Bound By His Blood

by Jennifer August

  “Didn’t expect you to pose as a waiter, Mr. Barrett.”

  The guy’s upper lip quivered.

  “Do you always jump to erroneous conclusions, Miss Aames? Not good practice for a reporter, I would think.”

  She pivoted on her heel and gasped, stumbling backward. From the shadowed corner near the chaise stepped a tall man, impeccably dressed in a muted gray suit that matched his hair. His eyes were dark, almost black but compelling. Sheridan found herself drowning in their seemingly endless depths. Once more McCallister’s face popped into her line of sight and she inhaled deeply, breaking whatever oddity held her in stasis.

  Barrett had high, chiseled cheekbones and a sharp, long nose that flared over thin lips. His skin held the pallor of Swiss cheese left unprotected overnight. Slightly yellow and oddly brittle.

  “My apologies,” she said and held out her hand. She felt like an idiot. Of course Paxton Barrett was going to be an old man. He had tons of money and influence and had been in the news for what seemed like forever.

  He stared down at the offering then lifted his lip in a half-sneering smile. “I don’t shake hands. Too many germs. I hope you understand.”

  His tone really said he didn’t give a damn if she understood or not, he wasn’t going to contaminate himself.

  Fine by her. Rapid panic rose within her and she stared at his mouth. His thin lips pressed together then peeled back revealing what she thought she’d seen.

  She stumbled backward, clutching her purse to her chest. “You’re a vampire?” she said on a strangled gasp.

  He inclined his head then slowly returned to his seat. Glided down. Like a fricking paper airplane drifting through the air.

  Oh, God. Him, too? Am I the only human left on earth?

  Hysteria didn’t just threaten—it was knocking at her psyche with a battering ram.

  “You look in need of a drink, Miss Aames. Ernest will get you what you want.”

  She nodded but didn’t move, just continued to stare. She couldn’t pull her gaze away from him. Studying him helped slow her racing heart and give her a much-needed moment to regain her equilibrium. She should have known. Seriously.

  She wanted to ask how he managed to bite anyone being a germophobe but when she thought about it, her neck itched, making her blanch. The difference between this vampire’s frail appearance and McCallister’s fitter-than-fit physique was astounding.

  Just thinking of the cop somehow helped her re-establish her normal sense of self. She even relaxed a little bit and smiled at Barrett.

  She turned back to the bartender who’d been eyeing her butt. She winked at him and he smiled in return, his blasé façade finally cracked. “Can you make me a Zombie?”

  His eyes widened and it looked like he was strangling on his tongue. Sheridan shrugged. “Sorry, I know it’s an old drink. Three kinds of rum, some pineapple and papaya juice...”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he interrupted. “I know what’s in it.” His gaze shot over her head for a half second before returning. Color flared in his cheeks. “It’s just I’ve never had anyone actually ask for one.”

  “Get the lady her drink, Ernest.” Barrett’s voice slid around her and the bartender snapped to, filling a shaker with the fixings immediately.

  She wasn’t ready to turn around and look at Barrett again, so she watched, feigning fascination as Ernest made her Zombie.

  When he strained the liquid into a chilled glass and passed it to her, she gulped greedily, savoring the sweet and sharp bites of rum.

  “How much?”

  He waved a hand.

  “All the drinks are on the house at Vesper’s,” Barrett said. “Come. Sit with me.”

  She frowned. Didn’t that waitress say McCallister paid for the shot she swiped? Maybe Barrett is just being a gentleman. Sheridan debated ordering another.

  “Now. Miss Aames, you really must improve your listening skills if we are to work together.”

  Now that caught her attention and she whirled, careful to contain the sloshing liquid. “Who said anything about working together?”

  He was seated in one of the chairs and waved at the other. “Sit.”

  She didn’t move.

  “Please.”

  Though he’d offered the word grudgingly, Sheridan was satisfied. She wasn’t some pushover dame, and she’d often found it best to get that straight from the start.

  Once her drink was safe on the table beside her chair, she dug into her purse and withdrew a small notebook and pen.

