by Ana Calin
Of one thing I’m certain, namely that she didn’t smell like this the first two times we were in the same hall, at Radek’s and later at Lord Dracula’s wedding. But while I don’t understand why she smells differently, I do get why she asked to remain in the shadow when she went to see the witch Magda. Isolde Jochs, now Isolde Serpaint, is supposed to be forty years of age; but she looks twenty.
Isolde
DAMN, TRISTAN DEKNIGHT is handsome up close. Like all vampires, he has that deceiving, pull-you-in-only-to-kill-you kind of beauty. I even heard he’s crueler than most. His electric blue eyes, his white-blond hair and sharp features go along well with that theory.
“Why on Earth did she send you of all people?” I whisper.
“You didn’t know who you were talking to on the phone earlier today?” His voice is deep, masculine. Sexy.
I clear my throat, making sure my nerves don’t show. “She only gave me a number, no names, for safety reasons.”
“And now that you see me you’re disappointed?”
“I was hoping she’d send Lazarus. He would have helped me with more than just the delivery—”
“—Putting himself at deadly risk. I understand you were very close friends for twenty years, how come you’re so willing to expose him to your husband’s anger?” He leans in over the table with the gaze of a cold assassin. Shudders run through me, and it’s all I can do to repress them. “You are aware that the husband you chose, and his kind are deadly to vampires, yes?”
“I didn’t choose him,” I snap. “But I’m not going to explain myself to you. Do you have it?”
His electric eyes move coolly over the room before he reaches to the inside pocket of his jacket. “I have it.”
He reveals a small, pretty bottle with what looks like a golden cap. I’m sure my eyes sparkle at it as I reach over to snatch it from his hand. But he grabs my wrist, his electric eyes fixed on mine. It feels like death itself is watching me, making the finest hairs on my spine stand on end.
“Magda says you have to be very careful, no one is to taste the potion besides your husband and whoever it is you want him to fall in love with. Make sure it’s reciprocated. Not that I care about a serpent’s fulfillment in love, but it’s what will keep him too sated to come looking for diversity in your bed.”
“If this potion is anything like Magda promised, he won’t be able to look away from her, let alone cheat on her.” I try to pull the bottle from his grasp, but his big hand hardens on my wrist, his scent of winter wafting over. He smells fresh and deadly, just like he looks.
I stare directly into his eyes, forcing myself to keep cool. Mr. Handsome Brute surely can make women cream between their legs with his presence alone, but I won’t be one of his harebrained victims.
“Thank you, Mr. DeKnight, your task here is finished,” I decree.
“You don’t get to tell me when my mission is accomplished, Mrs. Serpaint.” He stresses the s, and I know he means to make me feel guilty. “As Lord Dracula’s second in command, I demand to know why you betrayed the vampires like this. Why marry one of their greatest enemies?”
“It wasn’t my choice,” I repeat between my teeth. A mocking smile curls his lips.
“You can fool sweet granny Magda, but not me.” He juts out his strong chin as he assesses me. “There’s one way to find out just how deeply you involved yourself with the serpent. If I remember correctly, you’re a white blonde, like me, yes?”
My heart jumps as I realize where he’s going.
“I dyed my hair.” I try hard to repress the body language that comes with that lie. But Tristan DeKnight’s irises sparkle with the intelligence of a centuries old creature.
“Take off your kerchief.”
I glance over my shoulder. Damn it, the crooks aren’t looking at us anymore, so I don’t have a pretext to refuse, arguing they might recognize me. I have no choice. I take a deep breath, grab the fabric and slide it off my hair, surrendering.
“Ah.” Tristan grins, satisfied that he was right. He points to my locks. “People who take serpent blood get that brown-reddish hair, like melted chocolate. Not to mention that you look strikingly young for a woman of forty. Do you have a pre-made explanation for that as well?”
I just stare at him, my jaw tight. Calm, controlled, he leans to me again.
“You took the serpent’s blood to reverse aging. You got what you wanted from him, and now you’re getting rid of him, am I right?”
