“Yes, Zane.” “Where is your mother now?” “Behind the door to the blue parlor. The fire’s gone out. It’s darkest there.” “Weapons?” “A pistol. A rapier. She’ll use the pistol first. Before you can speak, she’ll fire through the door.” “Wait here. Do not follow me. Do not leave this chamber, no matter what you may hear.” “Yes, Zane.” “I’ll be back very soon.” “Yes.” But he didn’t leave. A single, rough finger stroked fire along her cheek. “Tell me you love me,” he whispered. “I love you.” “Tell me you’ll do what I say.” “You know I will.” His hand lifted away. “Good. Stay here.” “Yes.” He was up before she was, which didn’t surprise him. Zane never needed a great deal of sleep; as a child he’d taught himself to drowse with his eyes open, to sink into a slow, stuporous awareness that passed well enough for respite when times were dire and he couldn’t afford genuine rest. But although he was uncomfortable, and he was worn, the fact that the most disturbingly beautiful being he’d ever seen was warm in her bed just a room away didn’t truly qualify as dire.
