The Prince closed his eyes, but he did not sleep. He simply listened to the way she breathed.

  About three hours before dusk, she began to get restless. It started with a few nervous twitches, but then her central nervous system seemed to take over. She twisted and turned as if she were having a brutal nightmare. She made low noises deep in her throat like a small wounded animal. He bore this torture for nearly an hour, cursing himself the entire time for putting her through such a terrible experience. It gave him no comfort when he recalled that she had made the choice willingly.

  In the later part of that hour, he wished Jasmine had never told him about the Exchange. This was because the restlessness gave way to petite seizures, and then escalated to worse ones until he thought her delicate spine would snap in two from the arching of her body.

  Nothing signifying love and bonding should be so painful, he thought with anger.

  He forgot that he had not minded so much in the aftermath of his own painful process. All he could think about, all he could see, was the woman he loved suffering.

  At last, an hour before dusk, she fell into a deep sleep. So deep that he could not even sense her dreaming. Her body temperature returned to normal; so did her breathing. The perspiration that had coated her and soaked the first sheet had evaporated by the time he tucked her beneath a second one.

  He rested beside her again, and again he did not sleep.

  Damien closed his eyes as he settled back against the headboard of the huge bed. He acted as Syreena’s pillow, her back in a reclining repose against his chest and her head nestled securely beneath his chin. He could feel the soft movements of her hair against his skin as the restless ends seemed to seek a comfortable position.

  Damien did not notice that the gray stubble that fuzzed over her altered hairline was growing, at quite a rapid pace. The cool gray hair darkened as it lengthened, the living strands spilling over Syreena’s cheek. Then, with every delicate pulsation of blood that circuited through her hair, the brown side deepened in color as well. For the first time since recovering from her illness as a young girl, her hair came as close to having a uniform color as it had ever had. In the end, however, it was all a marvelous charcoal color, not quite the pitch black of Damien’s hair, but nearly so. The distinction that remained, however, was the clear streaks of dark gray, dark brown, and pure black, that plumed back from her hairline just above her forehead, then fountained in three separate directions down the full length of her hair.

  When Syreena opened her eyes at last, it was with the overwhelming sense that it was past dusk. All Nightwalkers could sense that on one level or another, but it seemed somehow sharper to her than usual. She did not feel well rested, but neither did she feel the exhaustion she probably should have. She took a moment, resting contentedly against Damien, ridiculously happy to find herself waking with his arms around her.

  All traces of the dizziness that had plagued her earlier were gone, and it was a relief. The soreness had faded with her healing time, though she suspected once she moved she would find a few tender spots that would still be under reconstruction.

  She had no idea how accurate her metaphor would turn out to be.

  Damien felt her busy thoughts bumping around his extrasensory awareness before she even moved, opening his eyes quickly to look down at her. The change and growth in her hair was dramatic, and it took him several beats to absorb the impact of it. He was barely recovered from it enough to tell her about it when she looked up at him, exposing her eyes.

  Her eyes. Eyes which had become the uniform color of charcoal, peppered with gray, brown, and deeper blackness. It was like looking down into intricate Italian marble.

  It was, for a moment, like looking into the eyes of a stranger.

  But then she smiled up at him, and she was instantly all Syreena. Changes notwithstanding, she was the same sharp, beautiful, tenacious woman he had fallen in love with.

  And she was smiling.

  He did not realize what a relief it was until he actually exhaled in release.

  “I think I might have an idea of what you are going to get from me,” he told her wryly.

  “Oh? Care to share?”

  “Well …”

  He thought for a moment, and then lifted her with himself as he leaned to the side and looked over the edge of the bed. She snickered as he tilted her to reach for something. When he came back to an upright position, it was with the poniard in his hand. He held the knife up for her, turning the flat of the blade toward her face. She gave him a puzzled look.

  “Look into the blade.”

  She did, and saw her slightly distorted reflection.

  Syreena gasped, grasping his wrist to better angle the makeshift mirror. She could see the darkness of her hair in patches and pieces, but her eyes were quite clear.

  “I match!”

  It was a very childlike exclamation of clear delight, and he was more than a little bemused by it. He had thought she might be disturbed to see herself further altered. It had not occurred to him that the new uniformity of color might be pleasing to her. As he thought about it, however, he realized why it would be. Though it was all still very unique in coloring, there was nothing about it that marked her as a standapart being, not like the harlequin looks she had sported most of her life had done.

  She kept tilting and retilting the knife, thrusting the inadequate mirror into all sorts of positions so she could see various parts of her new look.

  “I wonder what it means,” she said softly.

  “What it means?”

  “The black, Damien. Remember? Lycanthrope hair colors to signify the form they take.”

  “A raven?”

  “Unlikely. I gave that to you. Seems a hard chance that you could give it back.” She sat up away from him further, scrambling for the edge of the bed, her feet hitting the dusty floor for only a second before his hand closed around her upper arm and pulled her back into the bed with him.

  “You have just gone through a radical physical transformation that kept me up all day terrified for your health and safety, and you think I am going to let you trot around like nothing happened?”