  “All right, Mr. Barrett, let’s talk Vampire Dust.”

  Chapter Five

  “Leopold tells me you had an interesting experience yesterday,” Brooks Wingate said as he sat down, tumbler of Scotch in hand. The billionaire looked as urbane and elegant as ever. He wore a dove-gray suit tailored to perfection complete with a maroon tie and matching handkerchief peeking from the breast pocket.

  McCallister couldn’t remember a time when he’d ever seen Brooks looking less than refined and in total control. He sipped his dark German beer then flicked a pointed glare at Leopold who grinned.

  “It was a stake-out,” he hedged. “Those are never interesting.”

  “You know that’s not what I’m talking about.”

  “It was nothing,” McCallister said. He hadn’t had enough time to process everything that happened with Sheridan Aames the night before. He sure as hell didn’t feel like dragging it out in the middle of the bar so Brooks could analyze it.

  “Bullshit.” Brooks leaned forward, his blue eyes intense and focused. “This could be vitally important if it’s true. There hasn’t been an actual first-hand account of a vampire experiencing Sine Qua Non in over seven hundred years.”

  McCallister shook his head and sighed. “How is it possibly important? It doesn’t exist. Vampire soul mates are the kind of stuff desperate teens and gothic poets write about. Life Legend? Give me a break.” He took a swig of the dark beer and wiped the foam from his mouth. “Don’t you have a mega-corporation to run?”

  “I delegate. What do you know about the legend?” Brooks asked.

  He shrugged. “Same as anyone else.” He rolled his eyes. “A vampire’s one soul mate will be identified by a particular fragrance, known only to the vampire. Blah, blah, blah, emo bullshit.”

  Leopold chuckled, but his golden eyes were serious. “There’s more to it than that.”

  “A lot more,” Brooks said. “The fragrance is their pure Essence. It’s the hallmark of their soul and a part of yours. That’s why you, and only you, can identify the scent. On the other hand, it doesn’t always happen that way. Every pairing is different.”

  McCallister frowned. He’d never heard this bit of the story. “What do you mean, it’s part of my soul?”

  Brooks sipped his Scotch. “I have some texts on it at my house. You can read them to get a better idea but this is what I know. At the moment a human turns into a vampire, his soul dies and splits in two. Part of it returns to the vampire but the other half fades into the universe where it waits to be reborn. As a human. From that life to the next, there is only one goal—find the other half of its soul. In other words, find the vampire to which it belongs.”

  McCallister rolled one of his shoulders to displace the building tension. Despite his protestations about the idiocy of the legend, he was beginning to think it might have some merit.

  “You said from that life to the next,” Leopold said. “What happens when they find the vampire they share souls with?”

  “That’s where the power comes in. In a regular Consort Joining, there is a small exchange of powers. The vampire feeds his human Consort a tiny bit of one of his powers. Most often it’s a psychic link between the two of them. The human gift is life, of course. They don’t really have anything to offer a vampire other than that.” Brooks cleared his throat and leaned toward the middle of the table. “In a Sine Qua Non Joining, the exchange is greater and more powerful. The human Consort will imbue her vampire with
a part of her soul. The part that was lost when he was turned.”

  McCallister shifted in his chair. “I don’t know, Brooks. It sounds too fantastic to be believed.”

  Brooks’ face was grim. “You haven’t heard the worst of it. If the vampire recognizes the Sine Qua Non but fails to claim the Consort, he will rapidly age until he dies.”

  McCallister frowned. “How rapidly?”

  “The upshot? Dead within a year. The Consort will also die and both souls will be lost.”

  Unease licked at McCallister. A vision of lively, vivacious Sheridan shriveled and dead filled his mind. His chest ached like a giant hand reached in and grabbed hold of his heart and squeezed without mercy.

  “Evening, gents.” Sullivan Alexander pulled out a hardback chair, flipped it around and straddled the table. His dark gaze immediately speared McCallister. “’eard yer dovey is fated. Right barrel o’crap ‘at is, guv.”

