by Elle Jasper
The very slightest of lifts occur at the corner of her mouth, just as she gives an even slighter nod of the head.
Then, she shifts her gaze to the far side of the room. To the trunk. She moves toward it and stands there.
I look at her. “I know you’re trying to tell me something.” I study her longer. She points to the chest, but says nothing.
I ease toward her slowly and glance down at the chest. I open it. Inside, the scathe Gawan of Conwyk gave me. The box of holy water cartridges lays by its side.
Along with the Pict verse.
Then, Lily looks at me, turns her head, and points to the bed.
Where I’d laid Eli’s medallion before taking a shower.
Our gazes hold. “Do you think I can find him?” I ask her.
At first, she just stares at me with those gaping black orbs. Then, she nods and points back down, to the scathe.
“With that?” I ask her.
Again, she nods. Then, she turns and crosses the chamber and stands beside the hearth. She simply stares at me. Somehow, those black orbs beckon me. She points to the hearth.
A loud rap at the door sends her into a blurred vapor. Then gone.
“See ya,” I whisper, staring at the place she’d just pointed. I’ll talk to her again. Later. Then I turn to the door. “It’s open.”
Noah walks in, and I hear his intake of breath at the doorway. “Damn, Poe,” he says after several seconds. He walks over to me, gives me the twice-over, his gaze lingering as it goes from the hem of my gown up to the bodice. Those mercury eyes finally meet mine. “Damn. The pink is back. Good.”
I give him the twice-over, too. He’s dressed in a tailored black tux. Sun-bleached dreads are pulled back with a black leather and silver clasp. His face is marked by ridiculous beauty no man should ever possess. He had to have had the shit beat out of him before he became a vampire. Pretty boys always get beat up.
A slow smile transforms his face. I don’t know how to describe it. Part arrogant. Part predatory. Part . . . endearing.
Only if you know and love him, I guess.
I remember a time when I wanted to beat him up, too.
I meet his gaze. “Damn,” I say in return. “You clean up pretty nice, Miles. But I didn’t think you were going to the event. Only lurking outside.”
“Jake says to lurk outside, you need to look as if you belong inside,” he answers. He stretches one arm out and dusts off imaginary lint with his hand. “Not bad, if I say so myself.”
I roll my eyes. “Hold on, let me get my shoes.” I turn to the bed, pull the heels out of the box, and slip them on. I walk back to him and look up. “I’m almost as tall as you are now.”
Noah’s jaw muscles flex as he looks at me. His eyes are smoky gray. “You’re beautiful, Riley. In a gown or a sweaty pair of training pants. Either way,” he says. “Exquisite.”
Heat floods my scalp. “I think you’re making me blush,” I answer, and pat my cheeks. “Are you wearing your special hoodoo concoction that keeps your sexuality tamped down?”
Noah has a special feature. He’s so sexually potent and alluring to females—of all species—that he has to wear a charmed mixture of hoodoo herbs around his neck, or females everywhere will throw and claw their way into his pants. Sounds like something he’d love, I know, but, according to him, after a couple of centuries of it, he grew weary. I can tell you firsthand, though, when he’s not wearing the charm, he’s . . . a mess. Let’s just say that. A freaking mess.
He grins. Wide.
I shake my head. “Oh, wait one more sec.” I go to my chest, grab the feather-light sheath and strap and my silver dirk, slide it up under the skirt of my gown and attach it to my thigh. I ease the dirk into the sheath. I eye the scathe’s hiding place, in the trunk. I want to take it but Jason had said the best place for it was gripped in my hand. That’s a no-go tonight. For now, it stays. My hope soars now with the possibility of finding Eli. Even if it means delving into the Underworld. I sure as Hell will do it. In a heartbeat. “Okay, ready.” Noah, whose gaze is kinda stuck to my thigh, shakes his head and sticks out his arm for me to take, and I do. “Let’s go,” I say, and look at him sideways. “Arrogant, pervy ass.”
Noah’s laugh fills the corridor.
“Who were you talking to when I first came to your door?” he asks as we head downstairs.
