Sleeping Beauty by Maureen McGowan Page B

understand vampire nature, and how peacefully we can coexist.”
    Three of the generals nodded in approval as she sat. Yes, the humans would be peaceful once she ruled Xandra, because they’d be tamed as blood slaves, farmed for sustenance, or hunted for sport.
    But the potential for human bloodshed would be greater if all the vampires of Sanguinia were on her side. Persuasion took time.
    She’d plucked the wings of sixteen fairies—one for each year they’d delayed her curse—but she now wondered if they’d done her a favor.
With more time, she’d have more vampires behind her before the princess was plunged into darkness, and more willing volunteers to terrorize the child and teach her parents a lesson.
    Oh, how Stefan and Catia would pay for what they’d done. As soon as the royal family of Xandra was dead, the Sanguinian armies would march across the border and she’d have what she’d always wanted—the throne of Xandra.

    Lucette leaped from the high platform and thrust her stake into the vampire—well, a straw dummy vampire—then, after hitting her mark, she landed on the gymnasium floor and rolled.
    â€œForget something?” Tristan stared down at her. She’d been training with him five days a week for almost eighteen months now, and he still took her breath away every time she laid eyes on him.
    She rose to her feet. “What?” She’d drawn her arm back fully to maximize her forward thrust. She’d hit the vamp’s heart. She’d rolled through her landing. She’d done everything he’d taught her.
    He grabbed her in a tight hold from behind and pressed his teeth to her neck. Every nerve in her body tingled. Trapped in Tristan’s arms, her knees grew weak. Not minding that he’d demonstrated the potential implications of her mistake, she stretched her neck and sighed.
    He dropped her and she fell a few feet before he grabbed her arm to let her hit the floor softly. “You left your stake in the dummy. What if there’d been a second attacker?” His scolding voice reminded her that he was her coach, not her boyfriend. Of course, in her nightly dreams, things were different.

    Cheeks burning, she sprang to her feet. “But I hit the right spot, didn’t I? Straight through the heart?”
    He nodded, and what looked like pride flashed on his face. Just six months from her fifteenth birthday, she still hadn’t gathered the courage to tell Tristan how she felt. She ran her fingers through the loose, dark curls that had regrown since she’d chopped them off, and wondered if he thought she was pretty.
    â€œYou did hit the right spot,” Tristan said. “And hard enough, too. But think about it, Lucy. What did you do wrong?” He backed up a few feet, and she moved forward, not wanting to lose the sensations she felt when he was close.
    Thinking about Tristan more than his lessons, a tiny thrill raced through her. Then, remembering some of Miss Eleanor’s silly flirting lessons, she traced her finger through one of her curls, tipped her head to the side, and cast her eyes slightly down. She might have purposefully failed her flirting exam in protest, but it didn’t mean she hadn’t been paying attention in class.
    Looking uncomfortable, Tristan stepped back again and said, “Your hair.”
    He’d noticed. She took another step toward him. “What about my hair?” Would he compliment its sheen? Its soft texture? Its springy curls?
    Surely, what she was feeling couldn’t be one-sided. The boys her father forced her to meet every week had started looking at her differently the past few months. She was getting prettier, more feminine—finally. Surely Tristan’s taste in girls couldn’t be all that different from that of all those other boys who seemed to like what they saw. Tristan liked her. He must. After all, he had just been hugging her and pressing