Masters of the Night by Elizabeth Brockie Read Free Book Online Page A

a barn.”
    “Maybe not today,” she retorted with a Cimmerian tone, closing the book
of poetry and withdrawing her hand before the fire in her brain drew her into
flames of surrender.
    “Andre should have left you with Stephen, where you would be safe and
protected by that crazy nun of his.”
    “Why do I need protection?”
    “Because the world is not heaven. It is more akin to
hell.”
    For a long moment, her violet gaze cut into his.
    “You are thinking you should stake me,” he said, as her fingertips
eased to her belt, where a drawstring pouch bulged slightly against her hip.
    She curled her hand into her lap. “Eventually, Henri, the Shadows will
come for you. You must know that.”
    “But that day is not today, yes, chéri ?” he
answered, unconcerned, his voice a cool waterfall.
    The blouse was dry now. A pity. He had wanted
to gaze at the hard little, wet nubs pushing against the rain-kissed blouse.
    Ah, well.
    Emitting a semblance of a sigh, Henri admitted to himself he was
obsessed with this beautiful mystic he had salvaged from death. Possessed by her. The myth of insanity was true. But it was
not the insanity of a lost mind. It was the insanity of a mind lost. Lost to desire. A fire burned at his very core, a violet
fire striking him every time he envisioned her eyes.
    And to make matters worse, his one moment of human weakness had cost
him. His heart had throbbed with a great burst when he saved her, an explosion
of life, hurling him into a remembrance of being human.
    And into atonement.
    He had not been able to drink from even a useless drunk since.
    Mystics. He should have
known to leave well enough alone.
    “Hate me if you must, Angie,” he said, “But I feel—responsible for
you.” He paused, and grinned. “Since you seem to be carrying
a bit of a vampyre in you, chéri .”
    “Damn you!”
    For want of anything else to do with her hands, she clutched the little
book, so tightly her knuckles turned almost white.
    His eyes moved to the little volume of poetry.
    “I have somewhat of an affinity with poetry myself,” he said,
comfortably leaning back and clasping his hands behind his neck.
    Henri kept his indulgence in human poetry secret from the Realm, away
from their glowing, prying eyes. The powerful, perfect, faster than a speeding
bullet able to leap tall buildings and able-to-kill-with-a-single-prick Royal
was expected to move through the night with his soul masked.
    Weaknesses, especially those associated with humans, could earn you a
night, or a century, in chains.
    “We are as clouds, traveling ‘crossed a wanderer’s midnight moon,” Henri
murmured, creating poetry, as he had centuries ago.
    Radiant, we slide and glide, and ride the moonlight!
    To pale the very stars we seek,
    As moonbeams through our ebon profiles streak
    Then the day, and we were but darkness laced in night
    Sleep poisons the dreams we would keep …
    A vampyre’s poem. But it was all he
had. A violinist who could no longer play the haunting melody, only haunt the
melody.
    “What do you know of your past, Angie?” he asked, leaning forward to
place his chin on his hand and study her.
    “My mother died when I was very young. What is that to you?” she
answered warily.
    “Is that all you know?”
    “My grandmother didn’t tell me much about her. And I don’t know who my
father was. My grandmother is in a home. She has dementia or something. All I
have of my childhood with my mother are some little books of poems, a few legal
documents, some other books and I had a cross—” A sadness paled the violet in her eyes. “I guess I lost it.”
    “The cross. Was it from—your
mother?” he asked carefully, keeping his voice gentle. She was tossing him a
few crumbs of trust, and he did not want to lose them.
    “I think so.” She shrugged. “My grandmother gave it to me for my
twelfth birthday.”
    “What is your grandmother’s name?” he ventured.
    “Jennie Mae Wessin .”
    Wessin .
    So. Mae Weston