The Guardians, Tome 2 : Demon Moon

It was inelegant, perhaps even ill-mannered, but Savi eschewed the straw and gulped straight from the glass. Lime and salt, sour and sweet. And cold–she couldn’t get enough of it.

Delayed reaction from the flight? Her breath fogged the inside of the tumbler. Heat from the mass of bodies?

Perhaps he’d been too stingy to pay for air conditioners.

She fished out a cube of ice, sucked it into her mouth. The bartender glanced at her. Another vampire. Colin had been right; they’d all watched as he’d taken her hand and led her through the club. As he’d dropped a quick kiss onto her forehead.

Like a little girl. A little sister. She’d known what it was: a display of protection. Because Hugh had saved Colin’s sister, the vampire felt obligated to guard Hugh’s adopted sister in return. She should have been grateful. Perhaps she would have, if she didn’t feel so restless, as if she’d suddenly been caged.

It was a familiar feeling, but it usually didn’t make her angry.

She crushed the ice between her teeth. Why was it so fucking hot in here?

She lifted her hand and gestured for another, asked for a water to accompany it. The wounds on her palm had almost completely healed over; only a lingering stiffness remained. She examined the thin pink lines on her fingers. The blood sped healing–is that what allowed them immortality? Accelerated regeneration or cell replication, with no degradation over time?

But wouldn’t their hair grow more quickly if it was replication? Did it simply keep existing cells in perfect repair, not speed the manufacture of new ones?

Why did it only heal humans when applied topically, or through a transfusion? And why was it safe? A transfusion would temporarily give a human some strength and healing ability, but it didn’t last. Only through ingestion was there a danger–blessing?–of transformation.

Was it the act of taking it in and the choice to drink that provided the power, or the blood itself? Before Michael could transform a human to a Guardian, the human had to agree to the change; she’d heard the same was true of a vampire–the transformation didn’t take well if it wasn’t voluntary. Could blood recognize choice and free will?

The bloodlust supposedly did–except for the free will of the vampire it controlled.

She felt Colin before she saw him; he stood next to her, leaning gracefully against the bar. His expression was unreadable, his gaze hooded. Even in the dim lighting, she could see the slight flush on his skin.

She’d seen it before.

Lifting her glass, she took another long drink. Licked the salt from the rim, from her lips, and forced a bright smile. “The redhead on the stairs?”

His mouth tightened, but he gave a slow nod.

She arched a brow. “You must lose a lot of clients if the ones you feed from leave bleeding.”

“She wasn’t. And I don’t often feed here; I prefer the hunt. Pursuit offers a challenge.” He looked away from her toward the dance floor, his mouth pulled down in a grimace of distaste. “When it is readily available, it is merely scavenging.”

Her chest squeezed painfully. She’d not only been available; she’d thrown herself at him. “So the aristocrat surveys the unwashed masses, and finds them lacking,” she murmured.

And she was just a brown little girl.

“They have use during revolutions, but there is no rebellion here. Only a mess of conformity.” His gaze met hers again. “But I do not care if they bathe, Savitri, as long as they bleed.”