Vampire Mine - Kerrelyn Sparks [97]
“I can’t eat.”
“Then ye can rest.” He touched her cheek. “Ye did verra well, sweetheart.”
She shook her head. “I’m afraid I’ve ruined everything. The Archangels will never let me back into heaven now. I killed a living being.”
“Nay, ye killed a vampire, an unholy creature who was already half dead and attacking a mortal. Yer act of bravery may have saved Shanna’s father.”
“I know he was a vampire, but he had a human soul, Connor, just like you. And I killed him! They’ll never let me back into heaven.”
“Of course they will! So ye killed one nasty, murdering Malcontent. ’Tis no’ like ye slaughtered a dozen men in a fit of rage!”
She gasped.
He winced. Bugger. He’d gone too far. “Come on. Let’s go back to the cabin.” He gathered her in his arms so they could teleport.
“Wait.” Her eyes narrowed. “Is that what you did, Connor? Is that the secret you’ve been hiding?”
Chapter Twenty-two
Bugger. She’d never let up now. For a sweet angel, she could be very stubborn. Connor ignored her question and teleported them to the cabin.
“Off ye go.” He immediately herded her toward the bedroom. “Ye’ll feel better after ye’ve had a shower.”
“But I—”
“Hurry up! I need a shower, too. I’m covered with blood and guts and dead vampire dust.” When she grimaced, he continued quickly, “I’m no’ fit to be around. So go!” He shoved her into the bedroom and closed the door.
He breathed a sigh of relief when he heard the water running in the bathroom. How long could he keep this up?
He warmed up a bottle, then sipped the blood from a glass while he disarmed himself. The battle had gone well. As far as he could tell, they’d killed over half of Casimir’s small army. And with the exception of Sean Whelan, they’d suffered no serious injuries.
It was a bloody shame they hadn’t been able to save the mortals.
“Rest in peace,” he murmured and drank a toast in their honor.
He wandered into the kitchen and placed his empty glass in the sink next to the bottle. In the pantry, he found a can of soup, so he warmed it up in a pot on the stove. He set an empty bowl and a spoon on the counter, then heard the water turn off.
He dashed into the closet to find a clean T-shirt and pair of flannel pants, then peered into the bedroom. Empty.
He knocked on the bathroom door. “Are ye done?”
She peeked out with a towel wrapped around her.
“My turn.” He pushed the door open and sauntered inside. “Do ye have clean clothes?”
“Yes.” She motioned toward the bedroom.
“Good.” He maneuvered her out the door. “There’s soup on the stove for you.”
“You know how to cook?”
“I know how to open a bloody can. See you later.” He closed the door.
“But Connor—”
He turned on the shower to drown out her voice. He stripped and stepped into the shower stall. How long could he stay in here? Three hours? He snorted.
Him and his big mouth.
He closed his eyes and let the hot water sluice down his body. He would just have to be firm.
“I confess nothing,” he whispered.
Images of that night flitted through his mind, but he shoved them away. What was the point? He’d probably wasted a century of his existence, wandering aimlessly about while he wallowed in shame and regret. Eventually, he’d tried to start over. He bought a small estate in the Highlands, far away from any mortals who would see him as a shameful creature. He teleported every night to a town like Inverness or Aberdeen to steal a few pints of blood. Then he returned to his home and roamed about the grounds. Slowly, the misery and loneliness drove him to despair.
He sought out Roman, who had sired him over a hundred years earlier. And that led him to Angus, and then Jean-Luc in Paris. Their struggle against Casimir became his own. It seemed that finally, his existence had a noble purpose.
But he could never escape what he had done.
With a sigh, he grabbed the soap. Poor Marielle. She felt guilty for killing one lousy Malcontent while he’d lost count centuries ago of how many he had killed.