Night's Honor

ELEVEN

Late the next morning, after everyone else had started work and Tess relished the quiet of an empty house, she made a pot of coffee and sat down to read through several newspapers.

Even though print newspapers were dead, apparently Xavier’s household hadn’t gotten the memo. Daily, twenty or more newspapers from all over the world were delivered to the estate, including all major human news outlets and several Elder Races newsletters and papers that she had never heard of before she had come to work for Xavier.

One of her duties was to keep abreast of current events, but she didn’t mind doing it. She wanted to read all the news she could get her hands on, and the papers saved her the trouble of trying to figure out how to glean information from the Internet without leaving any kind of discernible trail.

Ten minutes later, she rested her elbows on the dining table, propped her forehead in her hands and stared in horror down at the Boston Herald spread out before her.

U.S. SENATOR’S SON DIES

Eathan Jackson, twenty-one-year-old son of Massachusetts senator Paul Jackson (R.), died off the coast of Florida Saturday afternoon in what officials are calling a “freak boating accident.” A senior undergraduate at Harvard, the younger Jackson was taking a long weekend break with his girlfriend and two other friends. The four had gone sailing on an otherwise cloudless day, when a sudden squall capsized their boat.

Jackson’s girlfriend and friends were able to employ an inflatable emergency dinghy until help arrived, while Jackson disappeared from sight. His body was discovered several hours later. . . .

Pain filled Tess’s chest like a gigantic bruise. As tears pricked the back of her eyes, she rubbed her face and thought, Freak squall, my ass.

Eathan had been a spoiled, ungrateful boy who had carried around a sense of entitlement wherever he went, but he hadn’t deserved to be killed for it. She had always hoped there was something finer in him that would emerge as he matured.

Now he wouldn’t have the chance. He was dead, and she knew in her bones that Malphas had killed him.

It had been an entirely unnecessary murder. While the senior Jackson was a politician of some repute and sat on several Senate committees, Eathan hadn’t known any state secrets or carried any kind of deadly, magical Power.

He wasn’t a player, in any sense of the word. He hadn’t even finished college.

Killing him had been an act of pure, deadly spite.

All the tentative hopes and dreams she had begun to nurture about building a new life vanished like so many illusions. Malphas hadn’t forgotten or let go of anything. He simply hadn’t gotten around to finding her. Yet.

But he would, and when he did, he would be so much more spiteful toward her than he had been toward Eathan. Eathan had just been a mark that got away. She had actually worked for Malphas, and she had owed him a certain amount of loyalty.

It wouldn’t matter that she had never promised to stand idly by and watch while he trapped people into making crippling gambling debts just so that he could enslave them. She had taken away something he wanted, and he was never going to let that go.

Wiping her eyes, she noticed the time. She was late for her session with Raoul. She tried to care, but after so many weeks of trying so hard, she felt as if something had broken inside.

Still, if she didn’t show up, he would come looking for her. Forcing herself to move, she pushed upright and cleaned the table, bound her overlong hair back with a rubber band and got to work.

When she entered the gym, Raoul was waiting for her. He said, “You’re late.”

“I know,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

She tried to inject something that sounded like genuine emotion into her voice but knew she had failed from the look on his face.

“What’s wrong? Didn’t you get enough rest?”

She shook her head. “I’m fine.”

His gaze was too keen and made her uncomfortable. “Are you sure? Xavier pointed out we’ve been pushing you too hard, and he’s right. That doesn’t mean I’m going to stop pushing you, but you can say if something gets to be too much.”

Her gaze fell to the training mat. It was the wrong time for him to show her kindness. She would not cry. She wouldn’t.

Forcing words to come steadily out of her tight throat, she admitted, “I’m having an off day, but it will help to focus on something.”

“Very well.” He started to stroll in a circle around her, not to engage, she could tell, but simply to move. “Yesterday, you said you wanted to change the conversation. Why?”

Other than following him with her gaze when he was in sight, she didn’t bother to move. After all, he hadn’t told her to be on guard, or said “if you please.”

Thinking of Eathan, she replied, “Because I don’t want to just run away my whole life. Sometimes you need to stand and fight.”

“Agreed.” He came to stand in front of her. “As long as you remember, in most cases you really should fight to run away. Even when you complete the blood offering—and your speed, healing and strength have become enhanced—the reality is, at your best, your abilities will always be at the level of a newly turned Vampyre or a younger Elf. Many Elder Races creatures will still be faster and stronger than you.”

