Chapter Seventeen
Hermione awoke with a bit of a start. She wasn't sure exactly how, or what the sensation had been, not precisely, but as she opened her eyes, she understood the source.
The sun had set. Somehow, deep in her bones, she'd simply felt it.
Yet, she didn't consider herself to have the time, nor the presence of mind, to be troubled by that. Not when the circumstance she awoke to was . . . so very much more troubling.
She was rather irritatingly across the bed, pressed into the side of one quite deeply-asleep Lucius Malfoy. Worse, while she'd clearly been the one to cross the expanse of the very large mattresses—because vampires obviously turned into needy lunatics with no sense of boundaries nor personal space when they slept—there was the distinct feel of his arm around her waist.
For a few strained . . . well, no, not heartbeats, she didn't have those anymore. For a few strained seconds, she watched his face. She didn't move, only stared at him, waiting for a seemingly inevitable moment of him waking to find them in this rather unfortunate—clearly accidental—embrace, so that he could start his dignified form of bellyaching and be done with it.
Yet, he did not stir. Not even an eyelid flutter.
Swallowing hard, she crept backward, gently nudging his arm from her with her elbow as she moved. The entire time she continued keeping a close eye on his currently peaceful expression, her not-beating heart in her throat as she waited for him to burst awake and find some way to blame her for this . . . unseemly predicament. Of course, it was her on his side of the bed, but she wasn't willing to entertain the logic behind any arguments he might levy just now.
Her? Hermione Granger not willing to entertain logic? Well, this entire vampire-mess was simply awful!
Managing to finally extract herself from him, she bolted back to her own side of the bed so fast she wasn't even conscious of her swift movement, only that in the space of a blink she was back at the far edge of the mattress. She hadn't made a sound, nor jostled the bed at all.
Letting her eyelids drift shut a moment, she forced her lungs to draw in a breath, to collect herself. This was all new and she only had vague ideas of what to expect, it was natural that some things of her new existence were going to come as a shock.
Nodding to her sleeping host, she climbed out of bed and inched toward the window. Wincing, she peeled back the very edge of the drape, prepared to collapse were she wrong. Yes, the sun had set; her new instincts weren't somehow faulty.
Hermione dropped the heavy fabric back into place and turned on her heel to face the room when a scent tickled her nose. Ever so faint, like . . . she shook her head. The only thing she could really compare it to was the way the wafting of fresh bread from a bakeshop might fill the air first thing in the morning, initially just the lightest hint of sweetness tinging the air as the process began and then growing stronger as it went on, or as you got closer.
Only this smell was getting no stronger. It remained light, unplaceable.
Her brow furrowing, she made a mental note to tell Mr. Malfoy about her speedy movement—but certainly not what she'd been trying to get away from at the time—when he woke up, she padded barefoot to the door. Easing it open, she ducked her head into the corridor.
Out here, too. No heavier, still, but she could get a sense of direction.
Her nostrils flared, and she deliberately ignored the mental picture of an animal tracking prey. Slipping through the doorway, she followed the scent.
Down the corridor and then another, through a door that blended into the wall—likely to conceal the servants' quarters from the prying eyes of wandering guests—and down a winding staircase.
