had heard her and tackled her into the shadows right before Emma ran headlong for the sun shining in from the just-opened door.

Regin squeezed her to her chest with shaking arms and whispered, "What'd you do that for?" With another squeeze, she mumbled, "Boneheaded little leech."

By this time everyone had come downstairs. The witch apologized abjectly, saying, "Emma hissed and snapped and scared me till I dropped her."

Annika scolded Emma between her shudders, until Furie's voice sounded from outside the circle. The crowd parted to let her pass. Furie was, just as her name said, part Fury. And she was frightening.

"Put the child's hand in it."

Annika's face had paled even more than natural. "She is not like us. She's delicate—"

"She hissed and fought to get what she wanted," Furie interrupted. "I'd say she's exactly like us. And like us, the pain will teach her."

Furie's twin, Cara, said, "She's right." They always took each other's sides. "This isn't the first time there's been a close call. Her hand now or her face—or, worse, her life—later. It doesn't matter how dark we keep the manor if you can't keep her inside."

"I won't do it," Annika said. "I…can't do it."

Regin dragged Emma along, though she resisted. "Then I will."

As Annika stood by, her face perfectly stoic, like marble but for incongruous tears running down, Regin forced Emma's hand into the shaft of sunlight. She shrieked in pain, screaming for her Annika, crying "why" again and again until her skin caught fire.

When Emma woke, Furie was peering down at her with lavender eyes, tilting her head, as if confused by Emma's reaction. "Child, you must realize that every day the entire earth is saturated in something that will kill you, and only if you're wary will you elude it. Do not forget this lesson, for it will be repeated to bring you much greater pain next time."

Emma fell to her knees, then to her hands as she gasped for breath. The fine scarring on the back of her hand itched. No wonder she was a coward. No wonder…no wonder…no wonder…

Emma believed that they had saved her life, but they'd compromised it at the same time. That lesser evil they'd chosen shaped every day of her life. She stood, then stumbled to the bathroom, splashing water on her face. She clutched the counter. Get it together, Em.

By the time Lachlain returned for her bag, her emotions had fired into roiling anger, and she directed it to the deserving target. She made a show of brushing upholstery stuffing from her luggage with jerky, exaggerated movements, glaring at him. His brows drew together.

She followed him to the car, stifling hisses, wanting to punt the back of his knee. He turned and opened the door for her.

Once they were ensconced inside and she'd started the car, he said, "Did you…hear?"

"Did I hear when you flipped out like a ninja?" she snapped. At his blank look, she answered, "No. I didn't." And she didn't ask him to elaborate. She believed he wanted her to, felt that he was willing her to. When he wouldn't look away, she said, "Not taking that ball back in my court."

"You will no' address this?"

She gripped the steering wheel.

"You are angry? I dinna expect this reaction."

She faced him, her rein on her temper and her innate fear of him no match for such a close call with death. "I'm angry because you only gave me an inch-wide margin of error with your lethal claws. Maybe next time I won't get an inch. When I sleep I am utterly vulnerable—I have no defenses. You forced me into that situation and I resent it."

He stared at her for long moments, then exhaled and said something she'd never expected. "You are right. Since it happens when I sleep, I will no' sleep near you again."

The memory of his damp body so warm against hers flashed in her mind. She regretted giving that up, a realization that made her even angrier.

He sat stiffly in his seat, his body tense, as she dialed up her "Angry Female Rock" playlist.

"What is that?" he asked, as though he couldn't help himself.

"Plays music."

He pointed at the radio. "That plays music."

"Plays my music."

He raised his eyebrows. "You compose?"

"I program," she said, plugging in the earbuds—and shutting him out—with infinite satisfaction.

A couple of hours into the drive, Lachlain directed her to an exit for the town of Shrewsbury.

"What do you need here?" she asked as she unplugged her earbuds and took the exit.

As if uncomfortable to admit it, he said, "I have no' eaten today."