  “Damien, I am not the type to lie in bed all weak and moaning. I feel fine, and Iwant to …”

  She broke off, reaching for the splint and bandages on her arm. After an all too brief touch test for pain, she tore the restriction away, throwing the shreds down onto the floor. She flexed her fingers and her arm, turning a brilliant smile on him.

  “I want to fly!”

  “Syreena!”

  But she had escaped his grasp and was rushing across the suite, entering their private sitting room and running to the window, which she immediately levered open. Damien flew off the bed after her.

  “Syreena! What if you have lost the falcon for some reason?”

  “I haven’t. Iwould know.”

  For a terrifying, breathless second, she ran at the window and dove out of it in human form. They were many stories up, so Damien’s heart seemed to leap out of his chest after her. He ran to the window, gripping the frame, almost afraid to look. But he had not gotten where he was in life by being cowed by new and dangerous things, so he looked after her immediately.

  Her streamlined body sprang outward in an arc, passing the top of it as she formed an arrow out of herself. She began to plummet toward the ground, diving toward it as if it were water and not mountainous rock, her long, marblized hair fluttered in sheeted snaps as she finally spread her arms wide.

  It took only a blink oftime before she flashed into the form that resembled a harpy, although the way she caught wind in her dark wings and buoyant feathers made her swoop elegantly from her death dive in a graceful sweep that was reminiscent of an angel instead of that mythical creature of hostility. She reeled, climbing upward now, using the powerful draw of her wings to skim back up the stone of the wall she had leapt from. Damien had to jerk back sharply to avoid cracking heads with her as she speared past the window.

  Moonlight glinted off sleek, gray-black feathers as she whipped past. He grinned widely as he leaned back into the window frame to watch her take to the night sky. Her fly-by not withstanding, she clearly took to the air as naturally as she breathed. He envied her that ease for a moment, then tossed aside the sense of limitation and snapped himself into the form of the raven so he could join her.

  Just as the raven cleared the building, his partner changed form once again, into the falcon that was so familiar to her. Only instead of the multi feathered brown they were used to seeing, she was the colors of her new hair tinting. Her back was striped black, her underbelly a soft, dark gray, and all the rest of her that dusty charcoal color.

  The raven and the falcon dipped and turned in that eerie way birds had of perfect synchronization. She led, he followed. It would take quite some time for him to match her skill, but he was learning quickly enough to keep up with her.

  Syreena swooped back down toward the ground, catching an updraft off the mountainside Damien’s holdings were built into. She was heading for the lake just beyond a ledge of rough-grown stone. Damien anticipated her, catching wind in his wings to brake his speed as she dove recklessly for the water just as heedlessly as she had leapt out of the window.

  Again, she transformed on the fly.

  She had missed the ripple of rubbery skin that immediately coated her distorting body. Even more, she had missed the artwork of the streamlined form of the dolphin. She hit the water at top speed, but the cut of her body made not a single splash. The dolphin skimmed beneath the surface like a flashing light of dark gray, the speed of the movement so quick, it was impossible to track while on the fly.

  Damien settled onto the edge of the lake, mutating back to his most natural form until he was crouched low with one hand bracing his balance upon the ground. He watched her with more ease then, until she disappeared into the depths of the water.

  She returned shortly, surfacing as the woman he was used to seeing, her exultant laugh making him smile wide.

  “It has been so long!” she declared. “Only a week, but still too long!”

  “So is there anything different? Beside the coloring, obviously.”

  “I am sure there is, but I am not aware of it yet.”

  “Are you sure you do not know what I am thinking?” he asked in such a way that he got a smile out of her to match her jubilant laugh.

  “Yes, I do, but it has nothing to do with telepathy.” Syreena raised a hand out of the water and beckoned to him flirtatiously.

  “Mmm, same result either way, so I do not particularly care how it was managed,” he told her as he rose up briefly and pushed off from the edge of the water.

  His dive was clean and well-practiced.

  When he surfaced, it was with a sputtered gasp.

  “That’s right,” she said with an obvious snap of her fingertips. “It is wintertime, isn’t it?”

  Damien was not amused. He swam to her in earnest, snagging her by a slick arm easily when she spent more effort in giggling than she did in trying to escape him.

  “Let me guess, you do not feel the temperature of the water.”

  “Not much,” she agreed, letting him drag her warm body through the water until she was sealed close to his. “But I did owe you for the attack of cold hands.”

  “How is it you can feel that, but not this glacial cold?” he demanded.

  “Because I was prepared. A flip of a mental switch, so to speak, and the fact that I am not entirely in human form.”

  He felt her slap her legs against his, only to realize it was a finned tail and not legs at all.

  “Well, well, if it isn’t the little mermaid,” he mused, running a curious hand down her back and backside, noting the point where skin blended away and became the smooth coldness of her tail.

  “Don’t expect me to sing for you. I cannot carry a tune.”

  “Not even with a partial spirit of a Siren within you? I find that hard to believe.”

  He kissed her before she could retort.