“You bastard. You like thinking the worst of me, don’t you? If I wanted to be immortal I would’ve asked Lazarus to turn me into a vampire a long time ago, I wouldn’t have bound myself to a serpent.”
“Ah, but turning into a vampire also means sensitivity to sunlight and silver until you meet your own personal Grail. No one would choose vampirism for themselves if they could live a week in a vampire’s skin before they made the choice. Great burden comes with great power, and you’ve been around vampires long enough to know that. So you found another, better way to eternal youth—serpent blood.”
“Even if that were so, you’re no one to judge me.” I tuck the potion in my small purse, which I then slide over my shoulder. “Thank you for the delivery. As far as I’m concerned, we don’t have to see each other again.”
I stand, but before I can take a step he grabs my wrist, keeping me in place. I fume at him, but his sharp blue eyes don’t change.
“Just one more question,” he says.
I square my shoulders and arch an eyebrow, defying him. “I don’t see why I should answer any. You’ve already formed an opinion. You can stick to it, I have no interest in changing your mind.”
His strong jaw tightens, his glare electric.
“This isn’t about what I think, but about what this could mean to all vampires. Your having married a serpent, who’s settled down with his serpent people in this town, without Dracula knowing, do you realize what that can mean for vampires? Do you realize what you’ve done?”
“You exasperate me, Tristan.” It’s hard to keep it low, I want to scream at him so bad. “Understand when I’m telling you, it wasn’t my choice, I had to do it.”
“Why? What forced you?”
I try to hide the way my body tenses, but I can tell Tristan notices every change.
“Don’t dissimulate, Isolde. I’ve been around for two hundred years, I’m not easily fooled.”
“When I met Mark, I was protecting someone, okay? I served as distraction so that someone could escape. He became deeply interested in me, and threatened to kill me if I didn’t comply and become his mate. Are you satisfied now?”
“I see.” Tristan leans back, assessing my face like an inspector. He keeps silent for long moments, and I start fidgeting despite myself, gripping my purse harder.
“If there’s nothing more, I’ll be on my way,” I manage, barely keeping my voice from trembling.
Again I try to leave, and again he grabs my wrist.
“When are you going to use the potion on him?”
My heart beats like crazy already. I’m all too aware how risky this whole thing is. “Mark is having a party tonight at the villa. I’ll slip the potion in their drinks, and Mark will lose interest in me, focusing on the other woman. It’s as simple as that.” Not.
Tristan scrutinizes my eyes with an icy stare.
“You leave too many open questions, Isolde, and your story hangs from a very thin thread. As head of Lord Dracula’s security, I cannot tolerate open questions or thin threads.” He lets go of my wrist, but I have a feeling this isn’t the last I’ve seen of him.
CHAPTER II - Old Enemies
Tristan
ISOLDE SERPAINT LEFT me with too many open questions. Who was she protecting, who was so important to her that she gave herself to Serpaint?—If that person even exists. But by far the most important question is why have the serpents been lurking in this town for over a year, keeping their presence secret from the vampires?
I enter the party
at the villa through one of the beautiful doors to the terrace overlooking the Black Sea. It looks like one of those sophisticated parties in Paris or London, only that the attendees are clearly from another social category, displaying an opulence that reminds me of the Russian mafia.
Men wear suits, but tattoos creep up from under their collars. Many sport big stomachs, while others have muscles that make their suits burst at the seams. The women, all extremely well groomed and wearing impressive dresses, walk around on their partners’ arms, displayed as trophy-wives or girlfriends. As expected, I run into a few cheating couples here and there, kissing in dark corners.
Then I spot Isolde standing by a high table, and all my muscles stiffen in alarm—the woman is way too obvious in what she’s doing. In a flash I’m by her side, seizing her trembling hand as she unscrews the golden cap from the small bottle that contains the love potion.
“Watch it,” I say through my teeth, startling her. “You’re gonna spill it all over the table before it makes it into the tumblers. Not to mention someone’s surely gonna spot you do it.”
She whimpers, shaking. I realize just how terrified this woman truly is.
