the night they had parted rose up in his mind, as stark and vivid as if it had happened only yesterday. With an effort, he fought down his revulsion. He had been very young then. He had learned much in the centuries that had passed.
"It is not my place to forgive you," he said quietly. "We are what we are."
She looked up at him, her smile as radiant as the sun. She took a half-step toward him, her arms outstretched.
"Why have you come here, Khira?" His words, cold and abrupt, stopped her.
"Why?" she repeated. She lowered her arms, let her shoulders droop as she took on a look of wounded innocence. "Is there some reason why I should not come to see you?"
Grigori shrugged. "It's been over two hundred years," he replied wryly. "Why this sudden urge to see me now?" He took a deep breath, and the answer to her visit filled his nostrils. "How is Ramsey?"
Khira laughed softly. "He is an interesting choice for the Dark Gift. Trust you, mi amour , to do something so vastly unconventional, even for one of us!'' The sound of her laugher was like fairy bells in the night. "I cannot imagine he was willing. Not the last of the Ramseys!"
"He was not willing, but like all creatures, he wanted to live."
"I find myself liking him."
Grigori lifted one brow but said nothing.
"I think perhaps I shall seduce him." She ran her hand along his shoulder, down his arm, to curve over his biceps. "Young vampyres make such wonderful lovers. Insatiable in their new strength, so eager to explore every facet of their new world. Remember, mi amour ?"
He remembered all too well. And so did she. He could read it in her eyes. She had been an ardent lover, tireless, inventive... He shoved the memory away, aware of her power moving over him, compelling him to remember the long, tempestuous nights he had spent in her arms. With an effort, he pushed her from his mind and closed the door on memories now best left forgotten.
Khira laughed again. It sounded remarkably like a schoolgirl giggle, something he found quite incongruous coming from a woman who was close to a thousand years old.
"Did you come here to discuss your love life with me?" he asked in a fine attempt at his old bravado with her.
"No." The warmth in her eyes cooled. "I came to meet the woman you married."
Something that might have been fear slithered down Grigori's spine.
"Don't you want to introduce me to her?" Khira purred. She raked her nails over his cheek, exerting just enough pressure to break the skin. The scent of his blood filled the air. Slowly, as though daring him to object, she leaned up against him and ran her tongue over the faint line of blood. "She does know what you are, doesn't she?"
Grigori took a step back, resisting the urge to wipe his cheek. "Of course."
Khira took his arm and smiled up at him. "Well, then, shall we go in?"
There was no way to refuse.
Marisa whirled around as the front door opened and the woman she had seen on the street entered the room, followed by Grigori. This close, the vampire was breathtakingly beautiful. Her skin glowed with a pale opalescence; her eyes were the bluest blue Marisa had ever seen. Her figure was perfect.
"I am Khira," the woman said, extending her hand.
"Marisa."
Khira's hand was soft, her skin warm to the touch. Warm as only a well-fed vampire could be warm.
"She is lovely, Grigori," Khira said. Her gaze ran over Marisa, coolly assessing. "Really lovely."
"I think so." Grigori moved to Marisa's side and draped his arm around her shoulders. It was a warning, a blatant gesture of possession and protection.
Khira smiled in amusement. "I have not come to harm her, Grigori." She glanced around the room, like a queen visiting peasants. "The decor suits her."
"I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't talk about me like I'm not here," Marisa said.
"I am sorry," Khira said. "I did not mean to offend you, Marisa. May I call you Marisa?"
"Of course." Marisa looked at Grigori. "Why don't we sit down?"
Grigori nodded. "Khira, please make yourself at home."
Marisa watched the other woman glide across the room. Like Grigori, Khira moved with fluid grace, almost as if she were floating above the floor. She sat on the love seat beside the fireplace, the hem of her cloak spreading in graceful folds at her feet.
Marisa sat down on the sofa, and Grigori sat