Demon Moon by Meljean Brook Page B

matters.”
    “It matters,” Colin growled.
    Castleford stared at him for a moment, then turned to Lilith. “It always matters when you’ve hurt someone you mean to protect.” He shoved his fists into his pockets. “She didn’t know the consequences of drinking the venom, of mixing it with the blood. That was my failure.”
    As Colin agreed, he didn’t respond.
    Lilith obviously didn’t ascribe Castleford the same blame. “You didn’t know, either. Martyr.” She muttered the word with exasperated affection, then glanced at Colin. “How long did your fever last when you were tainted by Michael’s sword?”
    He looked down at his hand. A silvery scar crossed his palm, a remnant of a blood-brother ritual he and Anthony Ramsdell had completed when they were boys. They couldn’t have known the sword they’d used had once belonged to Michael, who had killed a Chaos dragon with it.
    Nor could they have known that the dragon’s blood had instilled its power in the metal of the sword, or anticipated that power transferring to their blood. Tainting it.
    But nineteen years later, as a young vampire aware of his origins, Colin should have known better when he tried to perform a different—and apparently as harmless—ritual.
    In such things, appearances were almost always deceiving.
    “A week,” he said.
    “Did you have any extraordinary abilities before you were attacked by the nosferatu?” Lilith arched a brow. “Excepting your beauty, of course. Speed, strength?”
    A smile pulled at his mouth. “No. None that I could discern.”
    “Did Ramsdell? Or your sister?”
    “No.” His throat tightened. “Aside from…the way they went.”
    Lilith’s brow creased, and Colin looked away before she could ask.
    A fruit bowl rested at the end of the bar, white porcelain against a backdrop of deep red. The crimson paint on the kitchen walls was the same hue as Lilith’s demon-skin; had it been on purpose? Castleford had Fallen after he’d slain Lilith, then attempted to live as a normal man for sixteen years. Had he been drawn to the color from memory, even if the memory’s influence had been a subconscious one? Had he wanted to surround himself with her in the room most necessary for life? The routine of eating, ingesting…it was as important to humans—even extraordinary ones—as to vampires.
    Or had it only been aesthetics?
    His fingers slid over the oranges, the apples, rearranging the composition. He draped the point of the grape pyramid over the lip of the bowl. The purple skins stretched tight beneath his fingertips, full and ripe.
    Vanitas . Perfect now, but it would not be long before it succumbed to rot. Or digestion.
    Colin drew his hand back, brought it to his face and inhaled. Citrus, sweet, clean. Like Savitri’s skin, but scent was fleeting. She was best captured with raw sienna, tempered by titanium white and heated with a touch of burnt umber. Egyptian violet for the shadows.
    Foolishness. “What of the wyrmwolf? How did it travel between realms?”
    Castleford’s mouth flattened. “We don’t know.” He glanced at Lilith, who nodded. “We may need you to go into the Room to look. We need to know what’s going on in Chaos, and you’re the only one who can tell us.”
    Sickness fell heavy in his gut, but Colin forced a lazy smile. “Must you capitalize everything when you speak? It is all so dramatic. Above, Below. Falls and Ascensions. Gifts. Rooms.”
    “I like dramatic,” Lilith said. She smiled as well, but her gaze didn’t move from his face. “He does it for me.”
    Colin lifted a brow. “I shall certainly give you a show in the Room.” But he couldn’t hold on to the mockery; his jaw clenched, and he pushed away from the counter and left the kitchen.
    Mirrors. Nothing but mirrors in that room. Though he wouldn’t physically be in Chaos, it was the nearest thing to it, and it was almost impossible to separate reality from the illusion.
    He was shaking just remembering the