In the end, it had been Liz who kept her alive. The prospect of leaving her baby sister alone with the monsters had been motivation enough to get her out of her sick bed and on her feet, determined to stay alive until she saw Liz far away from Lord Jabril Karim and anyone like him.
Tonight, when Jabril told her Liz was missing, her first desperate hope was that her sister had finally run. Liz's own eighteenth birthday was only a few weeks away, and it was no secret Jabril was eager for the day he could turn his old friends’ youngest daughter and gain full control of their estate. He wasn't satisfied with Mirabelle's share; he wanted it all. And since he'd gotten away with raping Mirabelle, why not Liz too? But Liz was stronger than Mirabelle and apparently she'd managed to escape. Mirabelle felt a rush of fierce pride for her little sister.
Footsteps echoed down the hallway, and she lifted her head, listening. Someone was coming up the marble staircase near the front of the house. She caught the distinct scent of old blood and frowned. With the careful, concise moves of long practice, she turned off the computer and stashed it in its hiding place, closed the refrigerator door and slid the drawer facade across the front. Only seconds later, she was on her feet and pulling the heavy robe over her jeans and sweatshirt. By the time a perfunctory knock presaged the opening of her door, she was sitting by the window, reading a book.
Asim's careful gaze scanned the entire room before coming to rest on her. “Do you know where she is?” he asked gently. Asim had been with Jabril for hundreds of years, a generational family retainer whom Jabril had brought over as Vampire to serve his own evolving needs. Asim handled all the details the vampire lord thought too tedious to concern himself with and was the only one of Jabril's minions who still treated Mirabelle with any kindness. He'd intervened on her behalf on more than one occasion, saving her from punishment at Jabril's hands. There were times when she suspected Asim actually saw himself as her protector, almost a stern father figure, or perhaps an uncle.
She met his inquiry with a confused frown. “My lord?” He wasn't really a lord, only Jabril Karim himself deserved that title, but she knew it pleased him.
"I know this is difficult for you, Mirabelle. I know you don't understand his ways, but what he does is necessary. For you and for all of us. The woman from the government agency will be here next week for her monthly visit. Elizabeth wasn't here for the last visit; she must be here for this one. Jabril will be most furious if she is not, and I needn't tell you who will suffer the brunt of his anger."
Mirabelle studied his face, looking for any indication he was playing her. She wanted, she needed, to believe he cared about her, that he could be trusted, that she wasn't utterly alone. She dropped her eyes with a sigh. “I haven't seen her, Asim. Honestly. She didn't say anything to me about going anywhere."
"I see.” He seemed almost disappointed, and Mirabelle felt a flush of shame, feeling as if she'd somehow let him down. Tears filled her eyes and he looked away, seemingly embarrassed by her weeping. “Best you stay in your rooms,” he said finally, walking over to the door. “His temper is uncertain tonight, and I don't want him to see you this way.” He gave her a final, sorrowful look and left, closing the door quietly behind him.
With the door closed, Mirabelle let the tears come, great hiccupping gulps of tears, crying for all she'd lost. Not only her grandfather and her parents, but the dreams of a teenage girl—her first boyfriend, her first kiss, a husband, children. All the life she'd never have.
Chapter Seven
Jabril fisted the blond slave's hair, yanking her head back and stretching her throat taut, until the thick outline of her jugular could be seen beneath the delicate skin. He lowered his head and sniffed, enjoying the sweet scent of her blood and the even sweeter stench of her terror. He waited, savoring the moment as the dark-haired slave with her mouth on his cock brought him to the edge of climax, then sank his teeth into the blond's neck. Her scream of pain made him hard once again, and he drank deeply until she was limp beneath him. He let her fall to the pillows to shudder convulsively in the throes of an orgasm triggered by the euphorics in his saliva. Sometimes he didn't bother to make the feeding pleasurable for the slaves, but sometimes he did. The possibility made them so much more anxious to please.
He lay back on the bed, reveling in the rush of fresh blood through his system, letting the dark-haired slave finish her eager oral ministrations. The door opened and he looked up to see Asim enter the room, his nostrils flaring with hunger at the scent of so much blood. He walked to the foot of the bed and stopped, his narrow eyes taking in the sight of his master and the well-used slaves.
"Ms. Leighton has returned to her hotel,” he said.
"Excellent. What did you think of her, Asim?” Jabril ran his hand along the blond's naked hip, watching his aide's eyes tighten in hunger as the woman rubbed herself against Jabril with a needy moan.