She noticed Raoul said “when” and not “if” she completed the blood offering. He was beginning to believe in her. Seemed like rotten timing, all the way around. She clenched her fists and bit the inside of her lip until it bled.

“They won’t necessarily be smarter,” she said through her teeth. “Or as well trained.”

“That’s what I can give you,” he said, smiling. “I’ll teach you weak points for each race, along with kill spots. Eventually we’ll get members of each race in for practice bouts. Take trolls, for an example. If a troll manages to get ahold of you and he’s intent on killing you, you’re dead. But even as an unenhanced human, you move so much faster than trolls do, you should be able to get away—unless they set a trap. They can be cunning like that, so you have to watch out for it.”

As he talked, gradually she calmed enough to be able to focus. “What is a troll’s kill spot? Do they have one?”

“Unless you have high-density explosives, they have just one—their eyes. Everything else about them is as hard as granite. A high-density explosive can stun one and damage their joints enough so that you can hack one apart with an axe, but that’s a massively slow, cruel and inefficient way to kill one.” He pointed to one of his eyes. “But if you aim for the eye, you can hit their brain. That’s quick and gets the job done.”

She gave him a leery look. He spoke with crisp dispassion, and as matter-of-factly as if he had dispatched a troll before. With his intimidating array of fighting skills, Raoul would have been a terrific assassin.

Maybe he had been one, once.

Except . . . He had said he’d worked for Xavier for forty-eight years, and he was now seventy-five. That meant he had come to Xavier when he was a young man of twenty-seven. Back then, he wouldn’t have been nearly as proficient, which meant he had to have learned a lot of his skills while working for Xavier.

Once the thoughts had wormed their way into her head, they wouldn’t leave. Tucking them away to consider at another time, she said, “Realistically, I’m not going to come up against any fighting trolls, am I?”

“You never know, but probably not.” He shrugged. “Usually they’re pretty peaceful. I’m just using them as an example. For the most part, we’re going to concentrate on creatures that you’ll see most often, because those are the ones you would be most likely to engage.”

She cocked her head. “Like Vampyres?”

He smiled. “Like Vampyres. They are famously dangerous, but they also have quite a few vulnerabilities, such as they can’t enter your house without your permission. That doesn’t apply to public places, like hotels or hotel rooms. It also doesn’t apply to any rooms you may occupy when you’re a guest in someone else’s home, so you need to know what your boundaries are and what’s safe.”

“So if I’m a guest in a Vampyre’s house, they can get to me wherever I am,” she said.

“Yes, or if you’re a guest in someone’s home, and they’ve already given permission to a Vampyre to enter, you can’t revoke it. The older, more Powerful ones can mesmerize with their eyes or their voice, but that’s one of the things a blood offering will help to protect you from. When you develop that connection with Xavier, another Vampyre won’t be able to mesmerize you. Of course, you can kill a Vampyre with direct sunlight, but a total SPF sunblock or a well-made cloak will usually buy them enough time to find shelter. Any Vampyre with a grain of sense buys clothes made of UPF 50+ material that will block up to 98 percent of UV rays.”

“What about UV lamps?”

“Don’t bother, unless you want to piss one off. They cause burns and pain, but they’re not strong enough to incapacitate.” He made a slicing motion across his throat with one finger. “Decapitation works, and a penetrating blow to the heart, like a sword thrust. Brain damage also works, but it’s got to be severe enough to be lethal. In other words, like the troll, you can shoot a Vampyre in the eye, and as long as the shot goes directly through the brain, it will kill them.”

She rubbed the back of her neck. “I feel funny talking about this, you know.”

His lean face creased as he laughed. “None of this is privileged information. It’s not as though I’m imparting state secrets.”

The phrase caused her mind to wing back to earlier that morning, when she had discovered Eathan’s death, and she winced. But now was not the time to focus on that either, so she forced herself to concentrate on the subject at hand. “When Xavier interviewed me at the Vampyre’s Ball, he asked if I used drugs.”

“That’s a whole other subject,” he told her.

She shrugged. “It sounded like it could do some damage.”

“Yes, but it tends to happen over a period of time. Luckily, most often, the problem can be caught before any damage gets too severe. When it doesn’t get stopped in time . . .” He shook his head. “The results are ugly.”

