The Midnight Guardian Read Online Free PDF

time, the last time that she was lost in such perfect ecstasy. But Brigit did not want to think such things. Eamon’s mouth now trailed up her stomach, closed around her left nipple. His eyes, warm and sensual, rolled upward to see the heat in her face. It was a look and a gesture that never failed to inflame her further, and she groaned with the exquisite pain of wanting more.
    And there was more. And more. And she didn’t care what anyone might think—she was not going to bathe the scent of him out of her hair before the journey. But she wasn’t leaving yet. Not yet. She held his face in her hands and concentrated on the feel of his skin, the sheen of his eyes, the curl of his mouth. She had known him the moment she’d met him, but she would memorize him yet again. Even through the glaze of tears that she couldn’t keep from clouding her eyes.
    â€œEamon. My Eamon. My most beloved.”
    She woke suddenly, wondering if she had spoken out loud. But only Mors was looking at her. She shifted her gaze away from him, and her thoughts away from the dream. It was easier to think about Mors. Mors
was very different from the rest of them. Nearly all had been notably beautiful humans, and young, quite young. Few were older than twenty-five when made, because most of the chosen, men and women alike, were virginal and comparatively untethered to life. Mors was, the guess went, forty. Possibly older, perhaps younger, it was difficult to say. He had certainly been a soldier. A Roman general, they thought with some certainty. His way with a sword, or even a pair of swords, was terrifying in its power and artistry. In his occasional moments of restlessness, he sought out hunters to fight and dispatched them with his big, easy laugh. His was an untold history, though there was no one who didn’t wish to learn it.
    In any case, his face betrayed some time. Which could, Brigit supposed, make his association with four people half his age look questionable. On the other hand, he covered his shaved head with a fedora worn at a rakish angle and had a way of shouldering his greatcoat that made him seem to swagger even when lounging in his seat. In fact, far from looking distinctly older than the others, he simply looked roguish, powerful, a man who would naturally draw acolytes. Swefred and Meaghan existed separately from the group, Mors plainly had as little interest in them as they him, but whatever Brigit and Cleland might be to this older, knowing man with the ironically cocked eyebrow and curving, amused lips, that was another matter. One that gave some novel pleasure to those observers so disposed to lurid speculation.
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    Theirs was to be the next stop, and Brigit was impatient. The sooner they were settled, the sooner they could begin. Ulrika’s detailed instructions for getting to the abandoned lair played out in her mind and she was grateful for their intricacy, and for being rather tired and hungry. It meant there was no mental acumen left for wondering what Eamon was doing right this moment.
    Extra distraction arrived in the shape of a startling smell. A young man, sweet and intoxicating, lurched past them toward the lavatories. All five pairs of eyes rolled toward him, intrigued. A spy, Brigit guessed, tapping him for Belgian. And a virgin, too, or at least not very experienced. On his way to meet a woman in Berlin. Desire and happy anticipation ran high in him. One good potential meal amid all the unappetizing
lumps they’d encountered so far, and he’d have to go free. Mors singsonged out the window: “Going to be a loooong holiday.”
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    Despite the late hour, the station was busy and no one noticed the attractive, well-dressed group of five, who, while they had sat together on the train, now peeled off to various points around the station. One of the ladies headed for the powder room, another to the newsagent. One of the men needed a quick pick-me-up at the bar before going