  McCallister winced at the language mangling. “For God’s sake, Sullivan, drop the damn Cockney shit and speak like a civilized person.”

  The shaggy haired man gave him a dour look. “Jeez, you take the fun out of everything. Sometimes a man has to get back to his roots, you know?”

  “You were raised in boarding schools, not the mean streets of London. Your roots are servants, silver spoons, and sacks of money,” Leopold said dryly. “You only choose to be a thief now.”

  Sullivan grinned. “Beats sitting around jacking off to horrible porn.”

  The club, filled with all manner of vampires and their associates — servants, familiars and Consorts — roared loudly for a moment before an unnatural hush descended. The air around McCallister stilled and though he saw Sullivan’s lips still moving, he heard nothing. Nothing save the almost familiar heartbeat of Sheridan Aames. He pushed up and away from the table, noted the slow reaction of his friends and spun around.

  A pink and white path shimmered among the throngs of people, tinted with the softest overlay of roses. He followed the faint trail until it flared around Becky, a Vesper’s Bite waitress.

  McCallister grabbed her arm. “Where is she?” he demanded. The words were swept away in a sudden rush of heartbeat, blood, and terror.

  Sheridan!

  The waitress frowned, said Red Room then pointed to her left. McCallister looked down the hall and spotted the pink and white path. He gave a curt nod and headed in that direction.

  Becky stopped him. “I gave her your drink.”

  The words filled his ears slowly, but when he understood, he smiled, spun and made for the Red Room.

  At least Sheridan would have a bit of protection, however small. He hoped. Since he didn’t technically offer her the drink he wasn’t sure how well it would cloak her.

  Damn, all this Sine Qua Non was a jumble of confusing bullshit.

  He continued down the hall, around a bend and into a deeper portion of the club until it dead-ended at a closed door. Like a sudden splash of water, everything returned to normal.

  Noise, movement, jostling all happened in real time.

  Sullivan and Leopold appeared behind him. Sullivan’s jocular expression replaced by a grim determination and Leopold’s golden eyes gleamed with the scent of the chase.

  “Brooks?”

  “Got held up,” Leopold said.

  McCallister nodded and looked up at the nameplate above the door. “Red Room.”

  A frisson of alarm skittered along his nerves. McCallister reached out and touched the doorknob, twisted slowly.

  Locked.

  Again the unseen wind billowed and his eyes widened as Sheridan’s scent blew through him. He gritted his teeth against the ever-increasing odds that it wasn’t just a sweet aroma. He was smelling her Essence.

  Sine Qua Non.

  “She’s in there,” he said tightly. “I have to get in.”

  He yanked his gun from his shoulder holster and aimed at the lock.

  Leopold hissed and grabbed his arm. “Not like that, you idiot.” He tipped his chin at Sullivan. “Let the damn thief earn his keep. Sullivan.”

  “Right-o,” the other man said with a cheeky grin.

  As he bent, he pulled a small set of tools from his back pocket, selected a thin piece of metal and inserted it into the lock. Seconds later, he winked up at McCallister. “Done.”

  Sometimes, it was good to have friends with unusual, albeit illegal, abilities.

  Holstering his gun, McCallister shoved the door open then barreled in. “Sheridan!” he bellowed.

  Dimly aware of Leopold and Sullivan streaming in behind him, McCallister swept the room, nearly overpowered by her Essence. The scent flowered from every surface, impossible to pinpoint. Her heart pounded in wild abandon, further compounding the problem. Pink and red streaks zig-zagged around the space like a graffiti artist gone wild. The room appeared empty, but he knew better. Two chairs flanked a fireplace, a slightly angled chaise sat along one wall. A wilting potted plant stood in the corner.

  “McCallister, here,” Leopold snapped.

  He spun, took in the disarray of shattered glasses, tipped over and dripping bottles, and strewn chunks of ice before he caught sight of a pair of legs protruding from behind the bar. He leapt over and landed beside the figure in one lithe move.

  Ernest, the bartender, lay sprawled on the floor.

