Entr’acte
After final bows, Glynn escorted Mishela to her dressing room, sticking like glue until the door clicked firmly in his face. Exiled, he paced the hallway, fury eating up the twenty yards as if it were two.
The rogue vampire had cornered her onstage. Corralled her in front of hundreds of witnesses, trapped her between wicked claws and her damned show-must-go-on duty.
His pacing kicked up a notch. Good thing Elias had sent him to watch over her. Who else would’ve known she would go ballistic at a normal rescue? Only inserting himself into the action of the musical, though it’d taken him almost too long to find a wand, let him protect her in a way she’d accept.
Which was damned stupid, but he knew how performing artists were, the torrents of energy and self they poured into their art. He’d expended similar amounts distracting people as a child, but not for the sake of art. And not because he’d wanted to, but when you were four years old, you didn’t get a choice. Which was why he made sure he always had one now.
Except when he was boxed in trying to please others, like Mishela.
And Junior.
His pacing stopped abruptly. He sought her out through her blood-taste/scent, as he’d done only half a hundred times since tasting her. She was safe at the VIP reception.
He let her essence wash over him. It calmed him.
He kicked into pacing again, slower now. Almost eight hundred years he’d been a vampire, and in all that time he’d never met anyone like Junior. He wondered what she would say if he told her, “I’m an eight hundred year old monster.”
In his most pleasant dreams, she accepted him, even loved him.
But dreams weren’t reality. Reality was she had dreams of her own, and he’d respect that. Would back off, even though it killed him. Well, killed him again.
Damn it, which job was harder? Thwarting rogue vampires and making the world safer for humans, or trying to respect Junior’s need to remain unentangled?
He’d have to do both. It wouldn’t be easy, but damned Elias had trained him for that too.
He consoled himself that it could be worse. Junior could be the one woman he could love. Not likely, though. He hadn’t found anyone in eight hundred years. A good thing too. If Emerson was anything to judge by, he’d fall in love so deeply, he’d not be worth a sheep’s fart. Which wouldn’t help anybody, not Mishela or Emersons or Elias and especially not Junior.
So. Thwart rogue vampires. Respect Junior’s need for distance. Protect Mishela from a wily kidnapper. And try not to fall in love.
Closing night couldn’t come soon enough.
