Cyn lifted the strap of the Uzi over her head and laid it on the chair. Her hands raised in the universal gesture of peace, she stepped away from the gun, maintaining eye contact with the eerily calm Alexandra. No matter how calm she seemed, how completely harmless, she was still, as Duncan had pointed out, Vampire. She could overpower Cyn and do a lot of damage before Cyn managed to escape. Assuming she did.
"I don't want to hurt you, Alexandra. I'd like to get that gag off of you, and maybe those chains, if I can. But ... I don't want you to hurt me either, okay?"
Alexandra nodded silently, her eyes large in the yellow artificial light.
"Are you hungry?” Cyn asked the most important question. “Have they fed you?"
Brief contempt filled Alexandra's eyes before she nodded.
"Okay.” Cyn walked over slowly, watching the vampire watch her. When she got close enough, she pulled a small knife from her belt, holding it up for Alexandra to see. “I'm going to cut the cloth,” she explained, flipping the blade out. Alexandra studied the gleaming edge, then nodded acceptance.
Cynthia slid her fingers beneath the gag, a little behind the woman's ear, inserted the sharp knife and gave a quick tug, slicing the thin cloth easily and stepping back. Alexandra collapsed forward with a sobbing breath, quietly rubbing her abraded mouth and cheeks with her bound hands. “Thank you,” she managed to whisper.
"No problem.” Cynthia studied the much smaller woman, surprised to find herself actually feeling sorry for her. She'd expected to hate her, to hate the woman who seemed to hold Raphael's heart so firmly in her delicate hands. But she couldn't hate this helpless creature. Oh, she was beautiful to be sure. Cyn could see the beauty even under the bruises, the grime, the terror of nearly a week at the mercy of the brutal Albin. But she was too pitiful to hate. She was small and delicate and lovely, and utterly helpless. Everything that Cyn was not. She sighed.
"Alexandra?” The vampire looked up, pink tears streaking her dirty face. “Did Albin have a key or something for those cuffs?” Alexandra raised her gaze to the door and Cyn turned around. There on a hook, barely out of the prisoner's reach, hung the keys to her freedom. Albin had indeed been a sadistic bastard.
Cyn grabbed the keys, but hesitated before unlocking the banded cuffs. “You won't hurt me, will you?"
"No,” Alexandra said in a low voice, raw with strain. “I have no desire to end my days in this filthy place."
Cyn unlocked the cuffs. They fell away with a jangle of heavy metal. Alexandra seemed to swell, as if the chains had been draining her physical strength. She stood and a shudder passed through her entire body. Where someone else might have stretched their arms widely, or rolled their shoulders, the female vampire sort of ... vibrated. Then she looked at Cyn expectantly.
Cyn drew a deep breath. “Okay, let's—"
"Cyn!" Raphael's mental roar cut off her next words. She spun around almost without thinking, turning toward him, unable to resist his call. Running out through the open door and around the back of the house, she found him striding through the shadows of the overgrown yard like an avenging angel, his long coat billowing behind him, his silver-frosted eyes twin stars come to earth. The very air trembled in his wake, his power riding ahead of him to brush obstacles from his path with mindless efficiency. He was terrible in his beauty, and a painful longing squeezed her heart.
"Raphael.” She said it softly, but his gaze riveted to her at once, his long legs bringing him to her side in two strides.
"Cyn,” he took hold of her arms, searching her with his eyes, looking for injuries before he pulled her into his embrace, clutching her against his solid warmth. “My Cyn."
"Raphael, I found—"
"Raphael."
Raphael stiffened and looked across the yard to where Alexandra stood like a pale shadow. Cyn stepped awkwardly out of his embrace and watched as the smaller woman came closer, her dark gaze never leaving the vampire lord.
"Alexandra,” he said.
She walked right up to him and stood perfectly still. Then her shoulders slumped and Raphael stepped forward to wrap his arms around her in a gesture that began with affection and ended in a strangely formal embrace.
Cynthia watched for awhile in silence, and then walked back toward the cottage. Before she rounded the corner, she glanced back and met Raphael's gaze over Alexandra's head. She saw sorrow there, and regret. She didn't know what he saw when he looked at her. She turned away at last, returning to the cottage only long enough to retrieve her gun, then climbed over the wall and disappeared into the trees.
Chapter Forty-eight
Cynthia slept for the next two days, waking only long enough to go to the bathroom, drink some water, take another sleeping pill and go back to bed. She knew it was unhealthy, knew she was avoiding dealing with real life and was probably deeply depressed. Too bad. The latest pill kicked in and she drifted into another dreamless sleep.
On the third morning, she woke up feeling disgusted with herself and, perhaps more importantly, really needing a shower. So she got up.
After a long, long hot shower, during which she actually managed to bathe in between bouts of simply standing under the pulsing water, she dried her heat-reddened skin carefully, donned a comfortable robe and headed downstairs in her bare feet.
Her first stop was the coffee maker, after which she sat and stared at the tiled countertop until the smell of fresh coffee roused her enough to pour a cup of the life-giving liquid. With the second cup, she discovered she was also hungry, and microwaved one of her housekeeper's muffins and then another. After the muffins were gone, she poured yet another cup of coffee and noticed the red light flashing on her answering machine. She doctored her coffee with lots of sugar and pushed the playback.
The first three messages were from her sister, Holly, all along the lines of, “We're sisters, can't we all just get along?” She deleted them. The next message was from Nick, his cheerful voice informing her he'd be in town on Wednesday—she checked the calendar, that was today—and to give him a call if she was around. She deleted that one too, but only after thinking about it for awhile. She wasn't ready for Nick yet. Maybe eventually. But not yet.
Next was a call was from Dean Eckhoff, sounding way too serious and official, asking her to call him. The message had come in the previous afternoon. She frowned, picked up the phone and dialed.
"Eckhoff,” he answered.