Vampire in Atlantis

illusion. And yet, she knew full well that she was immune to compulsion.
    “How did it happen? Why did you choose to become a vampire, then, if you lost your family over it?”
    He laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Choose? Did your husband choose to be murdered? There was no choosing involved. I was happy and wealthy, and there were ones who wanted what I had. When I was lost to the bloodlust, they murdered my wife and child, too. Apparently they only wanted my land and fortune, not my family.”
    “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I know how you felt.”
    “No, you don’t,” he replied, just as quietly. “I had the luxury of killing those who took my family. I doubt you had that.”
    “No. No, I didn’t. Not that I didn’t try. Someday, though. Someday they will look up, and it will be me they see, and then they will see nothing forever after.” She shoved her hair out of her face and took a deep breath. “On the other hand, I haven’t had to mourn for centuries. How long has it been?”
    His face changed, and she almost wished she hadn’t seen it. The hard lines and angles softened, and he stared at her as if she’d shocked him. He looked almost . . . human.
    “No one has ever asked me that, or even spared a thought for my centuries of pain,” he said, bowing his head. “Your son is who he is because of you; your soul and spirit. His father would be very proud of him.”
    She fought the burning sensation of tears, steeling herself with the absurdity of it all. Comforted by kind words from a vampire. Ridiculous. And yet—and yet he had never lifted a hand to harm her, and he’d protected Ian.
    No. Foolish. What was she, an idiot with Stockholm Syndrome?
    “You’ve threatened me in order to get me to help you,” she said. “Don’t pretend I’m here voluntarily, or that you respect me or want us to be buddies.”
    He raised an eyebrow, and the cold, sneering haughtiness returned to his expression. “I haven’t had a buddy in over three hundred years. Why should that change now?”
    “Tell me about the painting in the ceiling, then,” she said, desperate for a new topic, before she actually started to feel sorry for him. “What did you see? What does it mean?”
    “I have no idea. I can guess, but my guesses are pretty wild. I’ll need you to confirm that anything I think might be possible, actually is.”
    “Of course. And if I blow a brain aneurysm trying to channel that damn stone, oh, well, you can always replace me,” she said bitterly.
    Ian stirred on the cot and opened his eyes, probably because she’d raised her voice, and Nicholas walked away.
    “I’m not so sure about that anymore,” he said as he left, and she turned to watch him just as he glanced back at her.
    The look burning in his eyes terrified her more than anything else that had happened over the past few days. It was hunger . She was sure of it.
    And she didn’t think it had anything to do with her blood.

     
    Nicholas edged as close to the entrance of the cave as he could get without stepping into the sunlight and bursting into flames. Although flames might be a relief, compared to the confusion churning in his gut. He wanted to rule the vampires of North America. Consolidate his power. Take over the primator position. A little invulnerability to go with his near-immortality wouldn’t hurt.
    The last thing he needed was to allow a temporary weakness over one lovely witch and her courageous son to interfere with any of his goals. He heard the boy walking across the cave toward him but ignored him.
    Unfortunately, teenage boys weren’t all that great about being ignored.
    “What’s the painting about? Did you figure it out after Mom made me take a nap?”
    “Are you ever silent when you’re awake?”
    Ian laughed, and Nicholas caught himself smiling at the sound.
    No, no, no, no, no.
    “Not too often. When I’m eating, mostly.”
    “So go eat something.”
    “Did you?” Ian challenged him. “Eat somebody?”
    Unfortunately not. He’d had an unexpected change of heart about the terrified human his minions had abducted for him, and he’d compelled her to sleep and then wake up with no memory of the encounter. She was safely home now, unaware of how close she’d come to being lunch.
    “Yes,” he lied. “Several people. Drained them dry and picked my teeth with their bones.”
    Ian gasped. Finally. Fear: a sensible reaction.
    “Hey! You made that up. Picked your teeth with their