We pass the darkened alcove midway down the corridor, and I see Lily in the recesses of the shadows. As we pass, I smile and give her a little wave. She literally smiles back at me. “Oh, someone who reminds me a lot of me.”
Noah’s questioning look makes me laugh out loud.
Downstairs, I have to catch my breath. Honest. I gasp. Out loud.
Imagine a room full of vampires, werewolves, and immortal druids, all in black Armani tuxedos and lovely formal gowns. Breathtaking is all I can say. I admit, I’m the . . . oddball, I guess. I’m the one with the dragon tattoos exposed and the wing on my face. Where Ginger and Sydney are stunning in their gowns, Ginger in a champagne blush and Sydney in soft plum, they have jewelry to match. I wear no jewelry. My ink, my art, is my jewelry. I don’t even have earrings.
“And it is spectacular,” whispers Noah in my ear. I squeeze his arm.
“Riley, simply gorgeous,” Jake says in front of everyone, making me want to roll my eyes and punch him for singling me out. “You’ll be in a cab alone. Gabriel and Sydney, MacLeod and Ginger, you’ll be in separate cabs. Darius, you ride with Arcos. Miles, you’re with me. We’ll arrive first. Riley,” he says, looking at me with admiration and a quick twice-over. “You will arrive last.”
I nod. “Got it.”
Outside, the night air is heavy, but not so much brine this time. That sweet, cloverlike scent rides the chilly breeze, and Peter hands me a silk wrap as I wait for my cab. “You look lovely, miss,” he says. “I would drive you myself, but—”
“Oh, that’s okay, Peter,” I say hurriedly, remembering the ride from Hell he gave us from the airport. “But thank you for the wrap. And for waiting with me.”
He grins. His nose is, as always, red. “You’re most welcome, miss.”
I watch the sun drop as we wait outside the Crescent, and the sky once more has turned varying shades of purple and gray. Soon, my cab arrives, and Peter opens the door for me. “The Marimae House, please sir,” he tells the cab driver. Then hands him twenty pounds. “This should cover it.”
“Aye,” the cabby answers. “Cheers.”
“Cheers,” Peter answers, and waves to me.
I wave back and we take off to New Town.
Traffic is heavy, and the cab driver takes several side roads that I’m unfamiliar with—especially once out of Old Town. I can see, though, why even though it’s called New Town, the ground itself is still as ancient as Old Town. Which is why a particular battle was fought between the painted warriors of the north and the lowlanders. By the time we arrive, I’m stunned. Marimae House is a large manor home, at least three or four hundred years old, and it has a wide, sweeping circular drive that we pull into and get in a short line of black cabs dropping off guests.
It’s precisely seven p.m. when my cab stops at the front entrance. A concierge is there to open my door and assist me out. I don’t need assisting, but I allow it anyway. The damn humming has started up in my ears again. I guess I should’ve seen a doctor by now. I ignore it as best as I can, push it aside. It dulls.
The manor home is of aged stone and five stories high. With an impressive front face, it has two fountains out front with mermen and mermaids spewing water. I can vaguely see a large garden in the back as I start up a two-flight winding staircase
The moment I enter the home, I search for signs of the WUP team. Way across the room, I spy Ginger and Lucian, standing together near an enormous and intricately carved hearth and sipping a drink. They don’t see me. I continue to scan the room. No sign of Sydney and Gabriel. No telling where they are. Probably digging up the garden, looking for the relic.
I see no sign of the others. I continue to walk through the manor. In the next room is a huge parquet dance floor, and several couples are twirling around to ancient music. Ballroom music. Never did learn to dance like that. I’m more of a dirty dancer, I guess you’d say.
“Miss, would you care to dance?”
I turn around and face . . . a very old guy. Cute, lots of white hair going every which way, but old. I smile. “Sure.”
He leads me out on the dance floor, and that’s when I catch a glimpse of Jake. He’s watching me from a table of drinks, where three women are all vying for his attention. A slight smile lifts his mouth and he gives me a slighter nod.
Prick.
He then excuses himself and walks hastily from the dance hall.
“You’re very good,” the old man says to me. I look down at him. “Thank you.”
“I like your markings,” he says, and grins widely. “And your pink hair.”
I try not to laugh. “Well, thank you very much.”
