Velvet Cataclysm (Princes of the Underground 1)

“Sure,” Alison replied dubiously.

“The fever will break by morning. There is little we can do until it runs its course. He is not in any mortal danger, Christina.” She realized that Saint stood near her.

“I still want Alison to get the things,” she said shakily. She felt like her world had just completely tilted off its axis and she was floundering, falling through empty space, desperate for something to grab onto. She turned when Saint put his hand on her shoulder. A rogue tear spilled down her cheek.

“He’s going to be all right,” he said.

“So you say.”

“So I say,” Saint said.

“I don’t know what to believe. All I know is Aidan’s life just changed forever and you two are somehow to blame,” she said, giving both him and Kavya an accusatory glance. “I also know my son is burning up with fever. If you have something relevant to say about making him well, say it now. Otherwise, I’d appreciate it if you two would leave us alone. Alison?” She beckoned to the girl, effectively dismissing the two males.

Saint straightened. His face looked like it’d been carved from stone. “I know you’re upset, Christina, but I’m not going to allow you to leave Whitby’s grounds. Not until Teslar has been eliminated as a threat.”

“It would seem things are pretty damn dangerous for us at Whitby as well,” Christina replied, refusing to meet Saint’s gaze.

Chapter Seventeen

Kavya didn’t flinch when Saint slammed the door to the library. He sat calmly on one of the twelve armchairs that surrounded a large, square, polished cherry table. Various books were stacked on it, in addition to several rolled maps. His expression was that of polite distraction as he watched his charge stalk into the room, his eyes broadcasting a message that would have made even the bravest of humans quaver and run. Saint placed his fingertips on the table and leaned across the corner.

“Explain yourself,” he bit out.

“I am sure you read the gist of my message while we were downstairs just now. What part would you have me elaborate upon?”

“How about the part where you suggested Aidan was my son?” Saint seethed.

“Hmmm, yes,” Kavya murmured. He placed his elbows on the arms of the chair and made a steeple of his fingers as he considered Saint thoughtfully. “I take it from your manner you’re still unbelieving?”

“It’s not possible!” Saint bellowed, shoving his upper body weight off the table. He began to pace back and forth before the marble fireplace, a coiled spring of sinew and muscle. “The Princes and their clones have no souls. We are sterile! You yourself have told me so, and none of us have fathered a child in almost six centuries on this planet.”

Kavya shrugged. “If there is one thing I know as a biological alchemist, it’s that change is inevitable. In the process of evolution, it’s a given that what is true today will be false tomorrow.”

Saint paused in his restless pacing. “Aidan’s father is Richard Fioran. You can’t be serious in claiming I fathered him.”

Kavya leaned forward in his chair. “Surely you’re not suggesting that it’s an impossibility? The opportunity occurred, did it not? Christina may believe that she first met you eight years ago when her new boss at LifeLine told her about the coach house for rent at Whitby, but you two had met before that. It’s a foregone conclusion, even if I hadn’t read your mind in regard to the matter. I’m sorry for the intrusion, but the incident was much more important than you might expect. You and I both know that you knew of Christina years before she and Aidan moved to Whitby. You encouraged the manager at LifeLine to hire her. In fact, you suggested to her boss that he mention the coach house to her and the extraordinarily good rent.”

Saint’s heart pounded in his ears. He stared at Kavya with a mixture of incredulity, outrage, and shock. Shame shuddered through him at the idea of another witnessing his weakness. His lips felt like rubber when he opened his mouth. Nothing came out at first. It was as though his body instinctively denied putting into words the memory—a memory that he regularly tried to avoid as ritualistically as the recollection of his bloodthirsty attack on the Iniskium.

The memory of what he’d done to Christina.

She’d been more than willing on that afternoon so long ago.

He’d been deeply in contact with her unconscious mind. But maybe if she’d been fully aware of what he was, she wouldn’t have agreed.

She’d been twenty-one years old when he’d first seen her…first experienced her. She’d been fresh out of college and interviewing for a case manager position at LifeLine. He’d been dropping off a check at the downtown facility. He’d just left the office of the president of LifeLine when he saw Christina being led down the hallway by Michael Moorhead, one of the managers.

He’d stared in blank shock as color infused his gray world in a vivid flash. For a blinding, senseless moment, he’d become a savage, primitive creature, like the one who had attacked the Iniskium.

He’d known only a vast hunger, a wounding need.

Then he’d blinked and his bloodlust had cleared. He’d watched Christina walk down that hallway, wearing a conservative gray suit, her vitessence sparking around her at incredible speed. She drew him like a powerful magnet. He’d fallen back against the wall in the empty hallway when he realized he’d been heading toward the room where she’d disappeared with Michael Moorhead. To do what, exactly? Attack her while she was in the midst of an interview? he’d thought incredulously.

For almost six centuries he’d tamed his bloodlust and repented for his sins, only to have his control melt to mist at the sight of a young woman.

He’d struggled against his need for nearly a month. But, in the end, he’d lost his battle.

How could he not crave the very essence of life when he was one of the walking dead?