by Chloe Neill
“And that was the origin of the feud?” I asked.
“Love was the origin of the feud,” he said. “Fiona McKenzie and Christophe Marchand, one of my companions. She, a shifter. He, a vampire. They first met in their ‘human forms,’ I suppose you could say, in 1891. And against the wishes of their respective family and Clan, they fell in love.”
“You objected?” I asked.
“I was not comfortable with their relationship but did not formally object. Bernard was far more conservative than me. He objected, and vigorously. He told Christophe he’d be cast from the Clan if he proceeded. The Clan is a democracy, and Bernard won the vote.”
That was as easy a justification for prejudice as I’d ever heard.
“And so Christophe was cast out. You may know there are many ‘ghost towns’ in this part of the country. Villages were established for mining, for railroads, and abandoned when lodes ran dry or didn’t materialize. Many were optimistic in that time. Fiona and Christophe found such a place, not far from Elk Valley. Four buildings, abandoned only a few years before. They called it High Creek and made their home there.”
Vincent’s eyes darkened. “They were happy, as far as I was aware, although neither the Clan nor the family relented. Their door was bloodied.”
“Like they did to us,” Nessa said, glancing at Ethan.
He nodded. “And something happened to this couple?”
“One night, Christophe woke and found Fiona gone, along with some of her possessions and a brooch Christophe had brought from across the ocean. Laurel leaves around a dove, all of it rendered in gems. He’d planned to give it to Fiona, but no trace of her was ever found. Some suspected she’d been a plant by the McKenzies the entire time, had only ever wanted the brooch in payment for our use of the valley. Others suggested Christophe had been violent, that she’d sought escape, had taken the brooch to finance her travels.”
“And some believe she never left the valley,” Nessa quietly added, and the air in the room seemed to chill. “That she was killed—by Christophe, by another McKenzie, by another Marchand—and never found.”
“Christophe was mad with grief, insisted he’d never harmed her and that she wouldn’t have left willingly.” Vincent swallowed hard. “He searched for her for three weeks straight, had to be dragged inside at dawn on two occasions because he’d thought he’d been close to finding her. He was convinced she was out there, waiting for him. But he never found her. One night, twenty-two days after she left, he walked into the sun.”
He’d killed himself, Vincent meant. Willingly turned himself to ash in mourning for his lover.
“Since then, there have been reprisals?” Ethan asked.
“Over the intervening decades, too many to count. Bernard blamed the McKenzies for Christophe’s death. He confronted Fiona’s father, and they both died in the ensuing battle. There’ve been eleven deaths since then. Two dozen attacks, a hundred minor acts.”
Vincent cleared his throat. “Given events, what you’ve fallen into here, I’m sure you’d like to return to Chicago.”
Vincent’s tone was casual, but there was heat behind the words. Because he wanted Nessa to himself, or because he didn’t want us poking around into the manner of her husband’s death? Either way, Ethan wasn’t having it.
“Nessa has requested we help her,” Ethan said evenly. “As we are friends, we’ve agreed to do so.”
Vincent didn’t answer, at least not aloud, but shifted his gaze to Nessa, who nodded.
“I’d value his help, his perspective. Maybe he can help bring this ugly chapter to a close.”
“It is not up to the Marchands to bring peace,” Vincent said, a frisson of temper coloring his cheeks. “We didn’t begin the fighting.”
Ethan crossed one leg over the other, the move apparently casual, but signaling his frustration, the rise in his own temper. “You started the Clan with three—you, Christophe, Bernard. You maintain the first insult was shifter against vampire. That means you, or your people, struck back. Now you are the only founder left alive, and yet the feud has continued.”
“Christophe and Bernard were casualties in a war. I do not fight the battles, but nor can I control those who do. We are a democracy,” he said, using the word like a shield for his own inaction.
“And every democracy has its saviors and demagogues.”
“Are you accusing me of something?”