Asim brought his gaze back to the vampire lord with a guilty jerk. “Prideful, mannish. Typical American female."
"But beautiful all the same."
Asim shrugged with studied nonchalance. “Her blood will taste like any other's."
"Perhaps not,” Jabril disagreed. “Raphael has marked her, you know."
"I did not—"
"No, of course you didn't. It was too subtle and old; they've been parted for some weeks, I would imagine. Arrogant of Raphael, to claim such a one and then leave her lying about. He may find it somewhat difficult to claim her again."
Asim's gaze grew vaguely alarmed. “Did you—"
"A small touch. Because she's Raphael's and even that will infuriate him.” He paused and gave his aide a sidelong look. “Have you eaten yet?"
"No, Master."
Jabril feigned surprise. “Well, then. This one's untapped tonight.” He pushed the dark-haired slave away from his now flaccid cock, ignoring her small sounds of protest. Asim's face tightened in poorly concealed resentment, but he gave Jabril a little bow from the waist before grabbing the girl's arm and dragging her out of the room. Jabril smiled slightly and looked down at the blond, running an absent hand over her smooth skin while he thought about Cynthia Leighton. He suspected Asim was wrong about that one. Ms. Leighton's blood would be sweet indeed.
Chapter Eight
She stood on a balcony, a sliver of moon the only light visible on the black sweep of velvet sky. On the beach below, the ocean moved restlessly, unseen in the darkness. Strong arms came around her, pulling her against a solid, thick chest, enveloping her in a hard embrace. She leaned back, closing her eyes in the sweet relief of his presence, the comfort of his arms. His lips brushed her hair and lingered to whisper in her ear.
"Where are you, my Cyn? Where did you go?"
"I'm here. With you."
"No. Say my name, sweet Cyn."
"Raphael,” she whispered.
"So far away, lubimaya. Where are you?"
She frowned at his insistent questioning. What kind of a dream was this anyway? “Texas,” she said, puzzled. “Is that what you want? I'm in Houston, Texas."
His arms tightened around her like steel bands and his breath ran out in a hiss of sound. “Why? Why Texas?"
"A job,” she snapped, irritated now. She tried to push away his arms, but he held her fast.
"What job, Cyn? Who?"
"What do you mean ‘who?’ It's none of your business, but it's Jabril Karim. What does it matter?” She took advantage of the moment to push away from him. “What is this? If you must haunt my dreams, I like the sex ones a lot better."
His arms tugged her back again, his soft, sensuous laughter brushing along the entire length of her body. “Ah. Do you miss me, then, my Cyn?"
That was too cruel. She wasn't enjoying this dream at all anymore. It only made her sad. “Let me go,” she whispered. “Just let me go."
The pillow was damp when the phone's wake-up call jerked her out of sleep, but she convinced herself it was no more than the sweat from a restless night in a strange hotel. She had no more tears to cry for Raphael, no matter how many times he haunted her dreams. She ran her hands back through her hair, checking the time with a glance. It was a little before eight in the morning. A perfectly God-forsaken time to be awake, but she hoped to see Ramona Hewitt this morning at Child Protective Services. She had left a message the night before, but didn't plan on waiting for a call back that might never come. Instead, she would drop by and hope to speak with the woman for a few minutes. What she needed wouldn't take any longer than that.
An hour later, the elevator doors at Child Protective Services opened to the wail of a small child quickly shushed as his mother shoved something in his mouth with a guilty look around. Was the guilt because the child had cried? Or because the mother was using candy to quiet him at nine o'clock in the morning? The air of the dreary CPS waiting room was heavy with desperation, suffocating in its thickness. But there was nothing she could do for these people. She concentrated on her purpose in coming here and went directly to the reception desk, where a harassed looking young woman sat answering phones.
Cyn waited until the receptionist had finished her call. “I'd like to see Ramona Hewitt,” she said.
"Is she expecting you?” The young woman had a distinct Texas drawl, unfiltered by education or experience.
"No, but I only need—"
"You need an appointment. I can—"
"—a few minutes of her time. Tell her it's about Elizabeth Hawthorn."
The receptionist pursed her lips in irritation, then ran her eyes up and down, taking in Cyn's appearance—the pale blue jeans, artfully faded and worn, the soft leather coat, expensive hair cut, clean, neat ... money. The one thing government bureaucrats had learned to respect. “One moment.” She picked up the phone, punched a few buttons and spoke into the receiver, turning away and doing her best to keep Cyn from hearing. When she turned back, her look of disapproval had only deepened, but she gave a little nod.
