Night’s Kiss (Children of The Night #1)(19)
Author: Amanda Ashley

He took her into the kitchen and explained what frozen foods were, then showed her how to work the stove and the built-in microwave, then the dishwasher. He opened the silverware drawer and showed her the plastic utensils.

She picked up one of the forks. "I have never seen anything like this," she remarked. "’Tis made of an odd substance." She bent the handle of the fork and it broke in her hand. "Oh! I am sorry."

"It doesn’t matter," he said, taking the broken pieces from her hand and tossing them in the trash. "They’re disposable. Only meant to be used once."

"’Tis wasteful. Of what are these made?"

"Plastic," he said. "It’s quite common."

He took her through the rest of the house, assuring her that she was to make herself at home.

When they came to his office, she pointed at his computer. "What is that?"

"It’s a computer." He booted it up, then turned on the screen.

"It looks much like the television in the other room," she observed, "only smaller."

"Yes, it does."

"I saw it, in my scrying mirror, when I saw you."

He nodded. He had read about the ancient art of scrying when he’d been doing his research on witches. Mirrors were the preferred method, but countless other objects had been used throughout the centuries. The Egyptians used ink, blood, or other dark liquids. The Romans used shiny objects and stones. Water was also used. Scrying was derived from the English word "descry" meaning "to make out dimly" or "to reveal." Witches used it to see into the future, or to find lost objects or people.

"This is where I found your picture." Sitting down, he signed on, then went to the Internet and pulled up the Web page where he had seen her photo.

Brenna stared at her image, wondering how John Linder’s painting had found its way to this time and place.

"Listen to this," Roshan said, reading the words beneath the image. "Woman in White, painted by renowned seventeenth-century artist John Linder. This painting is one of Linder’s first works. There is speculation as to the model’s identity. Some claim she was a local witch; others opine that she was Linder’s first love, Brenna Flanagan, who disappeared under mysterious circumstances." He glanced over his shoulder at Brenna. "I guess he didn’t jump to his death after all."

"You saved two lives that night," Brenna murmured. "Mine and his."

Roshan grunted softly. "So it would seem."

"I owe you my thanks for his life, as well as my own."

"Were you in love with him?"

"No."

He regarded her a moment, as if searching for the truth, then turned back to the matter at hand. "This is a printer," he said, indicating the gray object beside the computer.

He hit "print." Brenna jumped a little when the machine made a soft whirring sound and started printing the photograph.

"Here." He handed the picture to her.

She stared at her likeness, hardly able to comprehend such magic. "’Tis all so… unbelievable."

He nodded, wondering how he would have done had he been thrust into the present from the past. "There’s a lot more for you to learn. For instance— "

She grinned sheepishly when her stomach growled loudly.

"I think I’d better take you out and get you something to eat. Why don’t you go and see if your clothes are dry," he suggested. "I’ll wait in here."

Her undergarments were dry; the hem of her skirt was still a little damp, but she put the dress on anyway. She had nothing else.

"Ready?" he called.

"Yes."

She was frowning when he entered the living room again.

"What’s wrong?"

"My dress," she said, smoothing her hands over her skirt, "’tis badly wrinkled."

He grunted softly, but there was no help for it. Mentally, he added an iron to the list of things he had forgotten.

"Don’t worry about it," he said. "We’ll buy you something new." He held out his hand, waited patiently while she decided whether to trust him or not. He felt as if he had accomplished a major feat when she finally placed her hand in his. It was small and warm, vibrant with young life.

Roshan turned off the lights as they walked toward the entryway. He opened the front door for her, then took her hand again and led her around the side of the house to the garage. Morgana trailed at Brenna’s heels, then bounded off, no doubt in search of prey.

Roshan squeezed Brenna’s hand. "Wait here."

Going into the garage, he slid behind the wheel of the Ferrari, started the engine, and backed the car out of the garage.

Putting the car in park, he opened the door and got out, only to find that Brenna had retreated to the front porch. He laughed softly. "Come here."

She shook her head. "What is that thing?"

"It’s an automobile. A car. You’ve seen them on television, remember?"

"They were not that big. Nor did they make such a dreadful noise."

Walking over to the porch, Roshan climbed the steps and took her hand once again. "Come on, there’s nothing to be afraid of."

It was with great trepidation that she followed him down the stairs. He opened the car door for her, waited patiently while she peered inside, apprehension visible in every taut line of her body.

"Brenna, you’re going to have to trust me here. I swear I won’t hurt you, and I won’t let anything else hurt you, either."

She glanced at him over her shoulder and he realized again how young she was, how vulnerable and innocent. He had saved her from a horrible death, and in so doing, had catapulted her into a world beyond anything she could have imagined, a world she had not been prepared for.

Apparently deciding to take him at his word, she slid into the passenger seat. He shut the door, rounded the front of the car, and slid behind the wheel.

"This is a seat belt." Reaching in front of her, he snapped it into place. He let the car idle for a few minutes, giving her a chance to get used to the noise.

Putting the car in gear, he drove down the long curved driveway and pulled up at the gate. "You all right?" he asked.

She nodded, her eyes wide, her hands clenched in her lap.

Roshan grinned as he disabled the wards on the gate and pulled onto the road. Though it had been years ago, he could remember his apprehension the first time he got behind the wheel, the sudden rush of power as the engine roared to life. Though he could will himself anywhere he wished to be, driving a fast car was an exhilarating experience that could be had no other way.