I may have judged Isolde wrong. Despite her husband’s fat bank accounts, she’s one of the least opulent females here, wearing a simple blue dress that fits her body but that also covers most of it. A pity, most men would think. She’s lean and graceful like a swan, with perky breasts and backside—a great bonus in the show-off world her husband lives in. Even though the dress showcases the shape of her body, there’s no cleavage, and she’s wearing very little make-up. Her hair the color of melted chocolate is up in an elegant bun, while her melancholy eyes are puffy and swollen.
“You’ve been crying.”
She shakes her head, hiding her gaze. “I can’t do this by myself, I just can’t do it.”
I sweep the room, observing the attendees and gauging who might become dangerous. I notice how they laugh, how they glance around from the corners of their eyes. Nobody is looking our way at this particular moment, so I unscrew the cap with expert fingers.
“Where’s your husband?” I whisper to Isolde, just to know who to keep my eyes on the split second when I slip the potion into his tumbler, and into the tumbler meant for the other woman.
“There.” Isolde points with a trembling hand to a tall and willowy man in a black suit, his reddish hair curled at the base of his head. Everything seems too long about him, his limbs, his torso, even his head. Even his shoulders seem abnormally slanted. He looks like an alien.
“There’s a woman on his arm. Shouldn’t that be you?”
“I don’t mind Soraya taking my place, really.” There’s indeed no jealousy in the way she looks at the woman, as tall and long-spun as the man, only even leaner. She wears her dyed black hair on top of her head, which doesn’t go very well with her long face—I can see one side of it—but it fits her shiny green dress that resembles scales.
“She looks like Olive from Popeye the Sailor, doesn’t she?” Isolde giggles, subconsciously trying to relieve some tension.
“I don’t know who Popeye the Sailor is.”
“Wow, where did you grow up, a convent? You never watched cartoons as a child?”
“I haven’t been a child for two hundred years. There were no cartoons back then. Now hold out the tumblers, please, under the table.”
She takes the tumblers in her hands, lowers them under the table so no one can see, and I slip a drop of the potion in each. Just as I’ve screwed the cap back on, the man turns, the broad smile he’d been giving his interlocutors still on.
Our eyes meet, and I freeze with the little bottle in my hand. Isolde is too slow to place the tumblers on the high table before he sees her do it, but that’s the least of my concerns right now.
I’ve met this asshole before. The Serpent Henchman.
Mark Serpaint’s slit-like eyes move quickly from Isolde to me, then he places his hand over the other woman’s as she hooks it around his arm. They saunter over through the crowd, a very big, heavy man behind him. He can’t be a serpent, he’s big as an ox.
They finally stop in front of us, and it feels like time stands still. Serpaint and I stare hard into each other’s eyes, while fury boils low in the pit of my stomach.
“My, my, my,” he says in the hissy voice that I remember so well. “Tristan DeKnight in the flesh.” He stresses the s and sh, stirring flashes of his whip in my memory.
“You know each other?” Isolde breathes. She’s gone pale as death.
“Yes. Your husband is the reason why Lord Dracula turned me into a vampire,” I reply without hesitation, keeping my eyes on the bastard’s face.
“How is that possible?” Isolde whispers nervously.
“It just is. Back then, your husband used to pick on human teenagers instead of those his own size. I wonder if he still does that.” My tone is even, my eyes like blades. I’d love to see this bastard snap at me, but I guess he won’t do it, will he? Not now that I’m a vampire, and a strong one at that, whose deeds surely made it to his ears.
“Come on, my dear,” Mark says, reaching over with his free arm, inviting Isolde to his side.
Unwillingly, she steps into his embrace. They look disgusting together. He’s a red-haired serpent looking like a fucking alien, embracing a pretty doll he’s about to start chewing.
“How long has it been, Tristan,” Mark says in that voice of his that could make any human’s skin crawl. “Two hundred years since I left you hanging on the dais, unconscious and bleeding?” The bastard still relishes the memory.
Isolde cringes.
I feel the growing serpent presence, and soon we stand surrounded by men in leather jackets or black turtlenecks, all of them lanky, and with the livid faces specific to this kind of serpent. The other attendees notice something’s wrong, too, because they stare at us.
