Dead After Dark (Companion #6.5)(60)

She glanced to the desk. He’d written draft after draft of something. What would such a hardened man write that he cared so much about? Cocking an ear for the rhythm of his breathing, she moved to the desk. The moon shone in through the open windows, laying a channel of silver across the letter. It was as clear as day to her, who never saw the sun.



My dearest Emily, if I may still call you that, I have returned at last. I know I was unworthy of you then. But I was not a thief. And in these years away, I have made myself into a man of means, one you will not be ashamed to claim as an acquaintance. I hardly dare hope to be more than that. If you do not wish to see me, I shall never approach you, on that you have my word. But if you will allow me to visit you, just once more, I should be honored and grateful. Send word of your decision back with the bearer of this message to



Your humble servant,

Andrew Cooper, now Carlowe





That such an active, virile man, who wore a carapace against feeling in his features, could write such a letter was . . . surprising. She glanced to his form, spread out upon the bed. His muscles, quiescent now, still spoke of latent power. Men were usually so wrapped up in themselves, especially men who looked like that. Yet this letter was tentative, utterly without pretensions. He must love this woman very much. She was lucky to be loved so.

Freya had never loved, not in all her long centuries. It was not allowed in one who made Harriers. Sex, yes, almost constant sexual stimulation of the Aspirant to bring out his power, but not love. She sighed. Best get this over with before she collapsed in self-pity.

She glided toward the bed, stopping when she was some few feet away. He was really quite a lovely looking man. She resolved to take the blood she needed, a cup or perhaps two in total, but that was all. She drew her power. Companion! she called to the thing in her blood, and it responded, sending a feeling of throbbing life up her veins. A matching throb in her loins was almost painful. When her Companion sent her power, the urge to life and to the sexual act was made stronger still. But she could resist. She must resist. The familiar red film oozed down over her field of vision. Her eyes would be glowing red now with her power. Time to wake him. She would feel his fear, fuel it by compelling his consciousness all during the time she fed from him, and then release him without the suggestion she usually left in their minds to forget what she had done. That way he would be able to spread the tale of his experience. He would scurry out to the stables and gallop away from her house. She wagered he would not even stop to put on his breeches.

“Andrew,” she called softly.



He was dreaming of Emily, her fine blond hair, the swell of her bosom under the crisp white lawn of her morning dress . . .

“Andrew,” she called and smiled at him. She had an accent. Eastern European?

“Andrew.” Louder this time, almost insistent, and he knew he was dreaming, but he didn’t want to leave this dream and Emily.

“Andrew, wake up!”

He opened his eyes, irritated.

There, standing near his bed, was what had to be the ghost. She had red eyes that glowed in the darkness, translucent white skin, and hair black as midnight. An ethereal white dress wafted around her in the breeze that belatedly coursed in through the open window. If one could call it a dress. Two strips of diaphanous fabric hung from her shoulders and plunged to her waist, leaving her arms bare and a vee of white skin that revealed the swell of her breasts. The garment was bound by a jeweled girdle at her waist and fell in translucent layers to the floor. She was petite and beautiful. They hadn’t lied about that. They hadn’t lied about there being a ghost, either.

But he didn’t believe in ghosts. There was enough memory and regret to haunt one without the need for ghosts. So it must be a trespasser got up to look like a ghost. Though how one achieved those red eyes, he didn’t know.

He sat bolt upright. “You can leave off with whatever game you’re . . .” He intended to get up and loom over her and send her screeching from the room. But he didn’t move. Her eyes got even redder—almost carmine. They seemed to hold him. He couldn’t speak, he couldn’t move at all. He just sat, one leg stretched toward the floor, the other tucked up under him.

It was frightening, to be helpless like that. She moved closer. Her hair hung, unbound, over her shoulders and down her back. She wore no jewelry other than the girdle and needed none. Her features were fine, and her eyes, though red, were sad. She seemed to float as she moved toward him, but he could see her bare feet peep out from beneath the translucent dress that trailed on the floor. Now he caught her scent. Cinnamon, and underneath that something sweet. What was it? Ambergris. The combination made a heady perfume.

He realized that the electric feeling he had experienced all evening came from her. It was an expectant vibrancy. Had she been near all night?

She reached out one small hand and touched his shoulder. It was shocking—not shivering cold as a ghost’s touch was supposed to be, but warm and terribly alive. She recoiled and jerked back her hand, as though she felt a shock, too. Her eyes faded a little. He squirmed, but then her eyes went redder again and all hope of movement was gone. She moved her hands over his chest and again the sensation shot straight to the core of him. Must she thumb his nipples? They peaked and tightened. The sensation found its destination and his loins grew heavy. He was getting aroused by a . . . a something who could hold him immobile while she touched him. The possibilities were frightening, and . . . exciting.