She poured them each a double shot of the aged Scotch before filling the rest with smooth crimson from the flask.
“Bottoms up.” Abigail drained her glass in one shot. The warm, fresh blood and whiskey burned through her veins with a comforting feel.
She exhaled, raking a hand through her strawberry blonde hair. “What now?” she said, mostly for her own benefit. “I’ve never been one to shy away from difficulty, even if it means something unsavory.”
“I know.”
“We need this like we need our throat ripped out. If the body is as bad as your face says, fear is bound to follow once this gets out.”
Bette put her half-finished drink on the desk. “I might as well tell. The body was found in the backrooms. The Carousel Suite in the red zone, to be exact. I had the area secured, but—” She puffed out a quick breath.
“Tell me everything right now. Rémy and I need all the facts if we’re going to head off panic in the donor ranks. We haven’t had a backroom death in ages.”
“Just an observation, Abby. It’s nothing.”
“Well?”
Bette shrugged. “There was an unusual scent in the air. One I didn’t recognize. It rode beneath the scent of residual blood, yet it was so potent it made my nips hard. I couldn’t help it. I had to excuse myself and head to my room.”
“For what? Did it make you sick?”
Bette shook her head, an embarrassed flush on her pale cheeks.
“For god’s sake, Bette. Spit it out.”
“Hey, don’t shoot the messenger, Ms. Panic Pants. I’m trying to tell you, but this has me freaked out. The scent didn’t make me ill. It made me ravenous. For blood and sex. I dragged the first guy I could get my hands on back to my room and fucked his brains out. It was a feeding frenzy topped with toe-curling, boneless, leg-shaking sex.”
Abigail blinked at her. “You can’t be serious. You’re dating Gehrig. His Were blood should slake your thirst for months. Plus, Weres satiate other appetites better than most, so what the hell?”
“I know! That’s what’s so crazy disturbing.” She exhaled. “Anyway, Rémy sensed the underlying peculiarity well. Or at least I think he noted the telltale lure. Maybe he’s old enough to handle whatever sent me into a sexual feeding frenzy. Or maybe he’s just old.”
Abigail shut her laptop and grabbed her office keys. “Vampires don’t exhaust donors to the point of expiring. Bleed them dry, sure, but we don’t sex them to death. There’s only two supernatural entities that do that, and neither are allowed into the Red Veil without clearing permission through me.”
“You’re not listening, Abby. The donor was drained. Every ounce. Yet this unusual scent wasn’t on him. It was as if someone released an airborne drug that robs the undead of their senses.”
“Don’t be daft.”
The clock on the wall chimed loudly as Abigail locked up her desk. “Where is Rémy now?”
“I’m here.” Rémy stood in the doorway to Abigail’s office. “I didn’t want to waste time, so if the mountain won’t come to Mohammed—”
“Rémy.” Abigail put her keys down. “I was on my way. Bette was filling me in on what happened.”
His frown deepened. “Did you call Dash?”
“No.” She glanced at Bette. “Other than being drained, do we know who the victim was or what precipitated his death?” Abby asked.
Rémy moved to a chair in front of Abigail’s desk and sat, shaking his head. “The victim was a Were, which complicates matters in the extreme.”
“We’ll need as much information as possible,” Abigail added. “The Alpha of the Brethren and his hunters will want answers.”
“I know.” Rémy agreed. “We’ll have no choice but to tell them eventually. Sean Leighton has every right to demand such. If the situation was reversed, we certainly would, though I would rather wait until we know more.”
“I’ll tell you what I think,” Bette interrupted. “I think an outsider gained access to the backrooms without consent. I think they somehow found and manipulated the worst of our kind. Vampire dregs.
“Maybe one of the forbidden entities, like a demon or an incubus are responsible. From the look of what was left of that poor soul, whoever or whatever was responsible allowed the vampires involved to feed very well. Viciously well.”
Abby shook her head again. “We have wards for that very reason. No one could get through.”
“If the culprit is none of the above, then who?” Bette asked.
