12. Is It Me,Does the Word Swordplay Just Sound Dirty?

Russell was right. It broke my heart, but the Slaughtered Lamb needed to close while I dealt with my aunt. Otherwise, I was offering up my friends as targets. I called Dave, who grumblingly agreed, texted Owen, who ignored me, and left a message for the wicche who had created my wards, to add some kind of "closed until further notice" message on the bar entrances.

Deciding it was the best I could do in the middle of the night, I went in search of Russell and Clive, who were setting up a training session for me down in the basement. I would have much preferred to stay in the library and read, but we didn't always get what we wanted.

I was pleased to realize how easy it was now to track their signatures. They were in the basement, the large room at the end of the east wing. Normally, I avoided the basement at all costs. The style and elegance of the floors above continued below. It wasn't that it was a dark, scary place. It was that this was where most vamps lived, their resting places beneath the ground.

When I exited the circular stairway, I had to walk through a posh undead living room. The vamps no doubt heard my heartbeat coming, so I was greeted with bored stares of disdain. I closed off my mind to their thoughts, but a few of the more persistent ones still slipped through. Most could be filed under the heading "Why Liang is a better mate for our Master than you."

Sighing, I passed through the group and turned right at the hall leading toward Clive. Great. I felt Liang's signature behind the door at the end of the hall as well. Peachy.

The room was huge, much larger than I'd expected. Stairs led down to a floor covered in tan matting. Because of the dropped floor, the room was almost two stories high. Russell arranged assorted swords and handguns on a black-draped table. Liang stood nearby but wasn't speaking to him. Her eyes were glued to the middle of the room. When I began to descend the stairs and the whole room came into view, I saw why.

Clive, shirtless, shoeless, stood in his black trousers, swinging a broadsword with the skill and ease of an ancient warrior, which he was. As much as I couldn't stand Liang, her fixation was understandable. The way he moved, muscles bunching and lengthening, was making it hard to think.

He looked up and found me staring a moment later. Grinning, looking younger and lighter than he had in a while, he motioned me forward. "Lose the shoes and hoodie and we'll begin."

His shirt and jacket were draped over a long leather bench along the wall. I toed off my shoes, peeled off my ankle socks, and pulled my hoodie over my head, leaving it all beside his clothes.

The mat felt odd beneath my bare feet. It wasn't like the ones in high school gyms. This one was thinner and made of some kind of woven material that meant no slipping.

Clive, looking more gorgeous than anyone had a right to, waited for me, the flat of the blade resting against his shoulder. When I got close, he pulled me into a fierce kiss that had my brains leaking out of my ears.

"I caught the tail end of what you were thinking as you came down the stairs," he breathed against my lips. "Shall I dismiss them?"

I pushed away. "No." I knew my cheeks were flaming with our audience. "Later," I mouthed, causing him to laugh loudly.

"Try the swords I pulled for you. See if you like the feel of any of them." He resumed his practice swings while I moved to the table.

The swords were amazing, some long and thin like the kind used in fencing, some short and broad. I couldn't walk down the street with a huge sword strapped to my back, so while I had fun swinging the big ones around, I ruled them out quickly.

There was one, about the length of my forearm, that I liked the feel of. It had a good heft but wouldn't weigh me down in a fight. It was double-edged, with a word etched down the blade.

"Fìor? Does that mean fire or flower?"

Pausing midswing, Clive said, "True. It means true in Gaelic." He returned his broadsword to the table with a grin. "And I knew that was the one for you." He picked up something made of leather straps. "I even brought the sheath." Kneeling before me, he adjusted the straps so it fit securely around my waist and thigh.

"I feel like a gunslinger with this thing."

"Gunslinging is Russell's forte. Swordplay is mine." He stood, guiding my hand and therefore the sword to the sheath. "Practice sheathing and unsheathing, over and over, until you can do it smoothly and without thought."

"FYI, that swordplay comment sounded super dirty," I whispered.

"Leave us," he commanded. Both Russell and Liang moved toward the exit immediately.

I held up my hands. "Stop. He was kidding."

"No I wasn't."

"You, hush," I said, waving my hand in his face. To the others, I motioned them back. "As you were." Russell, I could tell, found us funny. Liang, on the other hand, was shocked I'd countermanded the Master.

"Okay," I said to Clive. "Teach me how to use it."

He was a relentless instructor, demonstrating the proper form for countless moves, explaining when to use them. He corrected any deviation on my part as he watched me practice over and over. What felt like hours later, exhausted, I dropped to the mat. Handing me a water bottle, he let me pant on the floor while he discussed my progress with Russell and Liang.

When he felt I was ready, we moved on to sparring, me with a sword, him weaponless. I worried I might accidentally cut him while we grappled, but I needn't have. I never got close. He was that fast.

It was close to dawn when we stopped. Russell's lessons were pushed off to the following evening. As much as I wanted to learn as quickly as possible, my muscles were too tired to hold a gun steady.

