Free Coven of Mercy by Deborah Cooke Page B

ward, although that made no sense. The music lilted through the room, barely audible to me in the doorway, but achingly beautiful.
    Mrs Curtis was laughing at the man, who watched her as if she was the most beautiful woman in the world. A lump rose in my throat at his kindness.
    Or maybe the state of his infatuation.
    “How did you do that?” she demanded.
    “Does it matter? Or should we simply dance?” He offered his hand to her, palm up, and I was struck by how tiny her right hand looked when she placed it in his. How wrong that IV needle looked in the back of her hand, with its three strips of tape.
    I had never seen Mrs Curtis healthy.
    I had never before heard her laugh.
    “OK,” she agreed, conspiratorial. “Let’s dance.”
    He gathered her in his arms, bodily lifting her from the bed. My mouth went dry at the tenderness in his expression. She was all bones and pale skin, a rag doll, a wisp of the woman she must have been.
    She slid her hands up to his shoulders, rapturous in his embrace. He smiled down at her, loving, possessive, gentle.
    She laid her head on his shoulder and sighed. I saw her eyes close. I saw the glimmer of a tear on her cheek. She looked so fragile and faded, like a rose left in a vase too long. I thought he was going to kiss her and I knew I should look away.
    But his gaze suddenly locked on mine.
    That one glance stopped my heart cold. I was caught.
    But there was no surprise in his expression: he’d known all along that I was there. That realization shook me, rooted me, made it impossible for me to move.
    He knew me as well as I knew him.
    Impossible.
    He had smouldering dark eyes, eyes filled with a thousand shadows, eyes that seemed to see straight through to my heart. His hair was long, tied back; his features could have been sculpted out of marble. But his dark eyes, his eyes saw so much.
    More than I allowed anyone to see. I wanted to avert my gaze, to hide. I saw the glimmer of a smile, as if he were amused by me.
    Then he bent his head and sank his teeth into Mrs Curtis’ neck. Mrs Curtis gasped and arched her neck, as if in pleasure, then laid her cheek upon his shoulder in surrender.
    I knew that my eyes had to be deceiving me. There were no vampires in real life.
    But the blood was flowing, easing from the corner of the stranger’s mouth to slide down Mrs Curtis’ fair skin. The rivulet was red against her pale flesh, and he drank steadily. The music soared and swirled as I gaped at them, then I saw her fingers go slack on his shoulder.
    That made me move.
    “Stop it!” I almost flew across the room, intending to pull him bodily away.
    He stole one last massive gulp, then straightened. By the time I crossed the room, he’d laid Mrs Curtis back in her bed with that remarkable tenderness. He was a good foot taller than me, broad and imposing, but I shoved past him in my haste.
    He stepped gracefully aside, as if he’d meant to move all along. I bent over Mrs Curtis, checking her monitors and her IV, placing my fingers under her chin.
    Her pulse was weak, irregular, but still there.
    The music, the lilting music that seemed to have drifted from another world, faded to nothing. I doubted I had even heard it in the first place.
    “It’s too late,” the stranger said quietly. At close proximity, I was even more aware of his potent voice. It was more than low – it was languid. Melted chocolate on fruit.
    Dark chocolate.
    Tropical fruit.
    I could feel the heat of him beside me, feel his scrutiny, almost hear his pulse. He was flesh and blood, like me, not an illusion.
    Not a fable.
    Before I could decide that my eyes had deceived me, I saw the proof: there were two perfectly round punctures in Mrs Curtis’ throat.
    He was a vampire.
    I sputtered, far from my usual coherence. “How could you do this? Who are you?”
    His smile broadened, but there was a tinge of sadness in his eyes. I had the sense that he knew more than I did, but I was too angry to care. “My name is