Valley of Silence by Nora Roberts

would likely spin right off the pillow.
    It was with huge relief that she was finally able to announce the dancing could begin.
    She had to stand for the first set, as it was expected of her. And found she felt better for moving, for the music.
    He didn’t dance, of course, but only sat. Like a dyspeptic king, she thought, foolishly irritated because she’d wanted to dance with him. His hands on her hands, his eyes on her eyes.
    But there he sat, gazing down on the masses and sipping his wine. She spun with Larkin, bowed to her uncle, clasped hands with Hoyt.
    And when she looked back again, Cian was gone.
    Â 
    H e wanted air, and more, he wanted the night. The night was still his time. What lived inside the mask of a man would always crave it, and always seek it.
    He went up, and out, where the dark was thick and the music from the hall only a silvery echo. Clouds had rolled over the moon, and the stars were smothered by them. Rain would come before morning; he could already smell it.
    Below, there were torches to light the courtyards, and guards stood at post at the gates, on the walls.
    He heard one of them cough and spit, and the quick flap of the flags overhead in a sudden kick of wind. He could hear, if he tuned himself to it, the rustle of mice in their nest tucked in a gap of the stones, or the papery swish of the wings of a bat that circled overhead.
    He could hear what others didn’t.
    He scented human—that salt on the flesh, and the rich run of blood beneath it. There was a part of him—always—that burned a little with the need. To hunt, to kill, to feed.
    That burst of blood in the mouth, in the throat. The sheer life of it that could never be tasted in what came in cool packs of plastic. Hot, he remembered, always hot, that first taste. It heated all the places that were cold and dead, and for that moment, life—or its shadow—stirred inside that cold and that dead.
    It was good to remember, now and then, the unspeakable pleasure of it. Good to remember what he pit his will against. Vital to remember what it was those they fought craved.
    The humans did not, could not. Not even Blair who understood more than most.
    Still they would fight, and they would die. More would come behind them to fight, and to die. Some would run, of course—some always did. Some would break with fear and simply stand and be slaughtered, like rabbits caught in a jacklight.
    But most wouldn’t run, wouldn’t hide, wouldn’t freeze in terror. In all the years he’d watched humans live and die, he knew when their backs were pressed hardest to the wall, they fought like demons.
    If they won, they would end up romanticizing the whole business, songs and stories. Old men would sit by fires years from now and speak of the glory days while they showed their scars.
    And others of them would wake in cold sweats from reliving the horror of war in their dreams.
    If he lived, what would it be for him? he wondered. Glory days or nightmares? Neither, he thought, for he wasn’t human enough to spend his time on what was over and done.
    If Lilith managed to end him, well, true death was an experience he’d yet to have. It might be interesting.
    And because he heard what others didn’t, he caught the footsteps on the stone stairs. Moira’s footsteps, as he knew her gait as well as her scent.
    He nearly melted back into the shadows, then cursed himself for being a coward. She was only a woman, only a human. She could and would be nothing more to him.
    When she stepped out, he heard her sigh once, long and deep as if she’d just shed some enormous weight. She moved to the stone rail, tipped her head back, closed her eyes. And breathed.
    Her face was flushed from the heat of the fire, the exertion of the dance, but there were shadows of fatigue haunting her eyes.
    Someone had worked slender braids through her long hair, so the weaving of them with their thin ropes of gold rippled