As she listened, she tucked her fingers into the pockets of her pants and hunched her shoulders. “How do you mean?”

“If Vampyres feed regularly on blood that has been tainted with hard drugs, it warps them and turns them bestial. Given enough exposure, the damage becomes permanent.” He turned to the door. “I can see we’re not going to get to any physical training today. Come on, let’s walk outside while we talk.”

She followed him out into the sunshine. “But like you said, most of the time the damage can be stopped before it turns permanent, so it isn’t really a danger, is it?”

“That’s true, but the trick is, the Vampyre has to want to stop it.” He led her to the path that went down to the beach. While a steady breeze blew off the water, the day was sunny and warm, and he turned his tanned face up with evident enjoyment to the sun’s strong, bright rays. “People persist in believing that becoming a Vampyre will solve all their problems, and it simply isn’t true. Vampyrism isn’t a panacea. Who you are as a person is who you will be as a Vampyre.”

“I don’t understand,” she said as she fell into step beside him.

They walked along the beach, while the wild cry of seagulls sounded from overhead. “If you’re an alcoholic when you’re a human, you’ll still be an alcoholic when you’re a Vampyre,” Raoul told her. “You still have the issues that drove you to drink in the first place, only drinking alcohol itself won’t have any effect on you.”

“I’ve heard of that.” She squinted against the bright sunlight. “Vampyres can’t get drunk from alcohol they consume directly, right?”

“Correct. Just as they can’t get nutrition from consuming food. They need blood to carry the nutrients, or the alcohol, in such a way that their systems will absorb it.”

“So they can get drunk if they feed from inebriated humans?”

“Yes, they can, and the same principle applies to drug addiction. If you’re an addict as a human, you’ll be an addict as a Vampyre. Getting turned doesn’t erase personality problems. It only wipes out physical diseases. But once a drug addict become a Vampyre, he can’t feel the effect from taking drugs directly.”

“Oh, wow.” She thought of the possible consequences and shuddered.

“As I said, it can be ugly. It’s against Nightkind law to turn a drug addict, but it still happens. There’s a whole subculture of addicted Vampyres that infest the tunnels that run underneath San Francisco. Every once in a while, Julian gathers enough resources to burn them out, but either they know of places to hide that his forces can’t reach, or the problem simply continues to multiply. Addicted Vampyres pay or prey on drug-addicted humans. Sometimes they supply the drugs, or turn the humans as payment, or if the Vampyre has become too bestial, they might tear them apart. It’s a twisted, feral place underneath the city.” He waved a hand. “But enough about that. There’s one more way to kill a Vampyre. Have you ever heard of brodifacoum?”

She looked sidelong at him. “No, should I have?”

He shrugged. “If you’re an environmentalist you might have come across the term. Brodifacoum is a highly lethal anticoagulant poison that’s been used in a number of pesticides.”

“Anticoagulant,” she said.

He met her gaze. “A derivative of brodifacoum has been developed that affects Vampyres. The progression of the poison is the same as it is for humans. First it attacks a Vampyre’s small blood vessels then it leads to internal bleeding, shock, convulsions, unconsciousness and eventually death.”

“It makes them bleed to death?”

He nodded. “I’ve seen it, and it’s a grim way to die.”

She winced. “There’s no cure?”

“No real cure to speak of. The only thing that can be done is to try to flush out the poison as quickly as possible and not let it get absorbed into the system. That involves a major blood draining and a massive infusion of untainted blood. Once the poison has been absorbed and causes internal bleeding in all the major organs, it’s invariably lethal.” He cocked a sandy eyebrow at her. “Not that you’ll be handing out drugs or poisons in the middle of a fight, but at least now you have a basic overview. Let’s head back.”

They turned to retrace their steps, and after a few minutes, Raoul continued, “We’re going to focus more of your training on missile weaponry—gun training, knife throwing and archery. That doesn’t mean we’ll neglect the close combat sessions, but if you can avoid going hand to hand, you’ll have a greater chance of hitting kill spots with a higher chance of survivability. Most creatures are vulnerable around their eyes, and your best asset is your hand-eye coordination.” He cocked an eyebrow at her. “You know, you could become a hell of a sniper, if you chose to.”

She had finally earned a compliment, from Raoul? Trying not to show how much pleasure it gave her, she said, dryly, “Good to know, although it’s not a career choice I’d ever considered before.”

He chuckled.

