Demon from the Dark (Immortals After Dark #10)(48)

Offspring. He’d never had to think about that before. Even if he could have taken a female in the past, he wouldn’t have been able to produce seed for her, not until his mate had broken the seal.

Now he might impregnate her. He felt confident that he could protect her and a family far better than his own parents had him.

But what kind of children would I give Carrow? The young of an abomination.

He began to stroke her silken hair, which soothed his thoughts somewhat. Her long mane was cleaned of sand and had dried into glossy waves. He loved the jet-black color, loved seeing those locks spilling over her pale shoulder or streaming through his fingers.

Eventually, his lids grew heavy. But fearing she’d escape him while he slumbered, he reached for her collar. With the band clutched tight in his fist, Malkom finally slipped into a restless sleep.

Dreams of his past surfaced. For so long, Malkom had kept those nightmares at bay. Now they bombarded him.

The memory of the day his mother had sold him to the vampire master arose, as though he were reliving it. He’d been so excited, believing that he was to be adopted into another family. He’d thought he would enjoy endless food, water, and warmth at night.

Malkom would never forget his sinking realization that he hadn’t been brought to a new family. The dawning horror as he’d heard screams. He’d seen other boys his age humiliated and abused, his young mind comprehending, They are going to do that to me . . . .

On the heels of those scenes came dreams of the Viceroy, who’d tortured Malkom to hold sacred the Thirst. But whenever the vampire had offered demon slaves for him to drink, Malkom had been sickened, fangs gone dull and receding, no matter how badly he’d needed their blood.

I will not feed on my own kind. I am not a vampire!

Each night, Malkom had endured a host of torments. His skin had been flayed from his body with barbed metal whips—or pierced through by his own fractured bones. He’d watched searing pokers slide between his ribs.

His fury over Kallen’s death had kept him strong. Never did Malkom let himself forget that he’d been forced to kill his only friend.

And then the time had come when the Viceroy had presented Malkom a slave to drink—one unlike all the others he’d offered, one more valuable than the rest. The vampire had thought Malkom too weak to pose a threat, too numbed to react. He’d been wrong on both counts.

A hazy night of screams, blood splashing the walls . . .

Yet another scene arose. Malkom dreamed of a crying girl combing her black hair in front of a mirror. He saw her reflection as though through her own glinting green eyes.

Carrow? It had to be her as a child. Even amid the reverie, Malkom knew that this scene had taken place, that this was one of her memories, taken from her blood. Some of the vampires had possessed that talent. The Viceroy had. And ’twas his blood that had infected Malkom’s own.

I am witnessing her past.

Someone rang a bell, calling for “Lady Carrow.” Lady meant nobility. He’d suspected she was highborn.

When the bell rang again, this young Carrow dashed the back of her hand against her tears. He could feel that she was miserable, heartsick far beyond her years, but he had no idea why.

“All right, all right,” she said, drying her eyes, while musing, I’m actually invited to eat with them?

Though she spoke and thought in Anglish, he understood the words.

She exited that room into an even larger one, as large as any dwelling in the city of Ash. Her bedroom? Silks draped the windows and her bed, enough fabric to make hundreds of robes. It looked as if all the silk in the world had been contained in that room.

She was rich. So how could she possibly have been unhappy?

From her room, servants escorted her down a hall into a warmly lit banquet room. A table stretched nearly the length of the spacious area, the surface covered with food. Steam wafted from the dishes—what had to be a year’s worth of fare—and uniformed servants lined the walls.

At one end of the table, a man and a woman sat together. As Carrow trudged to the other end, she addressed them in a toneless voice, “Mother. Father.”

The woman inclined her head, her many jewels sparkling in the light. “Carrow.” But she didn’t look at her daughter. Malkom wondered if she was blind.

Her father was clean-shaven, his hair short and kempt. Their clothes looked strange to him but were unmistakably well-made.

These are her people, this is her life. Malkom was struck by how clean and plentiful everything was. Silver gleamed, crystal refracting the light from a chandelier above. Clean, shining abundance.

I was clad in tatters, my body filthy, my face unshaven. No wonder she’d bathed him. Even in sleep, he suffered a spike of embarrassment . . . .

Servants rushed to meet their every need, seating and serving Carrow. She didn’t eat, merely pushed food around on her plate. Her stomach felt sick, growing worse with each minute her parents spoke to each other in haughty tones, ignoring her.

“Mother, Father,” she suddenly said, “I have something I want to talk to you about.”

By now Malkom had begun understanding her words from his own previous knowledge of Anglish. With each minute, he remembered more.

“I want to go to Andoain.”

Without glancing at Carrow, the father replied, “We’re not discussing this with you again. You can’t go to spell school because you have no powers yet. Besides, it’s for common folk.”