Rémy templed his fingers, his face like stone. “It was neither a demon nor an incubus. It was an entity we never anticipated.”
“Why would you say that? Rémy, what do you know?” Abigail asked, stunned.
“My gut tells me it was a Cinn ag Taitneamh.”
Bette looked from one to the other. “Wait, a Sin Egg Tat…what?” “
Abigail stood stunned, ignoring Bette.
He nodded, his expression tightening. “It’s Gaelic, Bette. “Loosely translated, it means Shining Ones.”
“Sidhe. Fae devils.” Abigail sank back into her chair.
Rémy nodded again. “Yes, and if memory serves, it’s not good. The Unseelie are powerful and innately magical. Malevolent, when it suits them.”
Bette swiveled in her chair to face Rémy. “Are you telling us a Dark Fae killed a Were in our backrooms? How? If we have wards for other forbidden entities, how did we let this slippery sucker get through?”
“Good question,” he acknowledged. “And one we need to answer sooner than later. An incubus, or a succubus or even a demon would have doubtless set off our wards. But this—” Rémy shook his head. “Someone invited this dark Sidhe into our world. There’s no other explanation that fits.”
Bette pursed her lips, unsure. “Wait. I thought the undead were the only supernaturals that needed an invitation to enter a private space.”
“I don’t mean that kind of invitation, Bette. What I mean is indications point to this dark Sidhe having help.” He gave Abigail a dubious look. “Inside help.”
“Don’t look at me,” she balked. “I certainly didn’t let an Unseelie through our doors.”
“No, but you oversee our wards. When was the last time their strength was confirmed?”
Abigail snatched her keys from her blotter and unlocked the top drawer to her desk. “Two days ago.”
She pulled a black ledger from the narrow drawer and opened it to the center. Turning the book around, she tapped the latest entry. “I carried out a full test myself. One of the newer sentinels was with me. It’s part of their training program.”
Rémy leaned forward to look at the logbook, but Bette caught Abby’s eye, still confused.
“I thought the Fae only messed with humans, and then only when it suited them. What could they possibly gain coming here?”
“Dark Sidhe are caprice incarnate,” Rémy replied, closing the book. “This could’ve been nothing more than sport, but when they crossed into our backrooms, they violated our sanctuary. Even the Sidhe know a vampire’s lair is sacrosanct.” He pushed the log back to Abigail. “Your records are impeccable as always. I apologize for jumping to the wrong conclusion.”
She nodded once, but Rémy’s sudden backdoor accusation left her nonplussed. Abby was old school, and would never question a master elder, but her eyes were daggers.
“Abigail.” Rémy considered the tight set of her jaw. “We are creatures who live on a divided precipice. Ruled both by reason and by desire. Put yourself in my shoes. You would have considered the outside possibility as well, however upsetting. We are, after all, dealing with a Sidhe.” He shrugged, unapologetic. “Occam’s Razor.”
“I don’t understand.” Bette bristled. “What does the Tinkerbell Club have to do with accusing one of our own?”
Rémy ignored the question. “You employ youngbloods as sentinels, yes?” he asked Abigail.
“It’s been our policy for a while,” she replied. “We’ve found their residual huma
n blood makes it easy for them to blend with the crowds at the club. The fact they’re also the strongest and most biddable of our kind makes them the perfect counterpart to the Were guard dogs we traditionally employ. Of course, once their lingering human blood dissipates, we dismiss them.”
“Interesting.”
Abby cocked her head. “The elders never concerned themselves with the details of running the club. At least Sebastién never did. What do my youngbloods have to do with any of this?”
Bette’s mouth dropped, and her eyes jerked to Rémy. “Are you saying you think youngbloods made some sort of deal with a Fae?”
Abby’s large office suddenly seemed small. Rémy reached for the desk phone and made a quick call, and when he hung up, he turned toward both sets of questioning eyes.
“I can’t answer your question, Bette, because I no longer know.” He shook his head. "I’m positive a Sidhe was responsible for what happened to this unfortunate shifter. What we need to find out is if they had help from a few traitorous youngbloods, and whether or not that help was compulsion or a pact.”