“It is your Clan,” Ethan said. “I suspect it’s in your power to stop this war, to wage peace instead. Have you discouraged the hostilities? The retaliations?”
“Ethan,” Nessa sharply said, reprobation in her voice. But that didn’t seem to affect Ethan. And it didn’t soothe Vincent.
“I don’t care for your insinuations,” he said, rising suddenly, irritated magic filling the room. “Dawn is coming, and we will take our leave.”
“Vincent,” Nessa said, but he shook his head.
“I do not believe he is needed. But if you’re committed to his staying, we will send human comrades to see you safe during the day.”
Ethan’s brows lifted. “We are committed and appreciate the offer. But, as we noted, we thought Sheriff McKenzie was the only human in the valley.”
“There are humans in other towns who seek membership in the Clan,” Vincent said. “Those who wish to join us must show their dedication through a period of service. Including guard duty.”
“I see,” Ethan flatly said. He didn’t voice his concerns psychically or otherwise, but they weren’t hard to guess: Here, in a valley in Colorado, was a man building his own kingdom.
Vincent held out a hand to Nessa, who slipped her fingers into his.
“Thank you,” she said to Ethan, holding out her other hand to him, and linking them together, through her, for a moment. “We’ll be in touch at dusk.”
Ethan nodded. “Tom wanted you to look through the house, see if anything was missing. We can go with you.”
Nessa nodded, and the entourage moved to the door, Vincent and Nessa in front, Astrid and Cyril, who’d spoken not a single word, behind them.
When they reached the door, Vincent glanced back. “Do be careful here. There are many who are not what they seem.”
With that final thought, Vincent Marchand and the rest of his crew disappeared into darkness.
***
“Thoughts, Sentinel?” Ethan asked, when the door was closed and locked and the Clan was on the other side of it.
“He’s guarded, manipulative. Played the sycophant when he thought that would work, then switched tactics to aggressive. But he overplays both. He’s either very concerned for the welfare of his vampires or excellent at faking it.”
Ethan arched an eyebrow. “Your analytical abilities are becoming almost disturbingly acute.”
“Sentinel hears all, sees all. And right now, I see and hear a strong whiff of cult.”
Ethan nodded. “A cult leader, if he’s dangerous. A guru, perhaps, if he is not. A strong personality, with equally strong opinions, to whom, in this case, vampires gravitate. Nessa, at least during the time I knew her best, was searching for something more. She enjoyed travel, people, experiencing new things. But she seemed, at heart, discontented. I suppose her search brought her here.”
“And to Vincent.”
He nodded. “And, against Vincent’s wishes, to Taran.”
“Do you think he could have done this? Killed Taran in order to free her, to win her back?”
“I don’t know. I’ve known many like him in my lifetime—those who use their charisma to enthrall others, and those who believe they have a right to whomever they wish.”
I suspected he was thinking of Balthasar, his maker, but didn’t want him to dwell on that. “I’m guessing our other likely candidates are Rowan and Nessa. Rowan for revenge, Nessa for—well, who knows—but it sounds like she was
the last person to see him alive. And riddle me this, Sullivan.” I gestured to the room. “If Taran studied history, taught night classes, where the hell did they get all this money? What does she do?”
“Her human family, I understand, had some wealth many, many years ago. She left them as a vampire but still inherited after they died.”
“And the rest is the miracle of compound interest.” I sighed, glanced at him. “So what do we do now?”
He smiled. “We call our friends and make our inquiries.”
That, I could do. “You take Gabriel. I’m going to call the Librarian.”
Ethan’s brows lifted. “Oh?”
“The feud,” I said. “It sounds like both sides have been keeping score for a very long time. I’d like to know, before Taran McKenzie, who was ahead.”
Ethan’s smile was grand, quick, and very pleased. “That’s my girl. Go find your facts, Sentinel. I’ll find us a shifter. And preferably an ally.”
