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The landing in Vancouver, which was turbulent at best, forced him back to reality. He stood up, and got in line, a hard knot in his gut.
Damn! I must feed.
Exiting the jet, he wandered aimlessly, unable to shake his gut-wrenching need. Inside baggage claims he caught a scent which flared his nostrils. Moving among passengers, he spotted the source, all five feet two of her. He narrowed his predatory eyes into thin slits, scanning long dark curls trailing her back. He took a breath, the swish of her blood familiar. He eased closer and his eyes washed over her, head to toe, black pumps, a tight green mini with a black shoulder bag dangling at the waist. He fixated his gaze, taking in her body, so like another, one he had loved unselfishly. He took a step toward her, standing beside the carousel awaiting her luggage. He zeroed in, starvation forcing him to fight for human form. He moved, muscles tight, steadily in her direction, sniffing and scanning for Iridescents. She was alone. He swallowed hard, moved in and placed his hand on her shoulder.
She spun to face him, a stunning beauty with dark eyes cordoned by sweeping lashes.
“Larkspur,” he breathed, the swish of her blood pounding in his head.
“Torin,” she rasped, taking a step back, scanning the crowd.
“Put your fears to rest, I’m alone,” Torin said.
She swallowed hard as her submissive eyes came to rest upon his. They shared a look of some intensity.
“We need to talk,” Torin whispered, gently taking her arm. He ushered her to a vacant spot, just beyond the carousel where luggage was starting to appear.
“You’re aware of what Garret’s done, I can tell by your fear. I can smell it.”
Stoic, she dropped her head. “He had no choice and though I don’t totally agree with his actions, he’s just trying to save our son.”
“He’s out of control,” Torin said, pushing her into a shadowed, vacant corner, her back to the wall. “He could have come to us for help.”
“Where are your guards?” Torin asked.
A flush suffused her face. “One is getting the car; the two others are out for a smoke.”
“Then we better make this quick.”
“You’re shivering,” she said in a barely audible voice.
“Starving,” he breathed.
“Feed,” she said, offering her wrist, “it’s the least I can do.”
Torin met her gaze, such a disciplined consort, willing to offer nourishment. He cocked his head, fighting the pain radiating up from his gut.
So much like Anstosa, the blood, your eyes…your essence.
“Do it,” she whispered. “Regardless of your feelings toward me, you were family at one time and though my sister is dead and gone, I at least follow the guidelines of our kind.”
Torin bent his head and pulled her wrist to his trembling lips, twin fangs visible. With eyes squeezed tight, he fed then licked his lips as the heat from his body dissipated.
“I need answers,” he said, the sweet taste of her blood, so like the Rh-heme that had nourished him for sixty-one years, lingering.
She tilted her head, thick tresses spilling over her shoulder. “Before you ask the question?”
“Can we kill him?”
Her brows drew tight, her eyes wide as saucers. “Are you serious? Kill the Seventh Miigis?”
Torin lifted her chin with his finger. “He has brutally murdered and raped so many, fed on them for sport.”
Larkspur dropped her head.
“Look at me,” Torin sputtered.
She looked up, lashes fluttering like the wings of a butterfly.