Free Ice Forged (The Ascendant Kingdoms Saga) by Gail Z. Martin

hair hung loose to his shoulders, and his clothing spoke of money and position. Connor guessed that the painting was at least two hundred years old, and he also knew without a shadow of a doubt that the man in the painting was the same Lanyon Penhallow whose arrival he awaited.
    “Do you like my library?” The voice startled Connor enough that he jumped and he heard his host chuckle.
    “Yes, very much, m’lord,” Connor replied, wishing his heart would stop thudding. He turned to see Penhallow standing behind him and searched the apparently seamless wall for signs of a hidden doorway.
    Lanyon Penhallow stood framed against his books. His dark hair was caught back in a queue. He appeared to be a few years older than the man in the painting, perhaps in his late third decade. Tonight, he wore a simple, claret-colored silk shirt with a brocade doublet in muted tones over dark close-fit leggings. Against the rich colors of his clothes, Penhallow’s skin seemed pale.
    “Is Garnoc well?”
    Connor nodded. “Yes, quite.”
    “And Millicent?” Penhallow’s mouth quirked upward, just slightly, at the private joke. Endearment and forbearance colored his tone, without a hint of mockery.
    Connor smiled, despite the apprehension he always felt in Penhallow’s presence. “Milady Millicent is, as ever, looking splendid.”
    Penhallow walked closer. Connor did his best to look nonchalant, though his heart was beating at twice its normal rate once more. “Come now, my dear Bevin. Do I still make you nervous after all this time?”
    Connor sighed. “Reflex, m’lord, or instinct. I know you are a man of your word.”
    Penhallow nodded. “And a man of few words. You and Garnoc are among only a handful to be granted my protection in these perilous times. It will not keep you from all harm, but it will reduce the number of people willing to interfere with our business.” He paused. “You have a message for me?”
    Connor unfastened his right cuff and turned his sleeve up until it exposed the whole of his inner elbow and forearm. “Seefor yourself, m’lord,” he said, extending his arm, palm up, as he steeled himself, inadvertently making a fist.
    Penhallow took the proffered arm and lowered his head. Connor barely felt Penhallow’s sharp teeth sink into the throbbing vein in the hollow of his elbow, but he gasped seconds later at the by-now-familiar vertigo that accompanied Penhallow’s feeding. He forced himself to stand still, though his most primal instincts urged him to run, knowing that his stillness would yield the least bruising and the cleanest wounds. The creases of both elbows were dotted with small, round white scars, badges of his role as witness and messenger.
    Penhallow can read my memories. Can he see the gaps? Will he find me out?
Another possibility occurred to Connor.
Did Penhallow send someone after me to take my memories? Oh, gods! Can he read my thoughts? Maybe I’ve given myself away. I don’t know who to trust.
    Both he and Penhallow gained from the exchange. Undoubtedly, Penhallow gained the most, seeing through Connor’s eyes all that had transpired in the War Council, and in his later discussion with Garnoc. Yet while Penhallow gleaned information, the feeding was part of the mysterious magic that granted Connor the vampire lord’s protection. Though the scars were well hidden beneath Connor’s sleeve, something of Penhallow’s magic lingered. More than once, a common cutpurse bent on robbing Connor had drawn back at the last moment, as if warded off by an intangible presence. He did not know what other dangers Penhallow’s magic had spared him, and he did not want to know.
    Only a few moments passed, and Penhallow raised his head. No hint of blood colored his lips, and the wound on Connor’s arm was clean, already healing rapidly. “How interesting,”Penhallow said, his expression introspective as if he replayed Connor’s memories in his mind.
    Connor’s heart was thudding, afraid that