Looking down the shore into the distance, she tried to sound casual as she asked, “What about the more exotic Elder Races creatures, like the Djinn? What’s their kill spot?”

The laughter died from his face. “They don’t have one, not physically, anyway. If you ever run the risk of tangling with a Djinn, you run away. I run away. I’ve heard of them being killed before, but that’s a rare, dangerous event. It calls for a coordinated attack from a team of creatures who are far more Powerful than either you or I.”

The darkness of disappointment overtook the sun’s bright light. Her shoulders sagged. “That’s what I thought.”

When they got back to the gym, they worked through the details of a new schedule that started later in the morning, took into account the time she would be spending with Xavier in the evenings and incorporated more time on the gun range, and introduced archery. Then Raoul sent her off for an afternoon run.

She let herself out the main gates and started down the road, which was striped with intense sunlight and dark shadows thrown by the surrounding, towering redwoods. Watching her feet as she ran, she stepped in light, then darkness, then light again.

Her thoughts followed a similar pattern.

Light: Malphas hasn’t found me yet. Maybe he won’t. He doesn’t know how humans think, or how we can behave.

Dark: You know that’s a lie. It’s just a matter of time. He got to Eathan, didn’t he?

Light: Eathan wasn’t trying to hide, and I am. I’m virtually living off the grid here. I don’t go anywhere, or use my bank accounts. I haven’t given my Social Security number to anybody, I never do anything meaningful on the Internet or use similar passcodes, and I never let myself develop any kind of search pattern that has anything to do with Las Vegas, or gambling, or Djinn.

Dark: Stop trying to fool yourself, and plan for it to happen. He’ll find you, and when he does, he might do more than just kill you. He might hurt people on the estate, just for sheltering you.

She slowed to a stop, staring blankly down the deserted road.

Turning in a semicircle, she looked back the way she had come. The estate had disappeared, and cool forest surrounded her. Because of how the road curved, she couldn’t see more than a hundred yards in either direction.

Her answers weren’t down either stretch of road, anyway. She already knew what she needed to do.

After a moment, she resumed her jog, but at a slower pace. After all, she didn’t need to push herself. It didn’t matter how fast or how far she ran now. When a half hour was up, she turned and made her way back to the estate. She keyed in the code that would open the gates and stepped back onto the grounds. As the gates swung closed behind her, she walked at a sedate pace back to the attendants’ house.

She could just see the corner of the ballroom, and it was as beautiful from the outside as it was from within. Now that she knew she had to leave, she could spare herself another evening spent in Xavier’s company, but surprisingly, that idea didn’t hold any appeal.

For a few fleeting moments last night, she had felt as if she winged weightlessly over the floor. Xavier’s hold had been both assured and gentle. As soon as she had relaxed and trusted it, he swept her along in the dance and the world turned around them.

She forgot about her clumsy feet, or that she was in hiding. She forgot he was supposed to be a repulsive monster. She didn’t feel a single bruise or aching muscle.

All she felt, all she heard was the music. All she saw was the slow widening of his smile that lit his intent gaze and turned his intelligent, naturally reflective expression into something much more keen and transcendent.

She really wanted to find out if they could achieve ninety seconds like that one more time.

After staying for six weeks, she thought, a few more hours won’t hurt.

I can leave in the morning.

That evening, for dinner the attendants had Spanish paella, with rabbit, chorizo sausage, shrimp, clams, mussels and calamari, and for dessert, they had a simple, delicious homemade ice cream. All five of the other trainees—Marc, Jeremy, Aaron, Scott and Brian—were absent, and nobody mentioned where they had gone, but everyone else was present and ate a hearty meal.

Tess sat beside Angelica at one end of the farm-style table. As was her usual habit, she kept her attention on her food while she listened to everyone else talk. This time, instead of focusing on how the conversation seemed almost deliberately innocuous, she noticed instead the teasing banter and genuine warmth.

At the end of the meal, she glanced sidelong at Angelica and said quietly, “I haven’t really taken the opportunity to get to know you, and I’m sorry for that.”

Angelica turned to her with a look of surprise that melted into a warm, crooked smile that deepened all the lines in her face and made her beautiful. “You’re a good kid,” the older woman said. “And you’ve been busy. We’ve got time.”

She nodded without replying, because, of course, they had no time, and she would be gone before breakfast. After she helped clean up, she went upstairs to her room to make sure she hadn’t dropped any food on her shirt. Tidying her hair by putting it into a short braid, she brushed her teeth and headed for the main house.