***
The bedroom, like the rest of the house, was decorated with an eye toward nature. There was a rock-covered fireplace at one end of the room, a large bed across from it with a brass-legged bench at the end. A chandelier of twined antlers hung from the vaulted ceiling, and a bank of windows provided a view of the valley beyond. I regretted I wouldn’t be spending leisurely evenings enjoying it.
A landscape, an oil painting crackled with age, hung in a gilded gold frame on the wall across from the door. The greens and blues of sky and valley were lit by shafts of sunlight that seemed to glow from the canvas. So much beauty, apparently wasted on families who lusted instead for revenge.
When I’d showered in the attached bathroom—also enormous, and dominated by wood and granite—and changed into pajamas, I sat cross-legged on the bed and called up the Librarian.
I’d been a graduate student in English literature before becoming a vampire, and I’d rued, for a long time, that Ethan had named me Sentinel instead of the head of the House’s two-story and incredibly sexy library. But I’d turned out to be a pretty good Sentinel, and the library already had a very competent commander, if a grouchy one.
“Marchand and McKenzie?” he asked, confirming as the rustling of turning pages echoed in the background.
“That’s them. Vampires and shifters, respectively. Elk Valley, Colorado.”
“I’m scanning the index.”
“Of what? The Big Book of Inter-Sup Feuds?”
“No. We don’t have that one. The update subscription’s too expensive. We do carry the Directory of Notable North American Feuds.”
As he sounded utterly serious—and rarely was anything otherwise—I kept the follow-up question to myself. Namely: How was there a cottage industry in supernatural feud directories?
“All right, I’ve got it. Fiona McKenzie and Christophe Marchand. She disappeared, and he . . . Oh. Damn,” he said, probably reading about Christophe’s rather depressing end.
“Yeah,” I said. “Bernard Marchand, we think, was the next one killed. He was one of the Clan’s founders.”
“Correct. And there were others. Many others. Some arrests, some disappearances, some thefts.”
I thought about the missing object Vincent had mentioned. “Does it mention the brooch?”
A pause, then, “Only that the vampires believed Fiona took it. But no sign of it, or her, was ever found.”
“So where the hell had they gone?” I wondered aloud. Had someone killed her and stolen it? Or had Fiona simply taken the brooch and started over somewhere else?
“I don’t have the foggiest. But we’re an hour ahead of you, and dawn is on its way. You want me to send you the rest of the file?”
“Yeah, that’d be great.” Opting to be proactive, I added, “And if you’ve got some kind of general report on the Marchand Clan, could you send that along, too? Ethan’s curious.”
“Easily done,” he said.
Thank goodness something was.
***
While I waited for Ethan to return, I carefully cleaned my katana blade with oil and rice paper, just as I’d been taught. I’d just resheathed it when Ethan walked into the bedroom. He closed the bedroom door behind him, locked it. Just in case.
“Gabriel?” I asked.
“On his way,” he said, kicking off his shoes and pulling his shirt over his head.
“What did he have to say?”
“Mostly grunting.” Ethan unbuttoned his trousers and placed them across the bench at the end of the bed. “He was unhappy with the interruption, less so the reason for it. They should be here by dusk tomorrow. And in the meantime, our temporary human guard is outside.”
“In weird Clan clothes?”
“Actually, yes,” Ethan said with a nod. “She may not yet be a member, but she’s adopted the dress.”
As automatic shades began to descend over the windows, a sign that dawn was on its way, Ethan walked to the painting and let his eyes roam over it.
“It’s a beautiful work,” he said.
“It’s a beautiful valley. Not entirely peaceful, and I haven’t seen any elk, but quite a spectacle.”
My phone signaled a new message. I glanced down, found a snippet about the Marchand Clan from the Librarian. Since he’d evidently worked to stay awake past dawn to get us the information—a possible but not entirely pleasant undertaking for a vampire—I gave him props for his dedication.
“Dossier on the Clan from the House,” I told Ethan. “He’s going to send me details on the feud tomorrow.”
