Night's Mistress (Children of The Night 5)

“Have you?” Her gaze searched his, as if she were trying to decide if he was telling the truth. “Missed me?”

“Every night of my life.”

“You never came looking for me.”

“What was the point?” he asked, unable to keep a note of bitterness from creeping into his voice. “You made it clear that you wanted a clean break.” He would have followed her to Hell and back if he had thought she cared at all. But he had his pride. He had been nothing more to her than a momentary diversion; the fact that she had severed the link between them had proved that.

“It seems fate has decided we should meet again.” She started walking, confident that he would follow. “What have you been doing since we parted?”

Logan fell into step beside her, shortening his naturally long stride to match her much shorter one. “Trying to keep busy,” he said with a shrug. “Always looking for something I haven’t experienced before.” Which, after nine hundred years, wasn’t easy to find. “How about you?”

“The same.”

“I was on my way home,” he said casually. “Would you care to come along?”

She hesitated a moment, and then nodded. It had been a long time, after all. She was curious to see how and where he lived. There had been many men in her life, but none like Logan. The fire between them had burned brighter than the sun. His power, even when first turned, had been stronger than that of any of her other fledglings. Perhaps it was because he had been arrogant, self-confident, and strong, even as a mortal. It had been those very characteristics that had drawn her to him. He had burrowed deep into her heart. When she found herself caring too much, willing to surrender her will to his, she left him.

Logan’s home proved to be a mansion in the hills not far from her own. The large, two-story white house was set behind a tall wrought-iron fence amid well-tended grounds. Sycamore trees lined the long, winding driveway. A veranda spanned the front of the house; wrought-iron bars covered the windows.

“You’ve done well for yourself, I see,” she remarked as he unlocked the front door.

He shrugged. “Well enough.”

He led the way into the house. A large stone fireplace dominated the living room. The furniture was modern and expensive. Her feet sank into the plush dove-gray carpet.

“Very nice,” she murmured.

“I like it.” He stood inside the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest, while she wandered around the room. She paused to browse the titles on the bookshelf, moved on to examine a small marble statue of Venus that sat on a low table next to a ruby sphinx.

Moving to the fireplace, she ran her hand over a gold statue. “An Oscar?” She glanced at him over her shoulder.

“I produced the best picture last year,” he said, a trace of pride in his voice.

“Really? That’s wonderful, but . . . when did you get into the movie business?”

“A few years ago.” He gestured toward the sofa. “Please, sit down.”

She sat at one end of the sofa and he sat at the other. “I was bored,” he remarked, picking up their conversation. “I started hanging out where the stars congregate. One night I overheard some guy saying he had this great idea for a movie but it was so off the wall that no one in the business would give him the time of day. I told him I’d finance him. He made four movies with my backing. The fourth hit the jackpot.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

“What did you do before that?”

He draped his arm along the back of the sofa. “I was a dealer in Vegas for a while. I worked as a bartender at a fancy singles’ club in Chicago. I tried my hand at being a night watchman for a big corporation in Manhattan, but that didn’t last long.”

Mara nodded. She tried not to stare at him, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. He truly was a magnificent-looking man. She had met him in Crete in 1109. He had been twenty-six at the time. Despite the fact that he had been betrothed to another, they’d had a torrid love affair. One night, caught up in the heat of passion, she had bitten him and accidentally taken too much.

Rather than let him die, she had brought him across.

Rather than face his family, he had fled the country.

Mara had stayed with him for a time, but when she found herself caring for him more than she wanted to, she had fled without a word. Though she had never admitted it to another soul, she had cared for Hektor—Logan, she reminded herself—in a way she had never cared for any of the other men she had turned.

Truth be told, she still cared. There was something about him that set him apart from the rest, something more than his chiseled good looks and deep-set brown eyes. Even though she had turned Logan against his will, he had never berated her for it, never cursed her or tried to destroy her as she had destroyed Dendar. He hadn’t bewailed the loss of his humanity; instead, he had accepted his new way of life, and her, without reproach. She had always admired him for that.

She couldn’t help wondering now if leaving him had been a mistake.

She thought fleetingly of Kyle Bowden, who had professed he would love her as long as he lived, until the night she revealed her true nature. She supposed she could have better prepared him for the truth, but it didn’t matter now. He was a part of her past, as were so many others.

“So,” Logan said, “tell me about you.”

For a moment, she was tempted to confide in him, to pour out her fears as she had to Rane, but it would be foolish to do so. For all that she and Logan had once been lovers, it would be unwise indeed to let him know that her powers were weakening.

“Mara?”

“I recently returned from Egypt. Before that . . .” She made a vague gesture with one hand. “What does it matter?”

“You were heavily involved in the War between the Vampires and the Werewolves, weren’t you? I heard your name mentioned from time to time.”

“Really. I didn’t see you.”

He grinned at her. “I got my licks in, so to speak.”

She lifted one brow. “Indeed?”

“Some of us fought quietly on the sidelines.”

She smiled. “You never did like taking orders.”

“Nope. Not even from you.”

“I remember.” She suddenly remembered so many things. The nights they had hunted together, the way he had treated her, as if she were some fragile creature made of glass instead of the most powerful vampire in the world. The times they had made love . . .