Lachlan

by D. B. Reynolds

  Shivering, she hurried to her upstairs bedroom, stripping off damp clothes as she went. When she hit her bedroom, she tugged off her pants and socks, and dumped the entire, disorderly bundle of clothes into the hamper. But with her mother’s gentle voice still clear in her head, one of the few distinct memories she had to cling to, she dutifully slid her shoes neatly onto the closet shelf designated for athletic shoes, and headed for the bathroom.

  She turned on the hot water first, letting it fill the room with warm, wet heat. She could feel her pores drinking in the moisture, like a dried mushroom soaking in wine. Stepping under the spray, she simply stood for a while, loving the heat, the pounding of water on tired muscles. When she found herself nearly nodding off, she washed her pale blond hair, slathered on some body wash, then did a quick rinse and turned off the water.

  By the time she left the bathroom for her bedroom, she had a towel on her head and was wrapped in an oversize terry bathrobe. She was just considering whether to skip dinner and go straight to bed, when her cell gave a distinctive ring.

  Surprised, she crossed to the side table where she’d left her phone. There’d been a time when she’d heard that ring several times a day, but she and Masoud had had a falling out a couple months ago. She hadn’t heard from him since, and she’d missed him. He was her oldest friend in the world. They’d always been close, but after her mother and brother had been killed in a car accident when she was a child, she and Masoud had become even closer. They’d grown up together, even when their parents’ jobs had taken them far apart. He’d been her best friend, the one person she could always talk to.

  Until she’d discovered that he thought what they had was much more.

  “Hey,” she said, answering. “Did you finally get tired of refusing my calls?”

  “Julia.” His voice was hushed and tight with some emotion she’d never heard from him before.

  “Masoud? What’s happening?” The emotion was fear. And not simple fear, but something much more.

  “I don’t have time—” he said, but not impatiently. More like he really meant it. “I need you to do something for me.”

  “Anything. But tell me what’s going on. Where are you?” Dread crept up her spine. She’d known Masoud bin Abu almost her entire life, and she’d never heard him like this.

  “London,” he said shortly, giving her the first real piece of information since she’d answered the phone. “Meeting a client. But it went bad, Jules. Very bad.” He practically whispered the last two words.

  Julia’s chest squeezed, her heart in her throat as she asked, “Where in London? Do you need the embassy?”

  “I’m trying to get there,” he confirmed, and for the first time she paid attention to the sounds of traffic behind his voice.

  “Damn it, Masoud, don’t be walking in the open. Get a fucking cab.”

  “Don’t swear,” he said absently, as if he’d told her the same thing a million times. Which he had. “I’m only a block away.”

  That told her two things. First, he was aiming for the Saudi embassy, which was in an expensive neighborhood of London not far from the palace and lots of other embassies. Masoud had dual citizenship, but the US embassy was some distance, on the other side of the river. He wouldn’t be going there if he was in a hurry. But she also knew he was lying. She could hear it in his voice. He had more than a single block to go.

  “Masoud, grab a cab. They’re everywhere in that—”

  “Listen,” he said urgently. “I need to tell you this. Go to my house—you have a key. In my office, you know the safe.”

  “Of course, but—”

  “The combination is our numbers, you remember?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “There’s a blue expandable file in there. Erskine Ross. That’s the name. The folder has a few written notes, but also two flash drives. Make sure you get those. They have all the docs, all my notes on the data trail.”

  “Data trail. What are you talking about?”

  “Money laundering, I think. I should have turned it over to enforcement, but I wanted to be sure. He’s a big client, very high profile, been with the firm for years. I wanted to be wrong.” The words were tumbling out, and he was breathing heavily now, as if he was running. “Put that file somewhere safe. You understand?”

  She understood, all right. Masoud wasn’t supposed to know she worked for the CIA, but he did. He was too smart to fool for long, and besides, she’d trusted him. He wanted her to take this blue file to her office in Langley and lock it up.