  “I thought I heard complaints about the frigidness of the water,” she purred as she snuggled against his immersed body a moment later.

  “Yes, but as the heat leaves my body, it is easier to take. You cannot claim the same, I imagine. I am wondering about the way you will react to my cold appendages this time.”

  She laughed, pushing away from him, splashing water at him.

  “The joke is on you, Prince Damien,” she taunted him. “You would have to catch me first.”

  She dove under the water, leaving him with an impertinent flip of her tail that sent a wave of water over him.

  “The joke is on you, Princess,” he muttered, “because I can hold my breath longer.”

  He did not bother to chase her, waiting instead for the inevitable call of oxygen to strike her.

  When she did come up, he was going to see to it she warmed him up for her penance.

  Chapter 15

  Jasmine entered the old Romanian stronghold slowly by using the convention of the door rather than one of the numerous balconies that dotted the edifice. The very first thing she did was to seek out the powerful signature of Damien’s presence.

  She had known he was on the property, but had expected him to be within the building. She was surprised to realize he was actually outside, some yards distant from it. She was not surprised to note that his new shadow was also quite close to him. She sighed with a little impatience. Did the woman never leave him alone?

  Jasmine put aside the thought the moment she entertained it. She was just going to have to get used to this. It was clear that Damien intended to keep the Lycanthrope female as one might keep any pet. Apropos, considering she was more animal than anything else.

  Jasmine took a long moment to survey the grand room she had just stepped into, looking over the cobweb-streamed ceiling with its domed roof and fresco paintings. When it was cleaned up, it would be restored to its former brilliance of color as well as the gleam ofgold inlay that graced the moldings and latticework.

  There was obvious pride in her appraisal ofwhat she could see of the dim work. Her brother, Horatio, had done them during the Renaissance when it had been a fashionable way of doing artwork. He had always been the artistic, creative soul of their family. They had made a complementary match, she the student, he the artist. That is, until he took the diplomatic post in Noah’s court many decades ago, taking what was to be permanent leave of their already dwindling clan.

  One would think that, over so much time, the one constant someone like her should have gotten used to was that nothing remained constant. Things changed. Always. Considering how hard it was to entertain oneself after the first century or two, that was probably supposed to be a good thing.

  But the absence of her brother had been as welcome to her as the arrival of the Lycanthrope Princess. In both cases, she had had no say in the matter. Which, of course, was how it should be.

  That did not mean she had to be pleased about it.

  But she would adapt, as she always did, in one way or another. She took solace in the volatility of the time that approached them so rapidly. At least she would not be bored. On the other hand, there were bound to be casualties that would be unwelcome.

  And Damien carried the highest probability of being on the early list.

  She had made her choices, however. Ruth had tempted her with all manner of choices, a feast of selections that had held so much appeal in so many aspects, and unconscionable results in others.

  She would stay here, in this place, with this man who was like a brother and a father to her. She would tolerate the annoying consequence of a steprelative that Syreena would become as a result of that. Damien needed her help, and she would not abandon him at this dangerous time. She could at the very least give Syreena the credit of being capable of the same goal. It was very likely the one thing they would ever manage to have in common.

  Though they had made the choice to settle back and play a waiting game with their enemies, Jasmine had made a decision of her own. She agreed that they needed time and effort to properly approach the situation, but there was something that could and should be done almost immediately.

  After thinking it over all day, she had decided to include Damien in her plans. He had voiced his opinions on the situation in such a way that she was forearmed with the great potential that he could be swayed to her way of thinking.

  Provided his little tart did not have the opportunity to object. If she did, she could sway him away from Jasmine’s desires.

  Something she seemed to do with frustrating frequency.

  The real trick was going to be separating the two of them long enough to win Damien over to her way of thinking. Of course, she had a plan for that, one that was already set into motion. In a short while, brethren would begin to arrive and they would start to organize and revitalize the castle. They would be her key piece of bait for the little Princess.

  Jasmine made her way through the household to her rooms, the ones she always stayed in when they resided in the homeland. They were too close to Damien’s quarters now, so she would be choosing others in the wing farthest from the happy homemakers.

  She began to relocate her stored belongings to that section of the house while she waited for others to arrive, including Damien.

  Damien raised his head from the pleasurable task of nuzzling Syreena’s stomach and looked back toward the castle they had abandoned. He sat up quickly, tugging her with him so that she settled high against his chest, her legs and bottom drawn up into his lap as he kept her secured to his body.

  “We have company,” he informed her when she looked at him with clear curiosity.

  “Let me guess …” She trailed off with a meaningful upcast of her eyes.

  “Yes, it is Jasmine.” He chuckled. “But I would hardly be concerned about that. There are Vampires moving in this direction. Several of them. I imagine it is our new household.”

  “Remind me to thank her,” Syreena said, not sounding thankful at all. But Damien knew it was born mostly out of her disappointment of having their private tryst interrupted. He was beginning to know her better, and knew that she worried that they would have little to no opportunity for such private intimacies in a full court. She had spent fifteen years in that fishbowl, with everyone watching her so closely. She had probably looked forward to escaping a little of it.