We dance a few more minutes, until I notice the guy is actually getting a little winded, and we stop. “Thanks,” I say, and he ambles off. Before I can even glance at the crowd, a voice whispers at the back of my neck, close to my ear. “Don’t turn around.”
My insides seize.
“You’re an exquisite dancer,” he says, his voice silky smooth and oh, so familiar. “Walk straight ahead into the next room.”
I make my way through the crowd of charity-event goers and into the next room, as instructed. Only a few people occupy it. Chairs and settees are situated about, and I feel his hand now at the small of my back. It sends shivers down my spine. I hate that.
“Just at the far end of the room is a doorway. Go through it.”
I’m not nervous, like life-in-danger nervous. I’m . . . anxious. I want to see whoever this person is. I walk ahead, find the door, open it, and go through it. It’s another dimly lit room, rather a passageway. One small lamp hangs overhead and gives off a soft amber glow. The sound of metal clicking reaches my ear. The door is now locked. The chamber is chilled, empty. We are totally alone.
Strong, callused hands move to my shoulders and slowly turn me around. My breath lodges in my throat when my eyes meet my company: long, silver-blond hair hangs straight past his broad shoulders, half of it pulled behind his head and secured. Eyes nearly the same color as his hair stare down at me, and they look like liquid metal. Full lips, sensually curved, sit above a square chin and strong jaw. Perfectly shaped brows lift. “Not what you expected?” he asks.
“No— Who are you?” I manage. His beauty is so great, it almost hurts to look at him. Literally.
His sexy lips curve. “My name is Athios.” His eyes move to where his hands rest on my shoulders, and his fingers skim down my arm, tracing my dragons. His gaze lifts. “You are the most exquisite woman I’ve ever seen,” he says, amazement lining his unusual accent.
“What do you want with me?” I ask, uncomfortable with how sexual this stranger makes me feel simply by touching my arms. “Why did you want me to come here tonight? Why do you sneak into my dreams? I thought you were . . . someone else.”
He smiles. “I . . . don’t know. I couldn’t help myself.” His silvery gaze lingers on mine. “I had to see you again. I have only imagined you. Like this. Inside your head. Inside my head.” His gaze drinks me in. “But to see you in life, standing before me, under my touch? I can’t believe you’re real.”
His words even turn me on. That low hum is beginning to get the best of me, and my concentration is slipping. Why is my body reacting to him? I’m angered at myself for even thinking it. I want to leave, yet I don’t. “You are one of the Fallen.”
His jaw muscles flex. “Not willingly, but yes, I am. And you’re one of the hunters.”
Slowly I nod. I can’t seem to take my eyes off his . . . eyes. They’re mesmerizing. His scent, his entire being is intoxicating. I don’t understand it, and confusion makes me frown. The ringing . . . it’s starting to make me dizzy again. The hum is now a whine, like the low-pitched sound a dog hears. I want to cover my ears.
“What’s the matter?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Ringing. In my ears. Hurts.” I clasp my hands over my ears.
Athios grazes my temples with his fingertips, and the humming stops. “’Tis the relics, I fear,” he says. “Your acute hearing is attuned with their low frequency.”
I blink. I’ve been hearing the freaking relics the whole time? Now my body heats, and I can’t take my eyes off of Athios. Again, I frown.
“What is it?” he asks. His hands skim down my sides, pulling me closer.
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “I . . . know this is wrong, yet I can’t help myself,” I say. “You are controlling me.”
“Why is it wrong?” he asks. “Do you not recall the other night? The one we shared with such passion?” He lifts my chin with his hand and forces me to look at him. “How can that have been anything but right?”
“You don’t know me,” I say. “I know that the Fallen seek pure souls. Mine is anything but, so don’t get any funny ideas about sucking mine out of me.”
Athios laughs low, deep. “That’s the farthest thing from my mind,” he says. “And I do know you, Riley Poe. From the very first encounter, I scanned your entire soul. I know what your very first cognitive thoughts were, all the way up until now.” He grazes my jaw with his thumb. “I know your whole life. And I admire the person you are. I envy your fiancé. You’re an amazing woman.”
