Prince of Twilight by MAGGIE SHAYNE Page B

before she even spoke, that she would lie. So he pressed his lips to hers to stop her from speaking at all, and as she melted in his arms and opened to his kiss, he entered her mind as easily as a warm knife through butter, and he read what was there.
    But there were no specific thoughts, no answers. Just a sense of vehemence, hatred and fury that shocked him, and he drew away from her kiss as if burned by it. He also felt Tempest still there, alive, but trapped. Like a captive inside her own body.
    â€œMy love?” Elisabeta whispered. “Can’t you stay with me? Just for a short while longer?”
    â€œNo, Beta. I must go. And so must you. Tempest’s friends will be coming for her soon. They’ll know what you’ve done unless you…recede. Go back to sleep inside her, and wait until the time is right.”
    Her lips went tight. “I won’t. It’s too hard to getcontrol. If I release it, I might never get it back again.”
    â€œYou will,” he promised. “I’ll help you. Don’t you trust me?” He cupped her cheek. “Please, Beta. Let her come back to herself. Just for now.”
    She held his gaze, and for a moment he saw anger glittering in the depths of her eyes. But then she blinked it away, averted her face and nodded once. “All right. I’ll do as you ask. For now.”
    She lay down in the bed, pulled the covers over herself, and closed her eyes. In a few moments her breath came slowly and evenly.
    Vlad touched her face, her hair. “Tempest?”
    She didn’t reply, just kept on sleeping. He tried probing her mind but found it blocked to him. She’d taken refuge, put up the blocks she’d somehow learned to build—most likely by years of working with and for his kind—to keep him out.
    Elisabeta. She wasn’t the woman he remembered. But whatever she’d become, he knew he bore the blame. Imprisoned, trapped for hundreds of years—how could she not lose herself to fury and anger and…perhaps even madness?
    â€œI’m sorry, Beta. I’m sorry for what I did to you. I promise I’ll make it up to you, no matter what I have to do.”
    Pressing a kiss to her forehead, he rose from the bed and went to the windows and leapt to the ground, but never landed. Instead, he changed forms and flew as a nightbird over the walls of the Athena mansion.

6
    H e wanted another woman.
    Elisabeta’s borrowed heart felt as if it were slowly turning to a chunk of cold ice. Her prince, her husband, who had promised her eternal life, still wanted her, yes. But he wanted his precious Tempest, as well.
    Well, she’d fooled him. She’d pretended to obey his wishes, to withdraw and allow Tempest to return to control. In truth, she’d only feigned sleep until he left the room.
    But no more.
    The woman whose body she possessed, Tempest, who called herself Stormy—the enemy—writhed within, struggled to regain control. Elisabeta felt her own grip weakening and knew she had to work fast. She had to do what was necessary and do it quickly. And she wasn’t certain she trusted Vlad to do it for her. She had to do this on her own.
    â€œYou’re not coming back,” she told the one she’d displaced. “Not this time.”
    Â 
    Stormy dreamed. And more pieces of her past returned. Once again she was in Romania, in Vlad’s castle.
    Vlad carried an oil lamp from the great room, and led her toward the wide and cold stone staircase. The bannister was wood, solid and coated in dust. Not ornately carved, but beautiful in a rough and rustic way. He didn’t take her hand as he led the way. She walked beside him, and when a piece of one of the stone stairs fell away beneath his foot and he had to grip the rail to keep from falling, she clasped his upper arm instinctively.
    He looked at her, the lantern glow flickering between them, his eyes intense, as if he, too, felt the power that