Masters of the Night Read Online Free PDF

her
will.
    A twinge in her arm, a quick pinprick. She turned her
head to the side to see what had caused the tiny, sharp pain.
    A syringe.
    Sleep called to her again and she could not refuse its beckoning. She
fell back against the pillows.
    The next time Angie awoke, she was calm. It was morning, and she was
clear-headed. She looked past the cross hovering over her forehead from its
leather rope to the somber face behind it—a handsome face, tanned and with a strong
jaw line, but tense. And his blue eyes were far too serious beneath a shock of
inky black hair.
    “It’s broad daylight, Father,” Angie said, pushing the cross to the
side. “If I was a vampyre , wouldn’t I be in a dead
sleep by now or something, instead of coming out of one?”
    “Not necessarily.”
    “Oh.”
    The priest left the side of the bed, went to the window directly across
from her, and gave the drapes a hard yank.
    The room was splintered with light.
    Angie threw her hand upward to shield her eyes from the sudden,
blinding brightness.
    The priest glanced past her and spoke to the opposite wall. “She seems
adverse to the light. Could she be a minion?”
    She followed his eyes. Another man was in the room standing by a chest
of drawers.
    He was short, small-boned, with thinning dark hair, a goatee brushed
with gray, and beady black eyes that seemed to be
perpetually busy, watching every inch of the room.
    By the way he leaned his elbow on the edge of the chest to make himself
look taller, Angie deduced he was probably
self-conscious about his height.
    He was well-dressed. A high collar black shirt and
black suit, but no tie.
    Was he a doctor?
    “I doubt she is a vampyre’s servile,” he said
as he stroked his goatee.
    The voice startled her, as it had before. It was French.
    “I—don’t know what that is,” she answered in a voice suddenly gone
small. There was no more sarcasm. She felt lost and alone and afraid. And she
could remember nothing beyond a pair of mesmerizing, sapphire eyes that had
stolen her from herself. “Perhaps I am.”
    “ Serviles , minions, live to
serve their masters, and to keep them alive. You do not seem to
have any symptoms other than a bit of sensitivity to light, which may be
temporary.”
    The Frenchman crossed the room and stood beside her. “He let you live,”
he said as he studied her with his beady, busy eyes. “Why?”
    What did this Frenchman want with her? “I don’t know why. He didn’t
intend to, I don’t think. But I can’t remember much yet.”
    “Only a master could have taken as much life from you as this one did
and still leave you with a heartbeat. Then he gave you a vampirical transfusion.”
    “A what?” she asked, dumbfounded.
    “He gave you a couple of pints of his best,” the priest said. “Or
worst, depending on how you look at it. In other words, he changed his mind.”
    The Frenchman stroked his goatee pensively. “I seriously question
whether his decision to let you live was without malevolent motive.”
    Malevolent motive? Transfusion? The words sent knives through her.
    “You were badly beaten,” he continued. “ Vampyres do not normally cause those kinds of injuries to their victims. Do you remember
what happened?”
    Angie struggled to remember. “I was in a park, I think.”
    He stroked his goatee. “The severity of the attack has caused a memory
lapse, perhaps?”
    “Perhaps.” Angie felt her
limbs suddenly become icy. She began shivering uncontrollably.
    The Frenchman took her shaking hands into his warm ones. “Stephen.
Bring another blanket. She is cold.”
    His hands were slightly calloused, Angie noticed. As
though he had worked in—carpentry perhaps.
    As the priest smoothed a blanket across her, the Frenchman stroked his
goatee. “Do you suppose Sister Margaret could create some of that horrible
chicken soup she fancies the whole parish likes?”
    “She’s tearing around the kitchen as we speak, God help us,” he
laughed.
    The woman who