I tense, the blades ready to shoot out from the sidearm straps under my sleeves.
“Tell me, my love,” Mark addresses Isolde. “How did the vampires find out about us? You know very well I wanted our love to remain secret for a while.”
“Serpents are a rare presence in this country,” I intervene. “Vampires, warlocks, witches and feral shifters rule here. You’ve been around for a year now, Mark, we were bound to find out.”
His arm tightens around poor Isolde, whose lips press together, her chin trembling. Hell, she’s terrified. What the fuck has he been doing to her?
“Really, you just found out?” Serpaint reacts. “Or did my little wifey here send word?”
“Had she done that, both Lord Dracula and his brother would be personally all over your operations, don’t you think?”
His serpent eyes narrow even more. “But Dracula is all over my operations. He sent you, didn’t he? Tristan DeKnight, his left hand, the deadliest assassin who ever lived.”
He glances at the tumblers that are now on the table. He pulls Isolde roughly to the table. My jaw tightens, but his lady companion, Soraya, licks her thin red lips. She loves seeing him do this to Isolde.
I take a step forward, but the big guy who accompanied him and Soraya as they sauntered over from the back tightens his presence beside Mark, his chest puffed out, his face even meaner.
“This is Darius, my right hand,” Mark introduces, motioning to the huge brute. A scar mars his face from the left eyebrow to the corner of his mouth, and he has a glass eye. Everything seems thick about him, from his fingers to his nape, tattoos covering every visible inch of him, even his bald head. Only his angry face with the lopsided mouth is ink-free.
“Darius is an alligator shifter, and has a natural killing talent. I’d suggest you don’t make any sudden moves around him. Not that I wouldn’t like to see you two have a go at each other, but all in good time.
“Now let me tell you what I think about your presence here, Tristan.” Mark takes a tumbler and smells it like he would examine wine. “I think Lord Dracula is no longer the impulsive, ho
t-headed Vampire King he used to be. Ever since he got married, he’s been conducting his affairs with much more wisdom than belligerence. If I were him, I’d send my best assassin to get rid of my enemy.” His eyes shoot at me over the tumbler. “Using a special kind poison, for example. Keeping things clean.”
“I assure you, I’m not trying to poison you.”
Mark sets the tumbler down, looking at the other two on the table—one is meant for him, one for Soraya; Isolde’s is empty. She drank all the champagne in an attempt to muster her courage and do what she had to do. Mark pushes her tumbler aside, then raises one of the other two.
“Then let’s have a test.”
The circle of serpents that has formed around us tightens. They shield this scene from the rest of the party, but people everywhere crane their necks, trying to peek and eavesdrop.
“Here. For you.” Mark offers me the tumbler.
To avoid suspicion, I reach for it without hesitation, but then Mark withdraws his hand. He grins at me, revealing small, sleazy teeth, his expression that of a scheming creature.
“Oh wait, you’re a vampire, you may be immune to it. Let Isolde test it.”
My eyes dart to her.
Isolde’s lips are drawn, and her chin trembles. She stares at me with a plea to be saved, and I feel something that I haven’t felt in centuries. An odd emotion that comes with the salty scent of the sea—tenderness. Poor thing has been a victim of this monster’s abuse for over a year, no wonder she’d take any risk to be free of him.
She takes the tumbler, her fingers shaking. Everybody watches her raise it to her mouth, her husband and his female serpent assistant watching closely and greedily. I don’t need more than a glance at each of them to read their thoughts. Mark is eager to see Isolde die if she betrayed him—he looks at the girl with a sick possessive stare that screams, ‘either I have you, or no one will’.
As for the woman, she would love to see Isolde die in pain, and not because of jealousy. She’s not interested in Serpaint, and I have the feeling she sleeps with the alligator. She eyed me with lust as well, so it’s clear she’s into another type of guy, more physical, more military, more incisive than Serpaint. But her entire demeanor betrays she considers Isolde a little worm that deserves to be squashed, which is probably what she secretly thinks about all humans.