This time when she reached the dining room, it was empty. A small pile of old books had been stacked by one of the place settings, and a note rested on top of them. She picked it up.

Written in a strong, slanting hand, the note said, Please begin reading these. I will join you in the ballroom at sundown.—X.

Of course, he must be a very busy man, doing whatever he did for the Nightkind demesne. Setting the note aside, she examined the books. Most were written in English and dealt with the different etiquettes for several Elder Races, but a few were in French. He had remembered that she could read French.

One book was much more modern than the others, a heavy trade paperback on biofeedback techniques.

Choosing that book, she settled into a chair and began reading. Most biofeedback therapies were done in a clinical setting, with electronic and thermal sensors, but one section concentrated on exercises one could do outside of a clinical environment to change one’s thoughts, emotions or behavior.

Funny, how it all came back to the same thing that Raoul had said to her—she had to change the conversations in her head. Deep, steady breathing could slow the heart rate. Focusing on things other than what produced a strong fear response could calm panic attacks. So could positive imagery.

She poked her tongue into one cheek. Was it positive imagery to think of all the ways you could kill a Vampyre when you met one, or all the ways in which they were vulnerable?

Well, she wouldn’t learn biofeedback with electrodes plastered to her head, so she ought to be able to think of whatever image worked for her too.

Not that she would be around to practice, anyway.

She read until the light faded outside and dusk darkened the page. Setting aside the book, she rose to her feet and went to the empty ballroom to look out at the ocean. On warm evenings, the tall, Palladian-style windows could be opened all around the room to allow for fresh air to blow in.

She had to agree with Raoul. This room was the jewel of the house.

Something ached. Was she actually sad at the thought of leaving?

Frowning, she turned from the window just as Xavier strode into the room. Tonight, he wore all black, simple slacks and a thin sweater that looked as if it might be silk. The clothes molded to his lean, strong form and emphasized his natural elegance more than ever.

Her pulse quickened, but it wasn’t from fear. While she certainly respected how dangerous he was, she no longer believed he would hurt her. So why did her blasted heart rate pick up again?

She had no time to puzzle over it. As soon as he saw her, he gave her a small smile and a slight, archaic bow in greeting that seemed as natural to him as breathing. “Ah, good, you are here. Follow me, please.”

He turned to walk out again. Caught off balance, she hurried to catch up with him. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

He led her up the stairs, bounding lightly up them two at a time and down the hall opposite the master’s suite to the first bedroom where a light was shining. Once there, he stepped back from the open doorway and gestured for her to go in.

Puzzled, she complied. “What are we doing?”

“You are changing outfits,” he told her.

A large garment bag from Nordstrom lay across the queen-sized bed. A smaller Nordstrom bag rested beside it. In the smaller bag, she could just see the tip of a shoe box, and she turned to stare at Xavier. “You bought me a dress? And shoes?”

Completely unmoved by her incredulity, he shrugged. “As I said to Raoul, people do not waltz in exercise pants. You need to wear the right outfit to learn how to dance properly, otherwise you will not know how to contend with the skirt or the shoes, and your poor partner’s feet will never recover.”

“But—but—”

“No buts.” He looked both cheerful and adamant. “Change. I will see you down in the ballroom.”

But you shouldn’t have spent the money. I’m not staying.

The words tangled up in her head. She hadn’t planned on telling him she was leaving until after the dance lesson, and before she could decide how she wanted to respond, he closed the door and left her alone.

She needed to go after him and tell him, if only she could find the right words to say.

But her feet discovered they had a mind of their own, and they propelled her to the side of the bed. Her hands became independent thinkers also, as they unzipped the garment bag.

Her mind followed suit, as she thought, Well, a quick peek wouldn’t hurt.

Pulling apart the edges of the bag, she stared down at the dress. It was a beautiful, deep midnight blue gown ruched at one hip, with a long gauzy skirt. While the gown itself was strapless, it came with a fitted lacy bodice overlay in the same color.

She pulled the shoe box out of the bag and opened it. Delicate, nude-colored sandals lay inside. In a daze, she pulled out one sandal and checked it. It had a bit of a heel, but it wasn’t too high, and it was her size.

She couldn’t remember the last time she had worn pretty clothes, and this outfit was simply beautiful.

Oh, hell.