Bitten by Ecstasy: 2 (Dark Judgment) by Naima Simone Page B

the Blood Cross.
    They strode up the paved walk bisecting the wide front lawn. Her eyes skimmed the exterior of the house, including the empty driveway, the blank windows and shallow porch. After climbing the three stone steps, she raised her arm and knocked on the front door. Several seconds passed without a response and she rapped again.
    Disappointment arrowed through Sinéad. “We must have missed Cyra. We can come back at—”
    “She’s here,” Bastien growled. “I can smell her.”
    Sinéad lifted an eyebrow, not taking her gaze from him as she thumped on the door and called, “Cyra, it’s me. Sinéad.”
    Almost immediately, the door swung open. Darkness framed the silver-haired female like a yawning cavern. She was clothed in a black long-sleeved shirt and pants, the only spots of color her moonbeam hair, bright eyes and pale skin.
    “Sinéad,” Cyra greeted, her soft tone steady and flat in the way of their kind. Her gaze flicked up and touched on Sinéad’s hair, but she didn’t comment.
    “Cyra,” Sinéad said. “Can we come in? We need to speak with you about an important matter.”
    The cruxim dipped her chin in acknowledgment and stepped back, granting them entrance. The darkness in the foyer swallowed them up. As an immortal, it wouldn’t have bothered Sinéad as she would have been able to see perfectly. But now she stumbled forward, her toe catching on what she assumed was a throw rug. A firm grip caught her upper arm and steadied her before she pitched forward in a face plant.
    “Thank you,” she murmured. With his preternatural sight, Bastien would catch her small nod of thanks. He slightly squeezed her skin then released his hold. Sinéad forced her arms to her sides, resisting the urge to rub the flesh branded with the imprint of his fingers.
    “Would you mind turning on a lamp?” Bastien asked, his low rumble booming in the tomb-like space.
    “Of course,” came Cyra’s cool reply seconds before light appeared, a radiant, momentarily blinding beacon. Sinéad blinked at the sudden brightness and took precious seconds acclimating to the change.
    By the time the dancing spots cleared before her eyes, they had exited the foyer and entered Cyra’s living room. The spartan area contained a couch, a lone wingback chair, coffee table and a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf crammed with paperbacks and hardcover novels. It was the only sign someone inhabited the home—for, even from across the room, the lined, worn spines of the paperbacks indicated they had been bent and handled often.
    “You’ve traveled a long way from Ireland, sister,” Cyra said, standing next to the bookshelf. In spite of the sparse furniture, it was plain to Sinéad her sister spent most of her time in this room. Otherwise she wouldn’t have her books here. Inside, Sinéad snorted. Hell, who was she to judge? She could sing the theme song to The Brady Bunch , numerate every case solved or unsolved on Dexter and had the first and second seasons of True Blood on DVD. No, Cyra would get no condemnation from her.
    “We’re here for your help,” Sinéad replied. Turning, she waved a hand toward Bastien who stood silent beside her. “This is Bastien Sarris.”
    “A hippogryph,” Cyra added, her silver eyes narrowing.
    “Yes.” Sinéad shifted, aligning her body next to Bastien’s. What had compelled her to move, she couldn’t explain. Bastien needed her to shield him as much as Superman required Lois Lane to save him from a flying bullet. This didn’t stop Sinéad from pressing her shoulder to his arm, though. “Long story short, Bastien and I met when I found him hurt and almost dying. I fed him my blood to start the healing process. It worked, but unfortunately had side effects we couldn’t have foreseen. He now craves cruxim blood.”
    Cyra didn’t show an outward reaction at either Sinéad’s actions or Bastien’s bloodlust. But her shock prickled against Sinéad’s senses like a sprinkle of freezing