Dianne Duvall: Night Reigns

Marcus felt laughter begin to swell inside him.

Ami’s hair was damp, bedraggled, and pulled back into a ponytail that listed to one side. Wet, soapy splotches and cat hair speckled her shirt. Her cheeks were pink, her expression harried.

And Slim looked like a tiny, enraged hedgehog, his fur standing out in all directions in wet spikes.

As soon as Slim saw Marcus, he bunched up the muscles in his hind legs, then leapt straight up, paws scrabbling at the shower doors in a bid to reach freedom ... and failing.

Ami shrieked as the maddened cat fell back toward her.

Slim landed in the water beside her with a splash, then scampered up into her lap and prepared to launch again.

“Oh no, you don’t!” she warned, wrapping her arms around him before he could jump.

Slim’s yowls and howls began anew.

Marcus couldn’t help it. He burst into laughter, the sight they made too hilarious to deny.

“Oh, shut up,” she grumbled, and began scooping water over Slim, Marcus assumed to finish rinsing him.

“What in the world made you decide to bathe him?” he asked.

“When he came home today his fur was matted down with I-don’t-want-to-know-what in several places, and he smelled like ...”

“Like what?”

“Pee,” she said, wrinkling her nose with such disgust he laughed again.

“Why didn’t you just bathe him in the sink?”

“I tried! But he kept getting away from me. In here, there’s no place for him to go.”

Slim’s skinny little butt wiggled from side to side as he bunched up his hind legs in preparation for another jump.

“Okay! Okay!” Ami declared, reaching for the glass doors. “You’re clean enough.” Her eyes met Marcus’s. “Would you please dry him off?”

Nodding, Marcus grabbed a towel and caught Slim, who launched himself from the tub as soon as the glass door slid back. “What about you?” he asked, wrapping the wriggling, ill-tempered bundle in the fluffy cotton.

Her eyes narrowed. “I can dry myself, thank you.” Glancing down, she grimaced. “After I shower. Gross. I’ll be out in a few minutes.”

And just like that, the arousal that had tormented Marcus all morning returned.

Frowning, he left the bathroom, closed the door, and headed for the living room.

“This isn’t going to work,” he told Slim, whose pale green gaze held both relief and accusation.

As he dried the cranky cat, Marcus vowed to try harder to avoid any and all contact with his new Second.

Ami hadn’t seen Marcus in two days, not since the incident with Slim on Tuesday.

Was he angry because she had bathed his cat?

More likely he simply hoped that if he avoided her long enough and kept her from doing her job, she would grow frustrated and insist on leaving.

A board creaked in the hallway.

Ami’s head snapped in that direction. Aha!

As quietly as she could, she tiptoed out of the study, down the hallway, and into the armory, arriving just in time to see Marcus—clad only in socks, boxer shorts, and a T-shirt—stepping into specially designed pants that afforded complete protection from the sun.

Sneaky immortal. He must have thought she slept during the day, must have borrowed one of the d’Alençons’ suits, and intended to head out before she woke.

“Leaving early?” she asked.

His head jerked up. Frustration swept across his handsome features before he turned away.

Ami’s gaze fell to his thighs as he tugged the pants up over them. Heavy with muscle, they sported a sparse coating of curly dark hair.

Heat blossomed within her. Would that hair be soft or coarse?

Before she could speculate on what his black silk boxers hid, the heavy material covered them as well.

Ami strode forward and grabbed the rubber shirt while Marcus zipped up the pants. The ensemble was much like a diving suit, but had a rough, automobile tire-like texture. Immortals generally hated wearing the suits because they were so hot and uncomfortable, so he must be pretty desperate to escape her if he was willing to be stuck in one all night.

Marcus frowned when she held up the shirt, front open.

Turning away, he shoved his arms into the sleeves and allowed her to tug it up over his broad shoulders.

“You might want to focus tonight’s hunt on Winston-Salem,” she suggested. “Several missing person reports have popped up there in the past forty-eight hours, so the vampires must either be hunting or recruiting.”

He grunted a possible acknowledgment and turned to face her.

Ami brushed his hands aside and zipped up the front of his shirt herself. Seemingly resigned, he waited impatiently while she armed him with his short swords and daggers.

When she glanced up at him, his eyes were glowing faintly again. “Do you want to eat before you leave?” she asked, suddenly breathless beneath his intense stare.

Something flared in his amber gaze. “No.”

Ami nodded and grabbed the mask that accompanied the protective suit. Her pulse picked up as she rose onto her toes. Reaching up, she brushed his hair—so soft—back from his forehead.

His eyes brightened. His jaw clenched.

Ami swallowed nervously and gently pulled the mask down over his face and the raven silk that framed it.

Those eyes never left her as he reached up and adjusted it.

A heavy silence fell between them that seemed to last minutes.

Then Marcus strode from the room—and the house—without another word.

Her breath emerging in a whoosh, Ami leaned back against one of the wardrobe doors.

Marcus scaled the basement stairs Friday evening, then paused on the landing. Silently urging the door open a crack, he peered into the dim hallway beyond. The doorways that peppered it all lay dark and empty. Light filtered in from the large living room at one end. The stairs above him that led to the second floor were dark.

Satisfied, he eased into the hallway and soundlessly closed the door behind him.

A stereo played in the living room, the volume courteously low. Etta James crooned one of his favorite songs: “At Last.”

Marcus flattened his body against one wall and crept forward, unable to prevent himself from singing along in his head as he kept his ears peeled for signs of his Second.

Ami had been with him for five days now and was proving to be damned hard to avoid.

Or ignore.

He had hoped that if he simply avoided all contact with her, she would grow bored, complain to Seth that she wasn’t needed here, and be reassigned. But that hadn’t worked out so well. Every time he turned around, Ami was there. And, though her smile bore a certain hesitance, her determination to fulfill her duties as his Second made a mockery of his own stubbornness. He couldn’t even arm himself anymore. The minute he crossed the threshold of his weapons and training room, she magically appeared and began to load him up with blades.

As Marcus approached said threshold, he eyed it suspiciously. Had she rigged it with some kind of motion sensor or a hidden camera? How else could she know he was in there every single time?

Passing by it without entering, he continued forward. This morning, he had stashed his weapons in his basement bedroom in hopes of finally managing to evade her notice.

He frowned.

That was another thing. The woman only slept when he did. He had tried altering his sleep schedule, even going so far as to don the protective suit Seth’s human network had devised for the Immortal Guardians and leave while the sun was still high in the sky.

No luck. Ami had pulled the rubbery mask down over his long hair herself.

No matter what time of day or night he rose and ventured forth, she magically appeared.

He paused. Directly ahead lay the front door with its heavy-duty reinforced locks and titanium hinges and chain. On the wall beside it hung an alarm touch pad. What he could see of the living room appeared bare. The long room continued around to his left beyond his line of sight. On the opposite side of the front door lay a small dining area with a breakfast bar that separated it from the spacious kitchen around on the right, which he also could not see.