“Well, I don’t know you at all,” I answer, feeling the drug of his touch against my skin. “How do you know my fiancé?”
“You know me better than most,” he answers, ignoring my question about Eli. “Please hold still, Riley,” he whispers, drawing close. “Just for a moment.”
I go deathly still as he leans toward me, head bent, and brushes his lips over mine. His silky hair slips over my shoulder, and the sensation across my skin makes me shudder. His lips are full, pliable, and they move expertly over mine in a possessive caress, tasting me with his tongue, pulling at my bottom lip with his teeth. My hands move to his chest, up the collar of his tux, and around his neck to pull him closer. His hands move over my back, pulling me against his body. I can’t seem to get close enough. His lips claim mine seductively, softly, slowly, and I sigh into him. What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I stop? Instead I urge him on, moaning softly against his mouth.
“Athios,” I whisper, kissing him back. “Beautiful.” My mind whirls, and deep inside, I grasp onto what little control I have left. My hand moves to my thigh, and slowly, I inch my gown’s hem up. My fingers grate my blade, and I release it from the sheath. Gently, I lift it until the blade rests against Athios’s throat.
“Get off of me,” I say with a growl. Control is barely in my grasp. I press the blade harder, and Athios flinches. “Now.”
Athios pulls back just a fraction. “Impressive.”
“Turn her the fuck loose before I take your head right here,” a voice says vehemently in the corridor.
“Do as he says,” another voice demands. “Now.”
Two bodies fly toward us, and I’m shoved backward against the wall. My head smacks the hard, sharp stone and immediately I’m dizzy, and I feel drugged. The bulb is hit and is swinging on its long cord, making shadows and light dance all through the passageway. I hear nothing but fists, grunts, and swearing at first, then the sharp clang of steel against steel. I see nothing; it’s pitch-black.
And I know that voice, those curses, belong to Jake. The other is Victorian.
The fighting continues, and I try to stumble up to help. Stop it! I demand to anyone who will listen. No one does. Jake! The second relic is here somewhere! He just told me! Still, the fighting continues as if no one hears me.
In the fast flashes of light as the lamp swings back and forth, I see Victorian and Jake have both changed; their jaws are dropped, fangs protruding, eyes ablaze. It d
oes nothing to deter Athios. Then, all at once, everyone freezes. No one makes a move or a sound. The air chills even more inside the chamber, and a fierce wind blows through. Suddenly, two more have joined. They stand by Athios. Older. Both wearing tuxedos. One lifts his hand toward Victorian and makes a rising motion, lifting his writhing body up. Jake lifts his sword and charges the two. Then, before I realize what’s happening, the one makes a quick flick of his wrist toward Victorian. He completely . . . vanishes.
I pull every ounce of concentration I have into a small, condensed ball in the center of my chest. I focus on the two Fallen. Leave here. Now!
Nothing happens. No one moves. I strain harder.
Pain, seize their bodies!
This time, I can barely make out their faces. They’re pinched in pain. One points toward Jake.
Jake! Leave here now!
Jake’s face, although filled with rage, charges both Fallen. I aim and throw my blade at one of the older Fallen. It lodges in his chest. They go down, and Jake escapes the way we came through.
Then, everything changes. The room is tilting—at least it feels that way. I shake my head to clear it, but that makes it worse. A black shade is being pulled over my eyes, or a shadow—I can’t tell. Just before I black out my body is lifted, and I feel space and air flying past me at lightning speed. It’s almost nauseating. Soon, though, my stomach is at ease, and I’m floating into darkness. . . .
* * *
“Victorian!” I bolt up, my eyes scanning my surroundings. My vision is blurry, and it takes a few seconds for it to clear. It’s almost dusk, which means yet another full day has passed. Gulls scream overhead. The heavy scent of brine fills the air, and the crashing of waves against rock echoes. It’s cold in here, damp, and as I look around I realize I’m in ruins that I don’t recognize.
Memories rush back.
Victorian is gone.
The other two in the passageway were the other Black Fallen. And they’d had the power to make Jake Andorra freeze in his tracks. They’ve sent Vic somewhere. He just . . . disappeared. Or was he dead? Christ, was that it?
