Лорел Гамильтон - Blue Moon

I was healing. I was healing days worth of injury in only hours. At this rate, the bruises would be almost gone by tomorrow. I should have been wearing the fight marks for days, a week at least. What the hell was happening to me?

I felt Damian wake in his coffin. I felt it like a stab through my body. It staggered me against the sink. I knew he was hungry, and I knew that he sensed me near at hand. I was Jean-Claude's human servant, bound by marks that only death would break. But Damian was mine. I'd raised him and another vampire, Willie McCoy, more than once. I'd called them from their coffins during daylight hours, safely underground, but the sun had been burning bright when I did it. One necromancer had said it made perfect sense. We could only raise zombies after the souls had fled the bodies, so I could only raise vamps when their souls had fled for the day.

I wasn't even going to debate the vampires and soul issue. My life was complicated enough without religious discussions. I know, I know, I was just delaying the inevitable. If I stayed with Jean-Claude, I was going to have to face the whole issue. No hiding. But not tonight.

Raising Damian had forged some kind of link between us. I didn't understand it and didn't have anyone to ask advice of. I was the first necromancer in several hundred years that could raise vampires like zombies. It scared me. It scared Damian more. Frankly, I didn't blame him.

Was Asher awake, too? I concentrated on him, sent that power, magic, whatever the hell it was, outward. It brushed him, and he felt me. He was awake and aware of me.

Asher was a master vampire. Not as powerful as Jean-Claude, but a master, nonetheless. That gave him certain abilities that Damian, who was by far the elder of the two, would never have. Without the link between us, Damian wouldn't have sensed me searching for him.

I wanted a few minutes to be alone and think, and I wasn't going to get it. I didn't make them call for me. I opened the door and stood framed in the light, blinking out into the thick darkness.

The vampires stood like pale shadows in the gloom. I hit the overhead light. Asher threw his hand up to protect his eyes from the light, but Damian just blinked at me. I wanted them to cower back from the light. I wanted them to look monstrous, but they didn't.

Damian was a green-eyed redhead, but that didn't really cover it. His hair fell like a red curtain around his upper body, the hair so red it looked like spilled blood against the green silk of his shirt. The shirt was a paler green than his eyes. They were like liquid fire, if fire could burn green. It wasn't vampire powers that made his eyes gleam. It was natural color, as if his mother had fooled around with a cat.

Asher was a blue-eyed blond, but again, that description didn't do him justice. The waves of his shoulder-length hair were golden. I don't mean blond, I mean gold. His hair was almost metallic in its glittering brilliance. His eyes were a blue so pale, they were almost white, like the eyes of a husky.

He was wearing a white dress shirt, untucked over chocolate brown dress pants. Leather loafers, no socks, completed his clothes. I'd spent too much time around Jean-Claude to call it an outfit.

If you could stop staring at the eyes and hair long enough to see their faces, Asher was the handsomer of the two. Damian was handsome, but there was a length of jaw, a less perfect slope to the nose — small imperfections that might go unnoticed if you hadn't had Asher for comparison. Asher was beautifully handsome like a medieval cherub. Half of him, anyway.

Half of Asher's face was the beauty that drew a master vampire to him centuries ago. The other half was covered in scars. Holy water scars. The scars started about an inch from the midline of his face so his eyes, nose, and those full, perfect lips remained untouched, but the rest was like melted wax. His neck was pale and perfect, but I knew that the scars continued at his shoulders. His upper body was worse than the face, the scars rough and pitted. But like the face, only half of his body was scarred. The other half was still lovely.

I knew that the scars touched his upper thigh, but I had never seen him completely nude. I had to take his word that the scars covered the space between. It had been implied though never stated that he was still capable of sex but was scarred. I didn't know for sure, and I didn't want to know.

"Where are your bodyguards?" Asher asked.

"My bodyguards? You mean Jason and the Furballs?"

Asher nodded. His golden hair fell forward over the scarred side of his face. It was an old habit. The hair hid the scars — or almost hid the scars. He could use the shadows the same way. He always seemed to know just where the light would hit him. Centuries of practice.

"I don't know where they are," I said. "I just finished talking to Richard. I guess they thought we needed privacy."

"Did you need the privacy?" Asher asked. He looked straight at me, using the scars and beauty for a double effect. He didn't look happy for some reason.

"It's none of your damn business," I said.

Damian sat at the foot of the carefully made bed. He smoothed pale, long-fingered hands across the blue coverlet. "Not in this bed, you didn't," he said.

I came to stand beside the bed and stare down at him. "If one more vampire or were-anything tells me they can smell sex, I am going to scream."

Damian didn't smile. He'd never been a real happy camper, but lately was even more serious than usual. He just sat there, looking up at me. Jean-Claude or even Asher would have smiled, teased. Damian just looked at me with eyes that held sorrow the way others' held laughter.

I reached out to touch his shoulder and had to sweep back a lock of his hair to reach it. He jerked back from my touch as if it had hurt. He pushed to his feet and went to stand near the door.

I was left with my hand out, puzzled. "What's wrong with you, Damian?"

Asher came to stand beside me. He rested his hands lightly on my shoulders. "You are quite right, Anita. What you do with Monsieur Zeeman is none of my business."

I slid my hands over his, sliding my fingers to intertwine with his. I remembered the feel of his cool skin against mine. I leaned my back against him, pulling his arms around me, and I wasn't tall enough. It wasn't my memory. It was Jean-Claude's. Asher and he had been companions for over twenty years, once upon a time.

I sighed and started to pull away.

Asher leaned his chin on the top of my head. "You need someone's arms that you don't feel threatened by."

I leaned against him, eyes closed, and for just a moment let him hold me. "The only reason this feels so good is that I'm remembering someone else's pleasure."

Asher gently kissed the top of my head. "Because you see me through the nostalgia of Jean-Claude's memories, you are the only woman in over two hundred years who doesn't treat me like a circus freak."

I leaned my face against the bend of his arm. "You are devastatingly handsome, Asher."

He smoothed the hair from my bruised cheek. "To you, perhaps." He leaned over me and laid the softest of kisses on my cheek.

I pulled away from him, gently, almost reluctantly. What I remembered of Asher was simpler than anything I was trying to pull off in this lifetime.

Asher didn't try to hold me. "If you were not already in love with two other men, the way you look at me might be enough."

I sighed. "I'm sorry, Asher I shouldn't touch you like that. It's just … " I didn't know how to put it into words.

"You treat me like an old lover," Asher said. "You forget and touch me as if you'd touched me before when it is always the first time. Do not apologize for that, Anita. I enjoy it. No one else will touch me so freely."

"Jean-Claude will," I said. "These are his memories."