Liang stepped forward. "Clive, we have time to make a few more phone calls. Perhaps we could contact—"

"Not now." Clive grabbed my hand and led me to a discretely designed elevator I hadn't noticed.

I had a moment to register Liang staring after us, her expression blank, before the doors were closing and my back was to the wall, a Master vampire's lips on mine. Hours of desperately wanting him and we were finally alone. Far too soon, I heard the doors open.

His hands slid down, palmed my butt, and hiked me up. Wrapping my legs around his waist, I let him carry me to our room, our mouths fused. He kicked the door shut and then my back was pressed to the door. I couldn't get enough of him, my hands dragging down his arms and chest, in his hair. Hours of foreplay were finally at an end.

He yanked my top over my head and all I could think was Thank God. My bra had disappeared. Damn, he was good. He tore my jeans down the center and then impaled me to the door. Even his mouth on mine couldn't muffle the groan. We had a moment, the briefest of moments, to stare into one another's eyes, stilled, savoring the instant of finally being exactly where we'd wanted, before his hands were on my breasts, fingers rolling my nipples.

Fangs skimming down the column of my neck, he plunged into me over and over. Muscles straining, I kept pace. He was perfect. When I couldn't hold back a moment longer, I drew his head back to my neck. His fangs pierced my skin, I clenched down hard on him, and then we were both flying.

A few minutes later, still shaking, I unlocked my legs from around his waist. He adjusted our positions, making me groan again, and then carried me into the bathroom.

"Not done with you yet." He finally put me down and then turned on the shower. While he adjusted the heat, I disposed of the shredded jeans, which had fallen around my ankles. How did he always look so good? I was sure I was a mess. Glancing in the mirror beginning to steam, I caught my reflection. Huh. When had my hair been unbraided? I was looking more tousled and sexy than sweaty mess. Yay me!

He pulled me into the hot, steamy spray and then ran slick, soapy hands all over me. Getting a handful of rich, creamy foam, I followed suit, my hands eventually wrapping around a part of his anatomy I was quite fond of. The look in his eye made my stomach quiver.

Once we were both thoroughly cleaned and sated, again, we toweled off and finally made it to the bed. Window shields descended. Dawn was only a few minutes away, but my fella wasn't a master vampire for nothing. This time, the urgency was gone and what was left was a gentle reverence. Slowly, softly, we kissed and stroked one another, both finding love and home.

When we joined in the dark, it was on a sigh. I loved him so much, I felt near to bursting. And when gentle contentment burst into flame, we clung to one another. All the vamps in the house had already winked out when I rolled us and came up, straddling Clive. His clever fingers kept me tight and needy. And when I started to fly, it was his hands, interlocking with my own, that kept me tethered to the world.

Later, wrapped around one another, we finally slept.

Too many nights of too little sleep did me in. I'd forgotten to set an alarm. As a result, I didn't wake until almost two in the afternoon, long past when Martha said we could conduct lessons. Annoyed with myself, I dressed and began the long run to Colma.

It felt good. It had been a while since I'd gone on a good, long run in this form. What with The Slaughtered Lamb's opening and the drama since, alone time to run had been shunted aside. Ignoring the route my phone suggested, I created one of my own that took me through the most green spaces.

I ran through Golden Gate Park, down past Lake Merced, Westmoor Park, crossed over the freeway, and eventually ended up back in the fog, jogging past one cemetery after the next. The Wicche Glass Tavern had been open for hours when I walked through the false gate. As it was a fae bar, I had no idea what sort of welcome I'd receive.

When I'd made my way past the old monument shop's work area and into the bar's courtyard, I wondered if fae time was finally working for me. The area was empty, the overhead twinkle lights dark. The door to The Wicche Glass was closed; no firelight flickered in the window.

I went to the door and knocked. Martha had just lost Galadriel. Perhaps she'd decided to close her bar, too. When I heard movement inside, I knocked again.

"Martha? I know it's late, but can I talk with you?"

Shuffling feet and then the door squeaked open. A sad blue eye stared at me through the crack. "Not today," she croaked, the door closing with a soft finality as she shuffled away.

Damn. What was I thinking, coming for a lesson the day after she'd lost her love?

Not wanting to run home yet, I went to one of the sturdy trestle tables, the one closest to the unimaginably huge and gnarled tree roots that encircled the courtyard. Crossing over the roots into the adjacent forest felt dangerous, so instead I sat cross-legged on the tabletop and studied what I believed to be the boundary to Faerie.

I let the quiet seep in. I had no proof, but the air, the light, even the scent, felt very familiar, like the breeze from the mirror in the bar. If I had to guess, the mirror was a doorway into the heart of Faerie, whereas this border was one of the outermost edges.

Once healed, would Galadriel be able to step back through the mirror or would she need to trek weeks or perhaps months across the fae lands in order to cross over this border?

Closing my eyes, I tried to shut out the heartbreak hanging heavy in the air. Martha said she lived here because she was close to the dead. Could I feel them as she did? Could I call them to me?