Demon Moon by Meljean Brook Read Free Book Online Page B

so he could paint—and recover.
    But had she seen it better than he?
    The click of Savi’s heels sounded quick and light on the stairs. He resisted the urge to shut off the lamp, to give himself the advantage of darkness. In the months since his return, he had never observed her reaction to the painting.
    She’d always run too quickly; the moment he arrived, she’d fled for the safety of her flat or the dark little office she kept downtown.
    Savi stepped through the entrance to the living room, and paused. Her gaze slid past him. Her eyes darkened, her lips parted on a sharply indrawn breath.
    And it was the only time in his long life he’d been pleased that something other than his face had caused such a response. Would that he could read her emotions as well, but as usual, her shields were firmly in place.
    He smiled, and the change of his expression must have caught her attention; she narrowed her eyes at him. “Did you put my grandmother to sleep?”
    â€œYes,” he said.
    â€œI didn’t know you could do that.”
    â€œYou’ve never asked me, Savitri. I did not take her blood.”
    Oh, but to have Savi’s again; to have the whole of her. He settled for looking, though he shouldn’t have taken so much pleasure in that, either.
    She’d chosen low-waisted, black trousers and a crimson silk top with sleeves that split at her shoulders, leaving her slim arms bare. Her skin seemed the warmer for the blue tones in the crimson; it shouldn’t have. A long cream coat was draped over her forearm.
    He didn’t look at her shoes for fear that he might fall to his knees to examine the contrast of strap against ankle, the arch of her foot.
    She glanced at the painting for an instant, and her mouth tightened. “Can other vampires? Can nosferatu?”
    â€œNo. Yes, if the human has little psychic resistance or if the nosferatu drinks the blood.”
    â€œDoes Nani have resistance?”
    â€œNot to me.”
    â€œDo I?”
    â€œYes.”
    She walked slowly into the room, circled the sofa, and leaned her hip against the upholstered back. “Why?”
    â€œWhy do you have more resistance? Or why did I suggest she sleep?”
    A wry smile touched her mouth. She’d slicked clear gloss over her lips; they glistened as if she’d eaten a ripened fruit and forgotten to lick away the juice. “Both?”
    He gave a small shake of his head.
    â€œWhy did you suggest she sleep?”
    Was she aware of how much she gave away with that decision? Concern for her grandmother rather than protection for herself.
    He had only six feet to cross to her side; he did it in an instant. She blinked, and he lifted her right hand. “I didn’t want her to see me do this,” he said. The scent of her perfume eddied around them: vanilla, jasmine. His mouth watered, and he swallowed before adding, “I can’t heal it in the same way as Michael, but I can accelerate it and ease some of the pain.”
    His thumb smoothed over the raw tip of her forefinger, the gash on her knuckle. She winced and tugged her hand from his grip.
    She shifted her coat to her opposite forearm and opened her left fist. “This?”
    His breath hissed through his teeth. Deep, straight cuts across the first bend of her fingers; shallow slices over the center of her palm. They’d been cleaned, but they must be stiff and sore. “From the garrote?”
    â€œYes. I didn’t have piano wire in my gold watch, unfortunately.”
    He chuckled softly. “The nosferatu is no 007. What are these?” Faint mahogany lines formed an intricate design on her palm. He gently turned her hand over, saw the same on the backs of her fingers. “Henna?”
    â€œMy friend’s wedding.”
    A sudden image of those decorated hands sliding over his skin made him ache. He glanced up; she was staring at his mouth.
    Would her lips taste as she smelled? Sweet