Night’s Mistress (Children of The Night #5)(10)
Author: Amanda Ashley

“How’s Savanah holding up?”

“She’s terrific,” Rane said. He paused a moment. When he spoke again, his tone was suddenly wistful. “I just wish Abbey was really mine. It’s not that I don’t love her,” he said quickly, “but . . .”

“I understand,” Mara said, though she really didn’t. She had never wanted children, and then Dendar had brought her across and motherhood had no longer been an option.

“So,” Rane said, “I take it Hollywood agrees with you.”

“Yes, very much.” She had seen Logan every night for the last three weeks. Later tonight, they were going to yet another Hollywood party to dance, and dine. “I’d better go. Tell everyone hello for me.”

“Will do.”

After bidding Rane good night, Mara ended the call, then sat there, her fingers beating an impatient tattoo on the arm of the chair as she waited for Logan to arrive.

The party was in full swing when Logan and Mara made their entrance. As Logan passed his overcoat to the butler, he noted that Sterling Price had pulled out all the stops for this shindig. The mansion was lit up like a Christmas tree. A full orchestra played in the ballroom. Men clad in Armani suits danced with women elegantly attired in fashionable evening gowns by Dior, Versace, and Galliano, and sporting enough diamonds to rival the number of stars in the sky. But Mara put them all to shame. She wore a floor-length emerald gown that clung to every delectable curve. The heart-shaped ruby pendant he had given her was her only adornment. Nestled in the hollow of her slender throat, it glittered like a drop of fresh blood.

They had timed their arrival so that they arrived well after dinner had been served, but a dozen round tables dressed in fine linen were laden with platters of sliced meats, fine cheeses, iced shrimp, and caviar. Baskets and bowls held a wide variety of breads and fruit. There was imported wine and champagne, of course, and a fully stocked bar.

Logan frowned at Mara when she nibbled on a slice of rare roast beef. “How can you do that?”

“Do what? Oh.” The cat was out of the bag, she thought, then shrugged. “I’m not sure, but I think it has something to do with my longevity as a vampire.”

“What’s it like?” he asked. “I can’t remember the taste of solid food.”

“It’s very good. A little salty.”

“So, what else can you eat?”

“Any red meat that’s rare.” She hadn’t tried chicken yet, or pork, or fish.

Logan glanced at the platter of meat, a look of longing in his eyes.

“Try it,” Mara urged, curious to see his reaction.

“You’ve been around quite a long time yourself.”

Looking dubious, Logan speared a slice of roast beef with a toothpick. He eyed it suspiciously, sniffed it, and then took a bite. One swallow, and he bolted from the room.

Murmuring, “Ah, well,” Mara followed him outside. She found him on the balcony, one hand clutching his stomach.

He slanted a look in her direction, then doubled over with a groan.

Murmuring, “I’m sorry,” Mara patted him on the back. When he straightened, she turned her head to the side and bared her throat. “Here, drink. Perhaps it will help.”

She closed her eyes as he ran his tongue along the side of her neck, sighed with pleasure as he drank.

Muttering an oath, Logan recoiled from her. Turning away, he spat her blood from his mouth.

“What’s wrong?”

“You taste like . . . like . . . hell, I don’t know. Poison!”

She stared at him in horror. For centuries, those of her kind had sought to drink from her. Her blood had strengthened the weak, healed wounds . . . but not Rane’s injuries, she recalled with a frown. It had taken Savanah’s blood to heal him.

Logan grabbed a glass of red wine from a passing waiter and downed the contents in a single swallow. After wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he tossed the glass over the rail of the balcony onto the grass below.

“If that’s what eating human food does to you, maybe you shouldn’t eat any more.” He shook his head. “Damn, that was vile.”

“I . . . I’m sorry, I don’t know what . . .” Bewildered, she looked up at him. “I’m sorry.”

Logan drew in a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh. “All right, Mara, what the hell’s going on?”

“I don’t know.” Tears burned her eyes and wet her cheeks. “I’m changing, and . . .” She turned away from him, her voice little more than a whisper as she admitted, “I’m scared.” She hadn’t been this afraid since the night Dendar had appeared in her cell. “I think . . .” She loosed a long, shuddering sigh. “I think I’m dying.”

Since becoming a vampire, she had never contemplated her own demise, but now she was overcome with a sudden fear of death. The ancient Egyptians had believed that their time on Earth was only a step toward a better life in another world, and so they made extensive preparations to assure the comfort of their spirits, hence the lavish tombs filled with everything one might need in the next life. If she was dying, as she feared, who would see that her body was properly prepared for the afterlife? She had long ago turned her back on the religion of her ancestors, but now, facing the very real possibility of her own demise, she found her thoughts returning to the old ways, the ancient beliefs. And they were more frightening than anything she had ever known in this world. The wicked were tormented in the Netherworld, compelled to swim in their own blood, which was squeezed out of them by one of the gods of the underworld. A rather ironic punishment for a vampire, she thought morbidly.

Muttering an oath, Logan drew Mara into his arms. He had never known her to be afraid of anything. He had seen her outraged, angry, defiant, belligerent. On rare occasions, he had seen her pensive, and on even rarer occasions, sad or depressed. But never frightened, he thought as he stroked her hair.

He had sensed something different about her the last time they were together; tonight, to his chagrin, he realized what it was. She had always exuded an aura of preternatural strength unmatched by any other vampire, but he had no sense of it now. Whatever was ailing her had undermined her supernatural powers, leaving her weak and vulnerable. And that could be dangerous, because she had made a lot of enemies in the last three thousand years, and not all of them were dead.

“Here now,” Logan said, “crying won’t help.” He pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and dried her eyes, noting that her tears were no longer tinged with blood. Not a good sign. There was definitely something amiss, though he had no idea what it could be. “What do you say we get out of here?”