I scanned the screen as Ethan nodded and sat down beside me.
“The Clan is currently unregistered,” I read. “I assume that’s a reference to the North American Vampire Registry. Estimated date of establishment is 1875, which matches what Vincent told us. Fifteen current members, down from a previous max of nineteen.”
“Not a kingdom, then,” Ethan said, turning to put his back against the headboard, stretch legs atop the duvet.
“Not a kingdom,” I agreed. “Vincent Marchand is listed as the founder. Official symbol is a fleur-de-lis. There’s some very brief background about him, Bernard, Christophe. Nothing controversial there, barely a mention of the feud: ‘Possible hostilities with local supernaturals.’”
“That seems at least generally accurate,” Ethan said, “if a vast understatement.”
“Along with the address, contact information, that’s pretty much the gist of it.” I offered the phone. “You want to peruse?”
He shook his head. “I’ve had more than enough of the Marchand Clan today, Sentinel. Put the phone away, and let’s have a moment of peace before the sun puts us down.”
I couldn’t argue with that and had only just switched off the lamp when I found myself covered in vampire, his body long and warm and very obviously naked.
I slid my hands into his hair, golden silk between my fingers. “I think you had on more clothing a moment ago.”
He trailed kisses along my neck, teased fangs against delicate and sensitive skin. “I was overwhelmed with desire for you, Sentinel.”
I opened my mouth to protest, to match sarcasm with sarcasm, but then his hand was on my breast, long fingers teasing, inciting.
“Okay,” was all I managed, as I arched into his touch.
Ethan stripped me of clothing, and then his mouth found mine, his tongue insistent, demanding response, provoking my desire. And the strength of his arousal between us left little doubt about his own.
The flame between us sparked quickly, quickening our heartbeats, flushing our skin. When his clever fingers found my core, sound and taste and sensation merged as he urged me on. The fire bloomed like a sudden inferno, flashing heat across my body, and his name fell from my lips. “Ethan.”
He growled with predatory insistence, chest rumbling above me. “You are exquisite,” he said, moved in
side me with power and potency that rid my mind of thought. The feeling was delicious, but the sudden mindlessness, the absence of fear or worry, was utterly glorious. There was no room for dread or disquiet in Ethan’s seduction.
Heat began to spread through my body again, a fast-blooming flower perched at the edge of spring. I tugged his mouth toward mine, teeth and tongue exploring and inciting. His huffing breaths, the cant of his hips, hinted at his own banked pleasure, at the control he rode so carefully. He was, I realized, waiting for me, pushing me to find that jewel of oblivion.
I meant to draw it out, to tease him with the rock of my own hips, the scratch of my nails across his skin. But yearning got the best of him.
“Now,” he said, a word that snapped through my body like an order. I dug fingers into Ethan’s back as pleasure blazed through muscle and across heated skin, blissful shudders rocking my body.
Ethan stiffened, called my name, the powerful and primal sound sending me flying again. He pressed his hand against my abdomen as if by touch he could quicken life there, fulfill by the strength of his determination alone Gabriel’s promise that we’d have a child. For a moment, we stayed like that, with the promise of the future between us.
And then Ethan pressed his mouth to mine, breathing still ragged. “That escalated quickly.”
I couldn’t help my very indelicate snort. Coming from a man who tended to eat pizza with a fork, it was surprisingly funny. “So it did.”
He turned onto the bed and stretched like a sated predator, but entwined our fingers together, keeping the connection between us. And as the sun breached the horizon, exhaustion draped my languid body like a quilt. My lashes fell.
“Tomorrow,” Ethan murmured, “we will hunt a killer. But for now, let us be still.”
Those words—“be still”—had been the first Ethan had spoken to me. They were often the last words on his lips before the sun blazed into the sky, just as, tonight, they were the last I heard before sleep claimed me.
4
“Mmm,” I said, eyes closed, smiling drowsily, the scent of bacon in the air. “I picked the right vampire.”
