Iron Angel Ch. 02

"Damnation!"

Leander sucked in a breath and swore violently, yanking a frustrated hand through his extravagant hair. His pale, eerie eyes blazed, bespeaking the kinetic violence he habitually held in check.

Lanka turned knowing eyes on her vexed friend, her high cheekbones painted almost ghoulishly by the wan glow of her own computer screen. They were the only two in the bunker-like computer lab, yet she responded within the private chambers of Leander's mind.You torture yourself, Leander – and over what? A pretty bauble, a weak-minded trifle.

Leander chose to speak, each word ground from his lips like glass beneath a boot heel. "You act as though you were not descended – plucked – from the same stock as she."

Mm... How many centuries ago? Lanka's arch response echoed lazily, sensually, through his mind's ear, the telepathy serving as an intentional and pointed reminder of how far removed from their human counterparts were the powers and sensibilities of vampires. Interesting that you should use the term...stock. You refer to livestock, perhaps?

Though Leander's snort was audible, he reverted to mind-speak with the ease born of long habit. A high and mighty stance considering your own... sampling...of human pleasures. Your trysts are legendary.

Sampling, yes. I never desired one for a mate.

No, Lanka, that desire was always reserved for me, Leander replied, not unkindly, the barest trace of regret tinging his thoughts.

The lambent green of Lanka's gaze flared as those entrancing orbs settled briefly on Leander, the pupils almost imperceptibly dilating as her mind fell abruptly silent. Wordless, she rose with offended grace, turned on her heel, and left her fellow immortal to his brooding.

Brenna sighed and rolled out of bed, disturbing the cat at her feet in the process. A restlessness had invaded her limbs, and further sleep was impossible. The clock on her nightstand informed her that it was 11:22 a.m., a rather early awakening considering when she had signed offline for the night.

Without opening his eyes, Brenna's big black cat turned his head in her direction and murmured, "Mrrrrr?"

The young woman ran a loving hand down Salem's back and smiled as he began to purr sleepily. "Go back to sleep, son," she whispered as she crossed the room to her closet in search of something to wear. The sensuality of her nude form, all soft curves and unconscious grace, was lost on both Brenna and the cat. As the dark-haired girl perfunctorily pulled on the first pair of jeans she saw, feeling less than enthused by the prospect of cleaning her room, the feline promptly put a paw over his eyes, sighed, and resumed napping.

Bare-breasted and bare-footed, hands planted on the notch of deliciously round hips, Brenna glanced around her room and found it neat enough, by her standards. Unfortunately, Brenna's standards didn't do her a damned bit of good; it was her mother's that counted. If she didn't pick up her computer desk, vacuum the floor, and dust her knick-knacks, her mother had assured her that there would be "consequences."

It never ceased to amaze Brenna that turning eighteen had earned her not one iota more respect, privacy, or freedom over her personal space. The room was decorated according to her mother'sBetter Homes and Gardens taste: country kitsch and floral frippery. At Chez Nacey, posters of wrestlers and movie stars had long been outlawed, the lived-in look was a sign of slothfulness, and playing anything but Country music was the eighth deadly sin. The decor held only a few hints of Brenna's vastly contrasting personality: the fantasy and horror novels lining her bookcase; the computer desk dominating an entire corner of her room; the small pewter and crystal dragons arranged in a small glass case on one wall; the forest green carpet Brenna had insisted upon when her parents had remodeled the house two years ago. These things provided a scant barrier against the picture-perfect imitation wholesomeness her mother had created.

In a fit of frustration some weeks previously, Brenna had thumb-tacked a sign on the back of her door that read, "This isn't my real room, I just sleep here!" So far, her mother had yet to discover this minute rebellion. Brenna had no choice but to grit her teeth and abide by the "while you're under my roof" policy. With any luck, Brenna would be out from under her mother's roof and rooming with her best friend, Aileen, by the end of summer.

Sucking a breath through her teeth, her restlessness now bordering on claustrophobia, Brenna muttered "Fuck it, let Mom bitch. What else is new?" and ducked back into her closet for a belly-baring top and a pair of flip-flops.

She was heading to the mall.