  “Masoud, please. Are you safe?”

  “Don’t know. Don’t think so. Not yet.” The words were distracted, forced out on heavy breaths. “Be careful. Don’t let anyone know. He’s a vampire.”

  “What? Who?”

  “Erskine Ross. He’s a vampire.”

  “What the hell? Masoud, you’re scaring me. I don’t want—”

  “Julia,” he said, his voice suddenly unnaturally calm and even, as if he’d stopped running. “I love you, habibi. Don’t ever forget that.”

  The squeal of tires and gunshots. Later, she’d remember there were three shots. But in that moment, all she could hear was the sound of Masoud’s pain as he grunted into the phone, the dull thud of his body hitting the ground, the crack of his cell phone falling to the sidewalk.

  “Masoud!” She screamed his name over and over, until finally the phone cut off with the crunch of a heavy boot.

  Chapter Two

  London, England, six months later

  JULIA SIPPED HER whisky, eyes raised over the rim of her glass to watch the young woman sitting across the table.

  “I couldn’t believe it when Fergus called,” Catriona McRae nattered cheerfully. “I mean, what are the chances that all these years later, someone would be asking me about Cyn?”

  Pretty slim, Julia thought, worried about the coincidence that some vampire in Scotland would be nosing around about her friend Cynthia Leighton just as she arrived in London to investigate Masoud’s death. She stifled the shock of pain that still touched her heart every time she thought about him. She couldn’t believe he was dead. That she’d never have a chance to hug him again, to smooth over the pain they’d caused each other before he died. She knew coming to London was a longshot. She was no hotshot investigator. She couldn’t even count on the cooperation of local authorities, since she had no official standing. In fact, if anyone bothered to dig out the fact that she worked for the CIA, they’d be investigating her instead of Masoud’s death.

  She took another sip of whisky. She was the one who’d agreed to this meeting, but that didn’t ease the combination of suspicion and curiosity at a call from someone she hadn’t seen in ages. Someone who’d been a little too interested in Cynthia Leighton. She herself had been speaking to Cyn almost daily since Masoud’s death. She’d needed to learn about vampires and how to find one particular vampire in a country she barely knew, and Cyn happened to be mated to the most powerful vampire in North America. Which brought up one more chance connection . . . that Cyn had suggested Julia reach out to Cat. And that was simply too many coincidences. So she’d agreed to Cat’s out-of-the-blue invitation, though she’d insisted on a public location in a hotel that was very protective of its guests.

  Catriona (pronounced Katrina, though everyone at school had simply called her “Cat”) had been a year behind Julia and Cyn at the French prep school they’d all attended. Students there had hailed from all over the world, but with one thing in common—their families had enough money to afford the privacy and security the school offered, while also delivering a first-rate education and an international cultural experience. But Cat had stood out, even in a school population that included its share of royal offspring—both European and Hollywood. Mostly because she’d made no secret of the vampires in her family tree. At the time, Julia
had figured at least half of Cat’s stories were fictional, but it was the other half that had made her consider Cyn’s suggestion seriously.

  So there Julia had been, looking for a rich and powerful vampire, wondering how she could possibly find him, thinking about calling Cat. When suddenly Cat reached out first, saying her vampire cousin wanted to talk to her. Supposedly because he needed an inside line to Raphael.

  Julia didn’t know much about vampires, other than what she’d learned from Cyn and her own research over the past six months. She’d discovered Erskine Ross was reported to be the big boss of all Scotland’s vampires. The so-called Scottish Vampire Lord, though she hadn’t managed to find a single picture of him, other than a distant profile that was so blurry she wouldn’t have recognized him on the street. But the fact that he was the ruling vampire begged the question of why another wealthy vampire—which she assumed Cat’s cousin to be, given the family money which had qualified her for the French prep school—would need anyone to serve as a go-between if he wanted to talk to Raphael. The timing and facts just didn’t ring true.

