Dance of the Gods by Nora Roberts

pours it down some drain.” He hefted the tray, muttering to himself as he left the kitchen. “I’m a vampire, for God’s sake. Creature of the damn night, drinker of blood. And here I am playing butler to some erstwhile Geallian queen. Mortifying is what it is.”
    And he’d wanted to pass some time in the library, with a book and the fire.
    He stepped in, leading with his irritation, and a scathing comment rolling up to the tip of his tongue.
    Which would have been wasted, he decided, as she was curled up on one of the sofas, sleeping.
    Now what the hell was he supposed to do? Leave her be, wake her and pour the damn tea into her?
    Undecided, he stood where he was, studying her.
    Pretty enough, he thought, with a potential for true beauty if she put any effort into it. At least when she sleptit didn’t seem as though her eyes would swallow her face, and whoever she aimed those long, large gray beacons toward with it.
    There was a time he’d have found it entertaining to corrupt and defile her kind of innocence. To peel it away slowly, layer by layer, until there was nothing left of it.
    These days he preferred the simplicity of the more experienced, women who were in it for no more than he was. A few hours of heat in the dark.
    Creatures like this took a great deal of effort. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been stirred enough to play with one.
    In the end he decided to leave the tray on the table. If she woke, she’d drink it. If she didn’t, well, sleep itself would go a long way to restoring her.
    Either way, he’d have done the chore.
    He moved to the table, laid the tray down with barely a click of china on wood. But she stirred, nonetheless. A low moan, a little tremor. He backed away, his eyes on her face—and was careless enough to step into a thin slant of sunlight.
    The quick, searing pain in his shoulder had him cursing under his breath even as he moved quickly out of the beam. Annoyed with Glenna, with himself, with the sleeping queen, he turned to go.
    She began to twitch in her sleep, small sounds of fear gurgling in her throat. Her body rolled up into a tight ball as she shuddered. And in sleep, she began to speak breathlessly.
    â€œNo, no, no.” Again and again, until she fell into unintelligible Gaelic.
    She thrashed, rolling to her back, going stiff as she bowed up, exposing the line of her throat.
    He moved quickly, stepping between the couch and the table, and leaning down, gave her a hard shake.
    â€œWake up,” he ordered. “Snap out of it now, I haven’t the patience for this.”
    She moved fast—and he faster—slapping the stake she stabbed out with from her hand. It clattered on the floor ten feet away.
    â€œDon’t do that.” He gripped her wrist, felt her pulse striking like an anvil against his fingers. “Next time you do, I’ll snap this like a twig, I promise you.”
    â€œI—I—I—”
    â€œVery succinct. Are you understanding me?”
    Her eyes, huge and glassy with fear darted around the room. “She was here, she was here. No, no, not here.” Moira came up to her knees, gripping his arm with her free hand. “Where is she? Where? I can still smell her. Too sweet, too heavy.”
    â€œStop.” He released her wrist to take hold of her shoulders. Another shake had her teeth chattering. “You were asleep, you were dreaming.”
    â€œNo. I was…Was I? I don’t know. It’s not dark. It’s not dark yet, but it was…” She put her hands on his chest, but instead of pushing him away as he expected, she simply dropped her head there. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I need a moment.”
    He caught himself reaching back to stroke her hair—that long thick braid the color of dark oak. He dropped his hand to the side.
    â€œYou fell asleep here on the couch,” he said in a flat, almost businesslike voice.