Sanctifying Grace (Resurrection) Read Free

target,’ he complained. ‘It was a miracle I missed you.’
    ‘Did you miss me on purpose or are you just a bad shot?’
    The composure was swiftly coming back, especially when I accused him of being less than perfect. The Roman I was used to, the arrogant, aristocratic, overbearing, implacable, immovable one, was taking charge once more.
    ‘It was my skill and the swiftness of my reactions that caused me to miss. If you had appeared in front of anyone else, you would be dead.’
    I smiled to show him I was teasing and took a deep breath of satisfaction. I was with him once more and not only that, I was well and healthy and everything worked. I couldn’t contain myself and took off for a lap around the walled garden to celebrate, not caring I was totally nude. It was wonderful to feel how strong my legs were as they scissored me forwards, eating up the ground. I wanted to do hand-stands and back-flips, but guessed this might be taking things a step too far; I might feel I could leap tall buildings, but I hadn’t ever been able to do back-flips in my normal life, so why should I be able to expect to do them now? I satisfied myself by hopping and skipping like a newborn lamb let out onto grass for the first time.
    Roman stood quietly and impassively, never taking his eyes off me , and I began to feel a different sort of joy as I cavorted in front of him, one that started deep down in my belly and spread rapidly throughout my body until even my fingertips tingled.
    I halted in front of him.
    ‘I am very glad to see you, Grace,’ he began. ‘There is so much I want to tell you.’
    I frowned: talking was definitely not on my immediate agenda.
    ‘Look,’ he continued, holding out the rifle for me to inspect. ‘It’s a Winchester 94. I got it in America last time I was there.’ He caressed the length of the barrel. I glanced at it briefly, not liking the look of the sleek, dark metal. I had no interest in guns and wasn’t motivated to start now.
    ‘Isn’t she a beauty?’ he cooed and I shot him a look out of the corner of my eye, unable to believe that Roman, the unemotional, impassive vampire, was getting all warm and fuzzy over a piece of metal. I admit I had been known to go all weak-kneed and gooey-eyed over aircraft, but I was human, it was allowed.
    ‘Do you want to see me shoot?’ he asked. ‘I have yet to miss.’ He pointed to the far end of the garden and I could barely make out a target pinned to a board. In the rapidly darkening evening, I had no chance of telling whether he had actually hit the damn thing.
    ‘See,’ he insisted, forgetting that my eyesight was far weaker and less sharp than his. ‘There is only one hole, dead centre, and I have fired this seven times.’
    ‘I’ll take your word for it,’ I said. ‘Got a cloak handy?’ Roman always had a cloak and I was starting to chill as it was still only March.
    ‘In the house. There are some clothes for you somewhere. Don’t expect them to be in fashion, though,’ he warned.
    ‘Aren’t you coming inside with me?’ I had never been very good at flirting, but I gave him one of my best come-hither looks.
    ‘I wish to stay and practice some more,’ he replied, his attention all on the gun, so I huffed n oisily and stomped to the house: difficult with bare feet, but I tried anyway.
    The house was a grey stone, slate-topped, square, solid chunk of a building, with floor-to-ceiling French doors opening onto the garden. I quickly glanced around the room, the sounds of rifle fire following me inside. I could see a staircase beyond the open door to the hall and I stamped my way up the stairs hard enough to rattle the pictures which lined the walls.
    I didn’t care. I was sulking. I wasn’t used to Roman more or less ignoring me. I certainly wasn't used to playing second fiddle to a lump of metal: a meal, maybe, but not a boys’ toy. He was as deadly, probably more so, than the gun he was playing with and I wondered why he bothered with