Dominion (Book 1 of The Dominion Series) Read Online Free PDF Page B

my palms face up and inspects each palm.
    "They're already healing," he says. "It's that good old Adamantine magic we have in our saliva and all bodily fluids."
    "Adamantine?"
    "An undying eternal property. The principle that keeps us immortal. Your mother should have something about it in her files."
    "So you really didn't need to come in and fix my palms."
    "No," he says lightly. "I lied. People who can't lie aren't very good at detecting deception. They're two sides of the same coin. But we do need to talk."
    "Make yourself at home." I wave to the apartment and exhale with frustration. "Since you can now, whenever you want, no matter what I want."
    "Thank you."
    He's so damn pleased with himself, like he's just won an important battle. He starts walking around my tiny flat, inspecting things like he's searching for something. At my old upright piano against the wall, he sorts through my sheet music, selecting Chopin's Ballade No. 1 , tilting his head to one side. I don't play it very well because it's so damn hard.
    "You were a prodigy."
    "Supposedly, but you take any three year old and drill them like they're an army recruit and make it so that every ounce of love they get is premised on performance and you'll produce a little piano playing machine, too."
    " Dieu ," he says and glances at me. "God, you sound bitter. I'd think you'd be pleased that your parents invested so much time honing your talent."
    I shrug. I guess I am bitter. All that practice and performance for nothing. All those years wasted taking ballet and music when I could have just been a normal kid and had normal experiences.
    "I studied for eight years. Besides dance, practicing piano was my whole life. I used to envy other kids who weren't forced to play or perform. After a certain age, I was pulled out of school and tutored because my father wanted me to be a professional like him and my mother wanted me to be a dancer the way she always dreamed of being."
    "Yes, parents can be such beasts at times," he says. "I hope you'll play for me one day." He looks up from the keys and smiles at me, just a quick smile. "Music is one of my great passions."
    The way he says it – passions – makes me feel suddenly uncomfortable for I can't help but think of him being passionate. He looks like someone who could get all passionate – like an obsessive musician or artist – and that's dangerous ground for me.
    "Is playing part of my job description?" I say, trying to be a smartass.
    "No, of course not. Music is my greatest love. It makes existence bearable."
    His words have a strange effect on me. Music makes his existence bearable? I'm a bit unnerved by that and I don't know what to say for a moment.
    "I'm out of practice. I've been pretty busy with finals and haven't played for quite a while."
    He frowns. "You shouldn't let your skills rust, Eve. When you have a beautiful gem, you should make sure to keep it polished. Such a waste otherwise. And so sad that all you have is this old piece of junk on which to play."
    "It's all that could fit in my apartment." I turn away and make a face, unsure how to respond. Is he chastising me for not playing enough? Where does he get off?
    He stands in the middle of my piles of paper from my mother's files, which are spread out on the hardwood floor.
    "You need a filing cabinet."
    No shit, Sherlock . I start picking up the piles, placing them on my desk at the side of the room.
    "They're my mother's files. The university just released them from the archives."
    When I'm done, I sit on the couch while he wanders around my apartment, my knees just a bit weak from everything that's happened since this afternoon.
    He moves to my desk eyeing the pile of books and papers, pushing them around, stooping to my wastebasket – the letter … I've been writing a letter to include in a birthday card to my best friend Cecile, who's off in Philadelphia to do her MD. I've handwritten them and crunched up one after another draft, unhappy with