  But she couldn’t pass up the chance. If Cat’s cousin was on the up-and-up, he might be very useful to her own investigation. And if all it took to secure his help was a phone call to Cyn . . . well, hell, she could do that. Although she’d want to know why first. After all, Cyn was a good friend, while Cat’s cousin was not only a stranger, but a vampire. And it was vampires who’d killed Masoud. She knew it, even if no one else believed her. Of course, that might be because she hadn’t shared Masoud’s files with anyone, not even his father. Hell, especially not his father. There was too much money involved. Masoud had gone against his father’s dictates most of his life. The two had never been close, a situation which had only worsened as Masoud got older. He’d never trusted his father enough to make him a part of his life, and there was no way in hell she was going to trust him with his death. She knew without asking that his father would never pursue Masoud’s killer if it meant losing a lot of money.

  “Of course, I’ve kept up with Cyn from afar,” Cat was chattering on. “Can you imagine Madame Martel’s reaction when she heard that Cynthia Leighton had hooked up with”—she lowered her voice to a whisper,—“a vampire?” She laughed. “And not just any vampire, but the big honcho himself—Raphael.”

  Julia nodded agreeably. “Old pinchface probably had a severe case of the vapors.” She smiled, despite herself, at the not-so-secret nickname that her fellow students had all used for the headmistress at their very elite prep school. At the same time, she gave her phone a casual scan to check the time, wondering when Cat’s curious cousin was going to show. He was already overdue, which made her nervous. She’d been very careful in her investigations, but if someone wanted to shut her down, she’d be an easy target.

  Glancing up when there was a stir around the entrance to the tony bar, her gaze sharpened, every bit of her training and instinct telling her this could be very, very bad. A man stood just inside the wide doorway, a slight bulge under his leather jacket betraying the weapon concealed there. Tall and broad, with long, black hair and eyes that scanned the crowd with careful precision, his gaze lingered on the most crowded tables, as if assessing the risk. Or calculating the death toll.

  “Cat,” she said in a quiet voice. “When I give the word, I want you to hit the floor. Don’t ask questions, don’t panic. Just duck under the table.”

  Catriona gave her a puzzled look. “Why would I—?”

  “Just do it,” Julia hissed, seeing the man begin to make his way between the tables.

  Cat, of course, ignored her warning, standing instead, her gaze lifted over the heads of their fellow drinkers as if searching for whatever had set Julia off.

  Julia cursed silently. This was no time for gawking. Damn Cat was going to get them both killed.

  “Over here!” Catriona called suddenly, laughing as she lifted both arms and hugged . . . .

  Well, fuck. Julia closed her eyes briefly, feeling stupid. The leather-clad gunman was Cat’s vampire cousin? He sure as hell didn’t look like the rich Scottish lord of anything. What he looked was fucking deadly, rather like her personal vision of a vampire.

  “Here goes,” she whispered to herself, then raised her eyes to meet a piercingly intelligent stare.

  LACHLAN MCRAE spotted Catriona before he’d taken two steps into the bar. She was hard to miss with that shock of red hair down her back, but even without it, his wee cousin drew a man’s attention. Especially when she stood up and yelled at him, as if he hadn’t the wits to find her himself. He started toward her, then stopped, scowling when the crowd parted and he saw the cool blond sitting at the table. This was a surprise. He’d been expecting to meet his cousin to discuss using her contacts to get hold of Cynthia Leighton. The get-together wasn’t even his idea, though he’d agreed to it. What he really wanted was to meet with Raphael, the vampire lord of North America’s Western territory. He didn’t give a fuck about North America, but Raphael was the most powerful vampire alive right now, one who’d taken a personal interest in Europe. Not that Lachlan could blame him. Not after several European vampire lords had done their best to kill him and take over North America. Idiot arseholes were all dead now, of course. But their stupidity had led Raphael to undertake some vampire king-making in Europe to ensure it didn’t happen again. He’d begun by wiping out almost every powerful vampire in France, and then taken it a step further by installing his own candidate as Ireland’s new vampire lord.

