Free Cerulean Sins by Laurell K. Hamilton Page B

in the ocean.
    I turned wide eyes to Jean-Claude. He was looking very serious. “I feel it too, ma petite .”
    We knew through practice that if Jean-Claude concentrated on controlling the ardeur , he could help me control it as well. But when he wasn’t concentrating, the fire burned through us both like some overwhelming force of nature.
    I felt Damian’s sorrow at my cool touch, felt it like a taste across my tongue, as if rain could have a flavor.
    I knew that Damian wanted me, in that good ol’-fashioned way that had very little to do with hearts and flowers, and everything to do with lust. He craved me the way he did blood, because to be without me was to die. Damian was over six hundred years old, but he’d never be a master vampire. Which meant that literally his original mistress had made his heart beat, his body walk. Then Jean-Claude had been his animating force, and then, accidentally, I’d stolen him from Jean-Claude, and now it was my necromancy that made his blood flow, his heart beat.
    I’d been horrified to find that I had, in effect, a pet vampire. I’d tried to ignore what I’d done, run from it. I’d been running from so many things. But I knew that Damian wasn’t one of those things that I could ignore.
    If I cut myself off from Damian, he would first go mad, then he would die in truth. Of course, long before he faded away, the other vampires would have had to execute him. You couldn’t have a six-hundred-year-old vampire gone stark raving mad running around the city slaughtering people. It was bad for business. How did I know what would happen if I denied Damian? Because I hadn’t known he was my vampire servant for the first six months after it had happened. He had gone mad, and he had slaughtered innocents. Jean-Claude had imprisoned him, waiting for me to come home, waiting for me to live up to my responsibilities instead of running from them. Damianhad been one of my object lessons that you either embraced your power, or others paid the price.
    I looked at Jean-Claude. He was still beautiful, but I could look at him without wanting to swarm all over him. “This is amazing,” I said.
    â€œIf you would have let Damian touch you like this months ago, we would have discovered it sooner,” Jean-Claude said.
    There was a time, not that long ago, that I would have resented being reminded of my own shortcomings, but one of my new resolutions was not to argue about everything. Picking my battles, that was the goal.
    Jean-Claude nodded, walked over to me, and held out his hand. “My apologies for the earlier indiscretion, ma petite , but I am master now, no longer pawn of the fire that burns us both.”
    I stared at the hand, so pale, long-fingered, graceful. Even without the ardeur ’s interference, he was always fascinating in ways that I had no words for. I took his hand, while still clutching Damian’s arm. Jean-Claude’s fingers closed around mine, and my heart stayed calm. The ardeur did not raise its lascivious head.
    He raised my hand to his mouth, slowly, touched his lips to my knuckles. Nothing happened. He risked a caress of his lips, sliding along my skin. It did make me catch my breath, but the ardeur did not rise.
    He stood upright, my hand still in his. He smiled, that brilliant smile that I valued, because it was real, or as close to real as he could come. He’d spent centuries schooling his face, his every motion to be courtly, graceful, and give nothing away. He found it hard to simply react. “Come, ma petite , come let us meet our guests.”
    I nodded. “Sure.”
    He wrapped my arm through his and looked at Damian. “Take her other arm, mon ami , let us escort her inside.”
    Damian settled my hand on the smooth, muscled skin of his forearm. “With pleasure, master.”
    Normally, Jean-Claude didn’t like his vamps calling him master, but tonight we’d be formal. We