"Figured you didn't break for lunch," she answered, surprising herself with her snarky tone. "What do you want? Fast food or something?"

"I've seen those places. Smelled them. They have nothing that will make me stronger."

"This isn't exactly my area of expertise."

"Aye, I know. I'll let you know when I scent someplace," he said, directing them along the main thoroughfare to an outside market with shops and restaurants. "There should be something near here."

She spotted an underground parking garage—she loved those, loved anything underground—and drove inside. Once they parked, she said, "Will you get it to go? Because it's cold." And because vampires could be lurking anywhere while she waited outside the restaurant. As long as she was putting up with his Lykae b.s., she might as well get a little vampire protection.

"You will be coming in with me."

She gave him a blank look. "What purpose would that serve?"

"You stay with me," he insisted as he opened her door and stood in front of her. She noted with unease that he was looking over his shoulder and scanning the street, eyes narrowed.

When he took her arm and steered her, she cried, "But I don't go inside restaurants."

"You do tonight."

"Oh, no, no," she said, beseeching him with her eyes. "Don't make me go in there. I'll wait right outside—I promise."

"I'm no' leaving you alone. And you need to get used to this."

She dragged her feet—a useless gesture against his strength. "No, I don't! I never have to go into restaurants! No need to get used to it!"

He stopped, facing her. "Why are you afraid?"

She glanced away, not answering the question.

"Fine. You go in."

"No, wait! I know no one will notice me, but I…I can't help feeling like everyone would watch me and see that I don't eat."

He raised his eyebrows. "No one will notice you? Only males between seven years old and death." And still he pulled her along.

"This is cruel, what you're doing. And I won't forget it."

He glanced back and had to see the alarm in her eyes. "You have nothing to worry about. Can you no' just trust me?" At her glare, he added, "On this."

"Is it your intent to make me miserable?"

"You need to stretch yourself."

When she parted her lips to argue, he cut her off, his voice like iron. "Fifteen minutes inside. If you're still uncomfortable, we'll leave."

She knew she was going either way, knew he was merely giving her the illusion of choice. "I'll go if I get to pick the restaurant," she said, making a bid for some control.

"Deal," he answered. "But I get one veto."

The minute they emerged onto the public walk, amid all those humans, she wrested her hand from his, her shoulders shot back, and her chin jutted up.

"Does that keep people away?" he asked. "That arrogance you don whenever you go about?"

She squinted up at him. "Oh, if only it worked on everyone…" Actually, it did on everyone but him. Her aunt Myst had taught her to do this. Myst kept people so busy thinking she was a snobby, heartless bitch with the morals of an alley cat that they never got around to thinking she might be a two-thousand-year-old pagan immortal.

Emma glanced at the walk and found several restaurant choices. With an inward evil grin, she pointed out the sushi place.

He surreptitiously scented the air, then glowered at her. "Vetoed. Choose again."

"Fine." She pointed out another restaurant that had an upscale club attached to it. She could almost tell herself it was a bar. She'd been to a few of those. After all, she lived in New Orleans, the world's leading manufacturer of hangovers.

He obviously wanted to reject her choice again, but when she raised her eyebrows, he scowled and grabbed her hand once more, dragging her along.

Inside, the host greeted them warmly, then strode over to assist her with her jacket. But something occurred behind her, something that had the host returning to his podium, paler, and left Lachlain alone at her back.

She could sense him tensing. "Where's the rest of your blouse?" he snapped under his breath.

The back was completely cut out and only a bow-tied string held it together. She hadn't thought she'd be removing her jacket, and if she did, she'd thought her back would be glued to taupe leather right now.

She looked over her shoulder with an innocent expression. "Why, I don't know! You should send me outside to wait."

Lachlain glanced at the door, clearly debating leaving, and she couldn't help her smug expression. He narrowed his eyes, then rasped in her ear, "All the better to feel their gazes on you," while the back of his claw traced up her back.