Tempted

boundary between the conscious and unconscious mind, even before he fully felt the pain that wracked his abused body, Rephaim was aware of her scent.
    At first he thought he was back in the shed and the nightmare had just begun—just after the accident when she’d come, not to kill him, but to bring him water and bind his wounds. Then he realized it was too warm for him to still be in the shed. He shifted slightly and the pain that coursed through his body brought full consciousness with it, and with consciousness came memory.
    He was belowground, in the tunnels she’d sent him to, and he hated it.
    It wasn’t a hatred that bordered on paranoia, as did his father’s. Rephaim simply despised the confined feeling of being beneath the earth. There was no sky above him—no green and growing world beneath him. He couldn’t soar belowground. He couldn’t—
    The Raven Mocker’s thoughts ended abruptly.
    No. He wouldn’t think of his permanently damaged wing and what that meant for the rest of his life. He couldn’t think of that. Not yet. Not while his body was still so weak.
    Rephaim thought of her instead.
    It was an easy thing to do, surrounded by her scent as he was.
    He shifted again, this time being more careful of his shattered wing. With his good arm he pulled the blanket over himself and burrowed, nestlike, into the warmth of the bed. Her bed.
    Even underground there was an odd and illogical sense of security that came to him from being somewhere she’d called her own. He didn’t understand why she had this singular effect on him. Rephaim just knew that he’d followed Stevie Rae’s directions, stumbling through agony and exhaustion until he realized what he was really following was the scent of the Red One. It had led him through the winding, apparently deserted tunnels. He’d stopped at the kitchen and forced himself to eat and drink. The fledglings had left behind refrigerators filled with food. Refrigerators! That was one of the many miracles of the modern age he’d been observing for the long years he was only spirit. He’d spent what felt like an eternity watching and waiting . . . dreaming of the day he could touch and taste and truly live again.
    Rephaim had decided he liked refrigerators. He wasn’t at all sure whether he liked the modern world, though. In just the short time his body had been returned to him, he’d realized that most modern humans had no real respect for the power of the ancients. The Raven Mocker didn’t count vampyres among the ranks of the ancients. They were nothing more than attractive playthings. Amusements and distractions. No matter what his father said, they were unworthy to rule beside him.
    Was that why the Red One had allowed him to live? Because she was too weak and ineffective—too
modern
to take the steps she should have and killed him.
    Then he thought about the strength she had exhibited, and not just her physical strength, which was impressive. She also commanded the element earth, so fully that it ripped itself apart to obey her. That was not weakness.
    Even his father had spoken of the Red One’s powers. Neferet, too, warned that the leader of the Red Ones was not to be underestimated.
    And there he was, drawn by her scent to her bed, where he was practically nesting.
    With a cry of disgust, he lurched from the comfortable warmth of blankets and pillows and thick mattress and staggered to his feet. He stood there, leaning against the table that was near the end of thebed, struggling to remain upright and not let the unrelenting darkness of this place pull him under.
    He would trace his path back to the kitchen. He would eat and drink again. He would light every lantern he could find. Rephaim would will himself to heal, and then he would leave this tomblike place and return aboveground to find his father—to find his place in the world.
    Rephaim pushed aside the blanket that served as a door to Stevie Rae’s room and limped into the tunnel.
I’m already better . . . stronger . . . I don’t have to use the cane to walk,
he told himself.
    The darkness was almost complete. There were intermittent lanterns, though many of them were guttering. Rephaim picked up his pace. He’d refill and light the lanterns after he stuffed himself. He’d even drink the bags of blood he’d found one of the refrigerators filled with, though it held no special appeal to him. His body needed fuel to mend, just as the lanterns needed fuel to burn.
    Fighting against