  Dark, unseeing eyes pointed toward the ceiling. Leopold, hand at the man’s throat, shook his head.

  “Dead.” He closed Ernest’s eyes then put a palm over the bartender’s forehead as though taking his temperature. Leopold jerked then stiffened before surging upward. Fury etched lines into his already rugged face. “Barrett.”

  “Oh, hell,” Sullivan whispered.

  An unnatural calm settled over McCallister. “How long?”

  “Couple of minutes, no more.”

  He turned back to the room and checked it out again. The angle of the chaise was definitely off. McCallister walked toward it, veering around the end and into the darker part of the corner, near the plant. Hooking his foot around it, he shoved the container away.

  “Sheridan,” he whispered and dropped to his knees.

  She lay curled in a ball, hands over her ears and tears streaming down her face.

  “Honey, it’s me.”

  She flinched when he touched her then her eyes flew open. They were wild and scared as shit, her skin as pale as a British vampire. He caressed her hair. “Sheridan, did he hurt you?”

  She whimpered then launched herself at his chest. She wrapped her arms tight around him and buried her face in his neck. Hot tears immediately soaked his collar and slid down his skin.

  He surged to his feet and clamped her close. Sheridan’s legs dangled for a moment before she enfolded them around his waist.

  Sullivan whistled.

  McCallister ignored him, trying to calm Sheridan’s racing heart. He could feel her blood surging and roiling and it was proving quite a distraction.

  “Did he hurt you?”

  A small shake of her head. Her heart began to slow as she took in a deep breath.

  “Do you know where he is?” He was going to rip Barrett limb to limb. How dare the bastard touch her?

  Another head shake.

  “Why don’t you put her down so she can actually talk?” Leopold suggested.

  McCallister glared and squeezed her closer.

  She let out an “oomph” and leaned her head back to look at him. “I’m better now,” she said, voice whispery and tremulous.

  “I don’t want to let you go.”

  She gave him a watery smile. “Really, it’s okay. I’m not usually such a namby-pamby, but that man, that vampire...” Another tremor rocked her.

  McCallister grunted then slowly eased her to the floor, pleased when she stayed cuddled under his arm as she turned to survey the room. Her cry of dismay when she spotted Ernest’s body tore at him and he kissed the top of her head.

  “Don’t look.”

  Leopold stepped in front of
the body.

  Sullivan bowed and held out his hand. “Sullivan Alexander, you lovely dish, a pleasure to meet you. The glowering lad over there with the glowing golden eyes is our Hunter, Leopold.”

  She stiffened, one hand flying to her mouth briefly. She flicked a glance at McCallister then placed her fingers in Sullivan’s outstretched grasp.

  McCallister felt a growl well deep in his throat. He did not like Sheridan being touched by anyone else.

  Especially another vampire.

  Sullivan winked at him. “Easy there, big guy. Just making introductions.”

  Sheridan pulled her hand away and nodded. “Hello.” She looked up at him, haunted fear shadowing her normally bright blue eyes. “We need to talk.” She shivered. “Not here, though.”

  “Let’s go back to my house,” he said.

  “Not a good idea,” Leopold put in. “We’ll convene at Brooks’.”

  “Who is Brooks?”

  “A friend of ours.” McCallister shared a long look with Leopold, trying to decipher the man’s inscrutable face. He got nothing.

  Sullivan was already out the door and McCallister put his hand to Sheridan’s hip and steered her from the room.

  “I’ll take care of Ernest,” Leopold murmured as they passed him.

  They wound their way through the thinning group of vampires and ended up in the Altar Bar where Brooks and a raven-haired woman sat.

  “Holy shit,” Sullivan murmured. “That’s Calliope Jones.”

  McCallister whistled. “Damn, she rarely ventures out. Wonder what’s going on.”

  The couple looked deep in conversation. Tension and disapproval tightened Brooks’ mouth. He looked up at their approach, his hand covering Calliope’s fingers. She stilled, then rose and nodded at them before disappearing into the crowd.

  “Don’t ask,” Brooks growled before he could speak.