Abigail sat in considered silence, sparing a glance for Bette. “I can’t believe this was consciously done.”
“Again, Occam’s Razor. Until proven otherwise, we have to investigate.”
“Well, sitting like three undead bumps on a log doesn’t help anything. What do we do now?” Bette asked.
The clocked ticked in the background, making the tension seem worse. “We call the council,” Rémy replied. “We can’t handle this alone.”
“Wait a minute.” Bette raised an eyebrow. “We handle every other supernatural entity that crosses our threshold. Why not these puffed up pixies? Is there something you two senior citizens aren’t saying? If I know Rémy, there’s a history lesson in here somewhere.”
He cracked a smile. “Since you asked so nicely, I’ll tell you. With the help of the Druids, the Sidhe nearly enslaved our kind five millennia ago. Fae blood is both an aphrodisiac and addictive to vampires. It’s very, very hard to resist. A thousand times more addicting to us than our blood is to the Weres. One taste and we are at their mercy.”
“So, your guess about our youngbloods makes sense.”
He nodded. “Unfortunately, yes.”
She considered Rémy’s words, but then swung her eyes to Abigail. “That unusual scent. It has got to be a telltale sign. Maybe it’s a clue that’ll help us get to the bottom of how this happened.”
Rémy looked between them. “What scent?”
Abigail opened her mouth, but Bette beat her to it. “You were standing right next to me in the room, Rémy. Are you saying you didn’t smell that sweet, underlying sexual current? It should have made the hair on your arms stand up, dude.” She glanced to his crotch and then back again. “Among other things.”
“Classy, Bette.”
The younger vampire blew out a breath. “I’m sorry. Whatever lingered in that room was an unequivocal turn on, okay? The effect it had on me was unlike anything I ever experienced. I was so frenzied I did what was necessary to find release.”
“An airborne aphrodisiac,” Abby explained, giving Rémy an apologetic look. “
Rémy lifted an eyebrow. “If lingering magic had that kind of effect on Bette, imagine what actual Fae blood did to those youngbloods.”
“Why weren’t you affected?” Bette asked, curious. “Is that due to vampiric age? Because if that’s the case, I’ll stay a youngblood forever, thank you very much.”
He let his eyes drift from Bette’s eyes to her breasts and back again. “What makes you so certain I wasn’t affected? Perhaps quick release is the only option for those less experienced.”
Rémy stifled a chuckle at the look on Bette’s face. “We senior citizens can take our time and savor the moment.”
“All righty, then. On that note…” Abigail pressed the intercom. “Calypso, I need a list of who from the vampire staff is unaccounted for this evening.”
Rémy nodded. “Good start. I’ll summon the remaining council. One of us will have to contact the Alpha of the Brethren once we gather our information.”
Abby’s phone dinged with a text message, and she glanced at the screen. “Dash is meeting with Sean today. He says the meeting should go well into the night.”
“That buys us a little time. We’ll reconvene in my quarters in an hour. My gut tells me that poor Were is just the beginning.”
Chapter Six
Oil-stained torches lit the way, giving the setting a medieval feel. Their footsteps echoed on the stone tile, the staccato rhythm mingling with the sounds of pleasure and pain drifting in from various rooms.
Gareth’s body language ignored the pleasant and not so pleasant, but a sharp yelp jerked his head toward the loudest of them.
His grip tightened on her hand, and a strong protective air enveloped her like a warm blanket. There was a time she hoped for that kind of consistency and strength in a relationship. A love to last the ages. Deep down she still did, despite every attempt to bury what she thought was lost.
Of course, now that Gareth was back—
You hope.
That one word scared her more than any rogue Sidhe ever could. She pushed the feeling away and concentrated instead on Gareth’s wide shoulders and the way his muscled torso narrowed toward the gorgeous curve of his ass. Sex was something she understood. Primal. No thought required.
Hope.
Stop that.
Okay, how about hoping he’s still as good in the sack as ever?
