vacillated between rage, exasperation, arousal and protectiveness. He’d tracked her down for one purpose—an answer and solution to the deygma she’d converted him into so he could return to his life. No other reason prevailed above finding a cure to his cursed addiction.
Didn’t mean he couldn’t feed her in the meantime.
“Where are your pans?”
When Sinéad tipped her head in the direction of the cupboard near his feet, he bent at the waist and opened the door. Quickly, he removed a couple of cast-iron pans and, straightening, settled them on the eyes of the gas stove.
After sliding a knife free of the butcher block, he set about chopping vegetables. She remained quiet as he worked and the fast, efficient slicing didn’t take long at all. Soon the delicious aroma of sizzling mushrooms and onions sweetened the air and elicited a hungry grumble from his gut.
He turned to the hamburger. He wasn’t a chef, but he did enjoy cooking. Nutrition and a strong, healthy body were as important as magic when it came to healing. It had always been his practice to meld all realms of medicine—practical and supernatural.
“You said you no longer hunt.” He resurrected the topic abruptly abandoned for the subject of food and patted the ground beef into several thick patties. Before long the sputter of frying meat joined the hiss of sautéing vegetables. “Why were you out there tonight?”
A beat of silence. Then a soft sigh. “Taking a walk. I got restless. Tired of being cooped up in here.”
Bastien nodded. He understood perfectly. Two months with Nicolai and Tamar hadn’t been prison, but he’d been trapped by his secrets, incarcerated by the raging bloodlust and horrifying red eyes and fangs that separated him from his best friend.
“How did you find the vampire and the woman?” he prodded. “I barely heard the battle and smelled the blood. You no longer have those abilities.”
Her full lips firmed, rolled in on themselves as if trying to bar the admission from leaking forth. “I…felt her,” she finally ground out. “Her pain.”
Felt her pain? The impact of Sinéad’s words struck him like a sledgehammer to the middle of his chest. He wheeled to the side, staring at her impassive, guarded expression as shock clamored through him. “An empath? You—a cruxim—are an empath ?”
A short jerk of her head.
Either the gift annoyed her, or admitting she possessed the gift perturbed her, but Sinéad didn’t appear delighted in hearing the word spoken aloud. Little was known among the immortals about her enigmatic race, but one thing widely recognized regarding the “black angels” was their marked lack of emotion. They were beings of vengeance and blood—vampire blood. Like the Dimios of the hippogryphs, the winged creatures hunted, judged and executed vampires who were their mortal—or immortal—enemies.
Executioners. Hunters.
Not sensitive tree huggers.
Another, almost as staggering, idea leapt into his head. His hip knocked the edge of the stove as he pinned her with a stare.
“That’s how you found me, wasn’t it?” he rasped. Even the mention of the encounter with Evander had the ability to drag the pain, fury and agony back, tagging the helplessness and shameful vulnerability along for the ride. “You felt my pain?”
Another clipped nod.
Exhaling, Bastien faced the stove again, picking up the spatula he’d retrieved from the silverware drawer. From the abrupt responses, Sinéad obviously didn’t want to speak of this gift. And, hell, as anger strummed through him like the plucked strings of a guitar, he didn’t want to loiter in the dark, bitter memories of that terror-filled time either.
“The thing you did with your sword.” He flipped the thick hamburger patties over to finish their cooking. “Do all cruxim weapons possess the same power?” After Bastien’s decapitation of the vamp, Sinéad had risen over the body and laid the tip of the sword to its chest. Before
Didn’t mean he couldn’t feed her in the meantime.
“Where are your pans?”
When Sinéad tipped her head in the direction of the cupboard near his feet, he bent at the waist and opened the door. Quickly, he removed a couple of cast-iron pans and, straightening, settled them on the eyes of the gas stove.
After sliding a knife free of the butcher block, he set about chopping vegetables. She remained quiet as he worked and the fast, efficient slicing didn’t take long at all. Soon the delicious aroma of sizzling mushrooms and onions sweetened the air and elicited a hungry grumble from his gut.
He turned to the hamburger. He wasn’t a chef, but he did enjoy cooking. Nutrition and a strong, healthy body were as important as magic when it came to healing. It had always been his practice to meld all realms of medicine—practical and supernatural.
“You said you no longer hunt.” He resurrected the topic abruptly abandoned for the subject of food and patted the ground beef into several thick patties. Before long the sputter of frying meat joined the hiss of sautéing vegetables. “Why were you out there tonight?”
A beat of silence. Then a soft sigh. “Taking a walk. I got restless. Tired of being cooped up in here.”
Bastien nodded. He understood perfectly. Two months with Nicolai and Tamar hadn’t been prison, but he’d been trapped by his secrets, incarcerated by the raging bloodlust and horrifying red eyes and fangs that separated him from his best friend.
“How did you find the vampire and the woman?” he prodded. “I barely heard the battle and smelled the blood. You no longer have those abilities.”
Her full lips firmed, rolled in on themselves as if trying to bar the admission from leaking forth. “I…felt her,” she finally ground out. “Her pain.”
Felt her pain? The impact of Sinéad’s words struck him like a sledgehammer to the middle of his chest. He wheeled to the side, staring at her impassive, guarded expression as shock clamored through him. “An empath? You—a cruxim—are an empath ?”
A short jerk of her head.
Either the gift annoyed her, or admitting she possessed the gift perturbed her, but Sinéad didn’t appear delighted in hearing the word spoken aloud. Little was known among the immortals about her enigmatic race, but one thing widely recognized regarding the “black angels” was their marked lack of emotion. They were beings of vengeance and blood—vampire blood. Like the Dimios of the hippogryphs, the winged creatures hunted, judged and executed vampires who were their mortal—or immortal—enemies.
Executioners. Hunters.
Not sensitive tree huggers.
Another, almost as staggering, idea leapt into his head. His hip knocked the edge of the stove as he pinned her with a stare.
“That’s how you found me, wasn’t it?” he rasped. Even the mention of the encounter with Evander had the ability to drag the pain, fury and agony back, tagging the helplessness and shameful vulnerability along for the ride. “You felt my pain?”
Another clipped nod.
Exhaling, Bastien faced the stove again, picking up the spatula he’d retrieved from the silverware drawer. From the abrupt responses, Sinéad obviously didn’t want to speak of this gift. And, hell, as anger strummed through him like the plucked strings of a guitar, he didn’t want to loiter in the dark, bitter memories of that terror-filled time either.
“The thing you did with your sword.” He flipped the thick hamburger patties over to finish their cooking. “Do all cruxim weapons possess the same power?” After Bastien’s decapitation of the vamp, Sinéad had risen over the body and laid the tip of the sword to its chest. Before
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