He brought the glass to his lips and took a sip. His tongue jerked with pleasure. While the tart lemon put sparks in his mouth, the drink began that long oh-so-necessary slide into sleep that only one-hundred-proof could bring.
It was the waiting that was killing him.
Waiting.
Fuck.
Though he’d finally gotten a serious lead, he still had to wait.
After his third glass, the numbing began … but so did the memories. He saw a woman, pregnant with his child, running through their olive grove in ancient Italy. She was laughing, holding her belly. She was five months’ pregnant, showing nicely. He would walk through the Tuscan village, head high, his arm behind her back pulling her gown tight at the waist so that everyone could see what he had put in her, what he cherished. She would rail at him, shoving her fingers in his face and complaining about what a brute he was, how vulgar, how uncivilized. Then she would strut, thrusting her stomach forward as well. Ah, they were both proud. Married five months and five months with child.
Maria.
He smiled. Then another memory surfaced, the one that brought a searing pain to his heart, as though it were new and not thirteen centuries old.
He had died the night that tribesmen from the north had entered his farmhouse, bound him, and whipped his back into a thousand stripes while they raped his beloved wife, killed her, and stole the life of his son. His son. His only son.
That he knew his child was a boy was one of the first inklings he’d had that he possessed preternatural power. The strong sense of knowing had been on him from the moment of conception. Maria telling him a few weeks later that she was pregnant had been both a confirmation and a warning that his life was about to change.
The enemy had left Medichi to die, having thrust a sword deep into his stomach. He’d been bleeding out on the floor. But the sight of his wife calling softly to him, reaching out to him with the scarlet of her blood spreading over the white linen of her nightgown, had given birth to his ascended powers.
The human part of him died that night and the vampire was born. At first he didn’t know what was happening to him. He ascended to Second Earth, appearing first at the Borderland outside of Rome and answering his call to ascension with a hand-blast. Thorne had come to him, majestically floating out of the air in a leather kilt and heavy battle sandals.
Thorne had been Medichi’s Guardian of Ascension. He’d shared his suffering, eased his pain, shown him what he could do, made him a warrior that very night as together they battled death vampires. Greaves, even back then, had tried hard to make him dead. The bastard had failed.
After his ascension ceremony, Medichi asked permission of no one, but hunted down every one of his wife and son’s murderers. He knew every face and watched with pleasure as each suffered, bled, and died. Vengeance had been born in him that night, war-like justice he’d meted out every night since, battling a new kind of enemy … death vampires.
The clatter of heels on the hardwood of his villa floors brought him back to the present.
Havily. Shit. He should have already disappeared into his bedroom and taken his limoncello with him. He tensed. He didn’t want her to see him like this. He had a sudden impulse to hide the glass and the gallon jar. Then he relaxed. Who was he kidding? Both Havily and Marcus knew what he was doing. You can’t hide that many lemons, that many bottles of vodka. He shifted on the table and dragged one of the chairs with his foot to bring it closer.
Marcus’s breh appeared in the doorway and his heart thudded. At one time he’d had a little crush on Havily. Maybe all the warriors had—certainly Luken.
She looked lovely in her usual Ralph Lauren skirt and silk blouse. Her layered red hair floated around her shoulders. She wore leopard-print heels. His heart swelled with affection. “Morning, Hav. You’re running a little late.”
He watched a blush rise on her porcelain cheeks. She was very fair; a little embarrassment went a long way. “Well, you know, Marcus was with you boys last night and since he doesn’t report to the office until the afternoon, he likes me to sleep in with him.” Her blush deepened.
Medichi looked down. Black hairs darted at weird angles on his feet, especially on his big toes. He nodded but didn’t meet her gaze. “You’ve been good for him.”
“He’s been good for me.” Her voice was soft, low, compassionate.
Shit. He threw back the rest of the limoncello, almost choking. He huffed a sigh, shoved both chairs back with his feet, and slid off the table to stand in front of her. Suddenly he remembered he had some news. He told her about the death vamp’s revelations, about Parisa and Burma.
“Can it be true? Will she be coming home soon?” Tears rushed to her eyes.
“I hope so,” he said. Damn, his throat was tight.
He opened his arms wide. Havily walked into them then slid her arms around his back and squeezed hard. He felt her chest jump a few times. “Hey,” he said, petting her back and trying not to mess up her hair. Havily was so damn stylish. “You’re going to ruin your makeup if you keep crying.”
Her chest jerked again, but he was sure it was a laugh this time. She didn’t, however, release him.
His throat twisted into a knot. “Have I thanked you and Marcus for staying on at the villa?”
“Only every other day.”
His turn to laugh.
After a few more seconds, she finally drew back and dabbed carefully beneath her eyes with the backs of her fingers. She glanced at the empty glass. “Still can’t sleep?”
“Not without help.”
She nodded. No judgment, thank God. She frowned, looked at the floor, wrapped her arms around her stomach.
His heart sank again. He felt the question in the air between them. He settled a hand on her shoulder, and she looked up at him. “Yes, I felt her again and I heard her call my name. So yes, she’s still alive.”
She released another heavy sigh. “Thank God. If only she could say more to you than just your name.”
“That’s all she ever could, you know, even three months ago. Her telepathic abilities just haven’t emerged yet.”
“I know, I know.”
He nodded. “And now, I’m actually feeling sleepy.”
With the heavy jug in one hand, his glass in the other, he returned to the fridge. He heard the familiar click of her heels as she followed behind. “How’s the house coming?” he called from over his shoulder.
“Marcus had another big fight with the contractor. Imagine that.” Marcus ran a tight ship and his contractor didn’t. Medichi felt an I’m-firing-his-ass coming soon.