She put the brakes on her runaway emotional roller coaster. Eve, first. Sexy former, yet soon-to-be again lover, later.
She made herself stare at the spot between Gareth’s shoulder blades, instead of his strong, muscular legs.
From there she cleared her mind enough to try and sense Eve. This was not a place her friend would have consented to go on her own.
Closing her eyes, she summoned her power. Energy rose, skittering beneath her skin so quickly it startled her. She opened her eyes, expecting the dim corridor to crackle blue with magic, but it was as dark as before, and Gareth was still a single pace ahead.
Their hands were linked, and when she concentrated on their laced fingers, energy flowed in a clear conduit. He had combined his power with hers again, giving her strength and solidarity.
If she could’ve kissed him then she would, but they had derailed themselves enough already.
Confident, she dove deeper, bringing their joined power to a head. The merger showed her glimpses from Gareth’s mind. Images rushed forward. Pain he suffered. Death he suffered. She was about to sever the bond when she saw herself as he remembered…her face flushed with need…their bodies wrapped as her thighs shook…him gripping her hips, thrust after thrust.
Her panties dampened at the X-rated memories.
Would it be the same, now?
She imagined how he’d tease her, inch by inch, holding back just enough to make her beg.
“What’s that, love? I can’t hear you.” His breathy whisper making her nipples ache for his tongue. “You want this?” Him, fisting his cock, its corded length taut between her slick folds. “Hard and deep or slow and torturous?” Inch by inch, he’d tantalize, keeping her arms locked and her legs spread until she was ready to burst.
Fuck. She stifled a gasp. So much for derailing their mission. Lane took a breath to get a grip, only to hear him chuckle.
“Cut it out, Gareth,” she ground out.
He glanced over his shoulder. “What? I’m just walking here.”
“Give it a rest, Robert DeNiro. Put a lid on Memory Lane. I can’t focus.”
“Really.”
“Gareth!”
He chuckled again. “That last one was all you, love. In fact, I’m having a moment myself. You certainly know how to put the F in fantasy. I’ll never look at neckties the same way.”
A self-satisfied grin tugged at her lips. “Ties that bind is more than just an old saying, and possibly so
mething we should explore—later.”
He groaned, squaring his shoulders. “You’re killing me, Smalls.”
Her heart squeezed at the movie quote. Memory flashed again, and she smiled at the sweet recollection. The two had broken Caitlan’s curfew, sneaking downstairs to watch The Sandlot on a DVD player in the janitor’s storage room. Cuddled up in a blanket, it was the first time they kissed. The first time they…and Gareth remembered.
“Can you sense her?”
“Her?” Lane coughed, startled from her musing.
“Eve. Remember?”
She shook off what was left of her reverie and called their shared power again. They were deep into the blood-play zone. This time Eve’s trace hit full and in her face.
“She’s here, or at least she was.”
They stopped, and Lane turned toward a series of doors along the corridor. One by one she moved past each, holding that single thought like a divining staff.
The moans were loud, but most of the doors were either locked or warded. She hesitated at the last, stopping with her hand over the knob.
“Wait. I should go first,” he said, moving her to the side before she could grab hold.
She wasn’t about to argue.
The knob turned easily enough, and Gareth pushed it wide without hesitation.
“Anything?” she asked, craning to see around him.
“Plenty, but it’s not what we hoped.”
Lane pushed past him but stopped short just inside the room. “Oh, goddess. No.”
Tied to a large, merry-go-round style platform was the shifter Eve had spelled at the bar.
“Mason.” Her voice was a whisper as she walked toward the prone Were.
“You know this guy?”
She nodded slowly. “He was with Eve on the dance floor before I lost sight of them.”
The round apparatus had no grab bars, just leather restraints at strategic points. The unfortunate Were was bound wrists and ankles, like Leonardo da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man. His body was covered in torn flesh and random bitemarks.
Gareth moved to the platform’s edge, reaching to check the man for a pulse. He looked up, meeting Lane’s eyes before shaking his head.
Bewitch Me: The Red Veil Diaries: A Witchy/Fae Romance Page 5
