Prince of Twilight. Maggie Shayne
dark in this bedroom—too dark to tell where she was.
She rolled to one side, began to reach out in search of a lamp or something, but her hand hit a solid wall. Odd. They must not be in the boat anymore, because that wall was farther away from the bed than this. She ran her palm along the smooth wall and frowned. It was lined in fabric. Something as smooth as satin.
Blinking and puzzled, she moved her hand downward, then upward, only to find another smooth, satin-lined wall behind her head.
Something clutched in her belly, and she rolled quickly to the other side, thrusting both hands out, only to hit another wall. She was closed in tight on three sides, and a terrifying suspicion was taking root in her mind. Her breath coming faster now, her heart pounding, she pressed her palms upward. They moved only inches before hitting a satin lined ceiling.
I’m in a coffin! she screamed inwardly. I’m trapped in a tiny box and God only knows what else! I’ll suffocate!
Panic twisted through her body like a python on crack, and she clenched her hands into fists and pounded on the ceiling, bent her legs as far as the space would allow and kicked at the bottom and sides. She shouted at the top of her lungs. “Let me out. Open this Goddamn box right now and get me the hell out!”
To her surprise, her pounding resulted in the ceiling above her rising with every strike, and she realized belatedly that, while she might be in a box, she wasn’t locked in.
The lid gave when she pushed it, and she’d barely had time to process that fact when it opened all the way, as if on its own.
She could see at last, and what she saw was the man himself standing there, staring down at her. He looked harried, tired. His white shirt’s top three buttons were undone, and his hair was loose and long.
Then he was reaching for her.
She slapped his hands away and, gripping the sides of the box, pulled herself up into a sitting position, swung her legs over the side, narrowly missing him on the way, and jumped to the floor. She gave a full body shudder, then snapped her arms around her own body, tucked her chin and closed her eyes.
He touched her shoulders. Her body reacted with heat and hunger, but she fought to ignore those things. “I’m sorry, Tempest. I fully intended to have you out of there by the time you woke, but I—”
She punched him. Hard. Straight to the solar plexus. It gave her a rush of satisfaction to hear his grunt, and when she opened her eyes and saw him stagger backward a few paces, it felt even better.
“Bastard.”
“Tempest, if you’d let me explain—”
“How dare you? How dare you stick me in some fucking box like that? And why, for God’s sake? What the hell were you thinking?” She drew back a fist and advanced on him, fully intending to deck him again, right between the eyes this time.
He had her by the forearms before she could swing, so she kicked him in the shin. He yelped but didn’t release her.
“You know, that’s what I like best about you freakin’ vamps. You feel pain so much more than humans do.”
“Enough!”
He shouted it, using the full power of his voice—or she guessed it was full power, but maybe not, maybe he had a lot more he wasn’t tapping into just yet. But either way, the sound was deep and as potent as if her head were inside a giant bell. It rang in her ears, split her head and temporarily deafened her.
She pressed her hands to her ears and closed her eyes until the reverberations stopped bouncing around her brain. Then, slowly, she lowered her hands, opened her eyes, lifted her head. He was still standing there in front of her, staring hard, anger glinting in his jet black eyes.
“I’ve told you, I’m sorry about the coffin. It was the only way.”
She narrowed her eyes on him, about to cut lose with another stream of insults, accusations and possibly profanity, but then she caught a glimpse of the space beyond him, and she was shocked into silence.
Stone walls climbed to towering vaulted ceilings. Inverted domes housed crystal chandeliers. Sconces in the walls looked as if they could hold actual torches. The windows were huge, arched at the top, with thick glass panes so old the night beyond them appeared distorted. Sheet-draped shapes were the only furniture in the place. And a wide curving staircase wound upward and out of sight.
“This is…your place?” She swallowed hard as she took in the dust and cobwebs; then, turning slowly, she started a little at the sight of the two coffins lying side by side, both of them open. “Doesn’t look as if anyone’s used it in a while.”
“It’s been a long time since anyone has lived here, yes.”
Blinking, she went to the nearest window, passing a double fireplace that took up most of one wall on the way. Wiping the dust from the glass with her palm, she stared outside.
The impression was of sheer height and rugged, barren rock. The moon hung low in the sky, nearly full and milky white. It spilled its light over cliffs, harsh outcroppings of rock and boulders jutting upward from far, far below. Beyond the cliffs, she could see grassy hills and valleys. But around this place, there was none of that. It was dark. It was bereft. Even the few pathetic trees that clung for their lives to the steep cliff-sides were scrawny and dead looking.
Stormy swallowed the dryness in her throat—she could barely do it. She was dehydrated, thirsty, starving and a little bit scared. This didn’t look like any island off North Carolina.
“Where the hell are we, Vlad?”
2
Vlad kept his distance from the others who were visiting the museum. Mortals. Tourists. Groups of children being led about by young tour guides. He slipped into the Anatolian exhibit, which was housed in a room all its own, and stared at the ring in its glass case. Memories came flooding into his mind, into his soul, but he drove them back. It wasn’t easy. He recalled taking the precious gem from his little finger and slipping it onto Elisabeta’s forefinger, the only one it came close to fitting. He remembered how, within an hour, she’d wound it around with twine, to make it fit more snugly, and how seeing it on her made him feel proud and protective. It was large and strong and powerful on her small, delicate hand. It seemed to denote his claim to her. It seemed to mark her as his own.
“Sir? Excuse me, sir?” a woman asked.
Vlad blinked the memories away and turned to face the uniformed woman who had approached him. He hadn’t even been aware of her presence, much less of how much time had passed while he’d stood there staring at the ring.
“The museum is closing sir. You’ll have to leave now.”
“Ahh. Yes, of course.”
She left him alone, and he turned again to the ring. It was the one. He’d found it at last. And yes, he would leave the museum—for now. But no power on earth would keep that ring from him.
He closed his eyes, turned and left the museum, but as soon as he stepped out into the fresh air of the night, he sensed something else, something he had not expected.
“Tempest,” he whispered. And he turned slowly, scenting the air, feeling for her energy, certain she was close.
And she was. He began to move, barely looking, drawn by the feel of her. Like following the trail left by a comet’s tail, he homed in on her warmth, her light, the sparkling energy that was hers alone.
He wouldn’t get too close. He couldn’t, not without running the risk of her knowing. In all these years, all this time, he hadn’t come close to her, despite the temptation he could barely resist. And as long as he’d kept his distance, Elisabeta had slept. She’d been dormant, deep inside Tempest. Somewhere. He knew she hadn’t left this plane. She hadn’t died or moved on. She was still there. He felt her there. But she hadn’t stirred.
As long as he stayed away from Tempest,