Ire surged, unreasonable, all consuming. She’d fought so hard against being her mom’s daughter; it was the only way she could justify never living up to Eva’s beauty. But now, even if she wasn’t here, Eva was winning again. She’d taken over Jac and now, more hurtfully, Matt.
“Maybe that explains everything,” she said, backing away. “You’re one of those guys who gets off on my relation to Eva, right? Were you closing your eyes when you were kissing me? Did it shut out my less-attractive face?”
“No, I—”
Pressure built in her temples. “Was putting me in a dress like hers going to make it easier to get it up, Matt?”
“Dawn—”
“Why did you bring this thing out just when we were getting somewhere?”
He heaved out a pent-up breath, gaze to the ground, shaking his head. He obviously had no other explanation.
Disillusionment had never hit her so hard. Not even when she’d found out that Frank was a monster hunter. Matt’s betrayal was personal.
“That’s your answer,” she said, backing the rest of the way toward his door. “Nothing. Because I’ve already explained it all, haven’t I? When you said you’d become interested in me before even meeting me, it was because of Eva. You, out of all people.”
She wanted to throw up. This wasn’t happening. Just after she’d built up some hope….
“I want you for you, Dawn. This”—face wracked with regret, he held up the dress—“was wrong. You’re so adventurous, so into games, I thought you’d laugh or…”
He stopped there, but it didn’t matter. She was already out the door, the night surrounding her with its unknown enemies.
Yet, when the scent of jasmine floated over her, almost like a calming embrace, Dawn knew that at least one Friend was around.
TWELVE
BELOW, ACT TWO
A LMOST done,” Sorin said to the Guard bound to a steel table in its cell.
They were in the bowels of the Underground, where the granite-hollowed dormitories of the Guards festered in deep, clinging cold. The lower-level vampires had already been fed with Groupie blood, which had either been voluntarily given or even left over from the meals of the Elite citizens.
In the cell opposite Sorin, a Guard pressed against the iron bars, his pale, hideous face framed. “More…more food, Master, more, more…”
The others took up this one’s chanting. “Food, food, food—”
Over the patter of gnarled voices, one Guard yelled out in supplication. “Groupie blood!”
Sorin did not even deign to glance up as he continued preparing the Guard on the table for duty. A new centurion, made for defense and perhaps, these days, offense.
“Enough,” he said to the other shouting creatures.
Not a one continued. It was the way of the Underground: Guards existed to obey. They were meant to be relatively weak-minded and weak-blooded, without power, save for what Sorin had bestowed upon them.
Efficiently, he kept on with the task at hand, tightening one last leather strap around the thick torso of his newest acquisition. Then, before continuing, Sorin paused to assess his creation thus far.
Bald, clawed, outfitted with iron teeth and black clothing to blend with the night. The new Guard still closed his eyes to this fresh world he would awaken to, as soon as Sorin performed one last trick of transformation.
As with all the Guards, this one had disappeared through the crevices of life Above. He had been noticed nearly a month ago during spy work and brought to Sorin’s attention. This large-bodied specimen, a drunk with no family and no real friends, had been deemed strong and fit for Guard duty. Therefore, he had been quietly captured near the time of Robby Pennybaker’s security breach, just before the resulting Underground seclusion. Sorin had only recently been able to turn his attention to transforming this subject, bringing it into the ranks of Underground Guard duty. A duty that might, someday, include having to obey even the most suicidal of orders if it indeed came to war.
Brushing a hand over his creation’s brow, Sorin thought what a waste that would be. It took great energy to bring every Guard to life, just as much as it had all those years ago when he had been a young man, cast out of his family home because of talents no one could explain. Talents such as controlling small animals, bending them to his will, shaping them into creatures who, at some point, became what Sorin wished them to be.
But Benedikte, the Master, had appreciated his abilities. He had loved him for what others deemed wicked and unnatural. And, ultimately, Sorin had put his so-called witchery to good use. For defense of his true home.
His hearing picked up the corridor footfalls of a Groupie—always light on their toes, they were. Soon, the exquisite creature appeared, holding a silver bowl sloshing with the blood she intended to donate for a Guard’s meal. A sacrifice was required of a Groupie nightly.