  To be sure, the American, Quinn Kavanaugh, had overthrown and killed Ireland’s longtime vampire lord on the strength of his own power and abilities. By all accounts, he was one cold and scary motherfucker. But it had been Raphael who’d handpicked him for the job.

  Lachlan, seeing long-overdue change taking root in Europe, had decided it was finally the right time for him to get some revenge of his own, by killing Scotland’s vampire lord—one Erskine Ross—and seizing the country for himself. He didn’t need Raphael’s approval, but he and his cousins had decided it would be smart to pay the powerful vampire lord a courtesy visit, just to be certain that Raphael wouldn’t clog up the works with a candidate of his own.

  Hence this meeting with Catriona, who’d somehow ended up at the same fancy French boarding school as Cynthia Leighton, who happened to be Raphael’s mate. He’d assumed Catriona would reach out to Leighton on her own and provide an introduction for him to make his call. All he’d wanted was a good phone number and an intro. It hadn’t seemed like a monumental task, so when Catriona had suggested meeting for drinks, he’d expected nothing but a slip of paper with the necessary information.

  What he hadn’t expected was a surprise guest, and he was not a man who liked surprises. Even when they came in attractive packages. He scowled down at his wee cousin, for all the good it did.

  “Lachlan,” she said cheerfully, her tone saying she’d sprung one on him.

  “Catriona,” he growled, half greeting and half warning, even as he reached down to hug her much smaller frame. Lifting her off the ground, he bent his head to her ear and said, “Who the fuck is this?”

  She tugged at his hair. “Fergus said you wanted to meet Cynthia Leighton. This is Julia, and she knows Cyn way better than I do. Now behave, you heathen.”

  He set her back on her feet with a smacking kiss to her cheek, then turned to the unknown blond as his cousin made introductions.

  “Julia, this is my cousin Lachlan McRae. Lachlan, Julia Harper. We went to school together,” she repeated. “Julia, me, and Cynthia.”

  Lachlan leaned across the table to shake, careful of the woman’s slender hand as he wrapped his thick fingers around hers. A tingling heat warmed his palm when their hands touched, and his eyes shot up to meet hers, seeing her pupils widen in surprise as if she’d felt the same heat. She managed to confine her reaction to her eyes, keeping the rest of her face cooll
y polite, which was fine with him. Keeping his tone the same, he said, “Ms. Harper.”

  “Julia,” she supplied, as she slid her fingers out of his grasp.

  Lachlan’s own distrustful nature had him following her hand, and so he noted the quick glance she gave her palm, as if seeking a logical reason for that moment of sizzling heat. When she caught him watching, she brushed invisible crumbs from her skirt instead. He bared his teeth and met her gaze. Nice legs beneath that skirt, he thought intentionally, letting the appreciation show in his eyes.

  Catriona slapped his arm. “Be nice,” she hissed under her breath, then smiled for the blond’s sake and indicated a chair between them. “Have a seat, cuz.”

  He gave her a look that said she’d pay for this, but pulled out the chair and sat, grateful that at least she’d chosen a meeting place with real chairs, so he didn’t have to squat on some fancy frippery of a thing.

  “So what’s this about?” he asked bluntly. He didn’t have time for any of Catriona’s games, cousin or not.

  She pretended to be puzzled. “Fergus said you wanted to meet Cynthia Leighton. Julia here—”

  “I don’t need to meet her,” he interrupted. “I just want to get hold of her.”

  The blond leaned closer, suddenly interested. “What do you want with Cyn?”

  He shifted his attention, drawn by her scent, even as he said, “It’s business.”

  “What kind of business?” she responded.

  “The private kind.”

  Her eyes narrowed as she gave Catriona a look heavy with meaning he didn’t understand.

  “Lachlan,” his cousin said impatiently. “Julia here was the same year in school as Cyn. I was a year younger, and when you’re a teenager, that year matters.”