Free Twilight Illusions by MAGGIE SHAYNE Page B

Conquered by his own emotions. And soon.
    The thugs whose small minds Anthar had implanted with the notion of stealing the woman’s car were bumbling fools, yes. But at least one of them had fired his weapon at her. And the heathen had thrown himself in front of the bullet.
    Finally, after endless millennia, the bastard cared for another living soul. Anthar had waited so long, tried so often to hurt him this way. But Damien kept to himself, cared for no one. Not even the women he took on occasion, while Anthar watched from the shadows, his presence so carefully cloaked even Damien couldn’t sense him there. Damien drank from those women so gently, so careful not to harm them. Sickening, gutless worm! So tenderly he would use them that Anthar would become convinced there must be some feeling there. But alas, none ever came. When those women had died, Damien the Eternal hadn’t even been aware of their passing.
    Damn him to everlasting torment!
    Ah, but this time would be different. This time there was something more. Just the something Anthar needed to hurt him in the most devastating way possible.
    But he must proceed with caution.
    Damn, but it wouldn’t do to take the bitch too soon. He had to test Damien’s feelings yet again. He had to be sure the oldest immortal alive would feel the ultimate pain, shame, remorse…. He had to be sure.
    Another test was in order.
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    They were gone. He heard them run and then nothing. Damien’s body lay heavily on top of Shannon’s. She was on her back. He was angled across her chest, his head near her left shoulder.
    â€œThey’re gone,” she said, and shoved at him. “You can get off me now, Damien. I don’t know why you came rushing out here like some knight on a charger, anyway. I can take care of my—” She’d pressed her hands to his shoulders to move him off her, and touched the warm dampness seeping through his shirt. He felt the shock that passed through her body. She sucked in a coarse breath. “Damien?”
    He moved, but slowly. It hurt to do it. He sat up, and she jumped to her feet, bending over him. His white shirt was stained crimson. He pressed one hand to the front of his shoulder and tried to stand.
    Shannon bent to help him, sliding an arm around his waist and holding him firm. “Damn you straight to hell, Damien, you’ve gone and got yourself shot. What’s the matter with you, jumping on me like that?” She walked toward the building’s back entrance, pulling him along with her.
    He glanced down at her, almost giddy with relief that he’d knocked her out of the way in time. “That gun was pointing toward your head. Was I supposed to stand there and let them shoot you?”
    â€œYes!” She reached out to open the door, then held it with her hip while she helped him through. “Dammit, you’re probably going to bleed to death.”
    He was not going to bleed to death. Actually, the wound was minor except for the excruciating pain it caused. Debilitating, momentarily paralyzing pain. His shoulder still screamed with it. But he’d expected that. One of the few things he did know about his kind was that sensitivity to pain—to any physical stimulus—increased with age, just as the strength and psychic powers did. As for the tendency to bleed dry, it didn’t concern him too much. He could keep pressure on the wound until dawn. It wasn’t bleeding all that badly. It would heal with the regenerative sleep. Any injury would.
    What did concern him, besides the pain in his shoulder, was the feel of her small arm anchored around his waist. The way she held him tight to her side as they entered the elevator, the urgency in her eyes when she looked up at him. Her smell. Her warmth.
    â€œYou’re pale. Did it bleed much?”
    â€œI’m always pale. And no, it’s nothing.”
    She narrowed her eyes and stared at the spot where he pressed