Maybe.
She reached for the pillow, hugging it to her chest and contemplating his face. In profile, he more strongly resembled Ethan—a square jaw set off with a long, straight nose. She didn’t have the will to suffocate him.
She tossed down the pillow and hurried toward the door, but paused with her hand on its lever to slip off her shoes—anything to make her quieter in a house full of creatures with the keenest hearing.
In the cellar, she explored every dark, brick-walled passageway, peering between rows of barrels and racks of wine bottles. Her toes ached on the cold stones. She tiptoed toward a closed door at the end of a hall and pressed her ear to the door—nothing.
She made her way to the stairs, which opened onto the entryway of the house. A glance at the windows revealed a midday sun. Millimeter by millimeter, she closed the door to the cellar, wincing as the latch clicked into place. Still, all remained silent. No television, no voices, no dishes clanging in the kitchen. Then a faint tapping registered in her ears, the sound of fingers on a keyboard from a nearby room. Through its doorway, no people or vampires were visible, only a large table. She skirted the wall so that she could slink up to the side of the door and listen. Some minutes passed—she didn’t know how many but they crawled, each heartbeat like the deafening tick of a clock.
“Had you met Loki before?” a woman’s voiced asked as someone still tapped away.
“Many times. Sly old chap, but I…” The rumbling British voice trailed off into a heavy sigh. “I admired him.”
Gwen itched at her sternum. She’d liked him as well, would have loved to ask him a dissertation’s worth of questions.
A crinkling sound like the wrapper on a candy bar startled her.
“That was the last energy bar. Want me to fetch some more?” the male asked in a low voice.
“This will hold me over for now. And I’m sick of this health food Lena’s put me on. I’m ready for chocolate ice cream again.”
“Someone should tell her witches don’t eat granola.”
Gwen stiffened. A witch, just as Loki had said. The woman speaking must be the one he’d called Trys.
She giggled. “Believe me, I’ve tried, but Lena always makes such logical arguments about nutrition, and she’s so sweet.”
Their conversation lulled, and Gwen’s mind rotated pieces of information like a puzzle, but they wouldn’t form a whole.
The feet of a chair scraped against the floor. “I hate sitting here, safe and sound, but perfectly helpless,” said the male.
“You’re telling me. I haven’t left the estate in months. But Bel would kill us if we let anything happen to his family, so I’m stuck.”
“Sugar, we are all damn lucky you are here. Do I tell you enough what a good job you’re doing?”
“Mmm. You can rub my shoulders all day, Omar, but don’t try that Barry White stuff on me just because your piece of young ass is out of town.”
He let out a good-natured belly laugh. “I’m just being a good friend.”
Gwen’s breastbone itched some more. She envied their easy rapport. Not since before Mason had she been able to joke around with men, to flirt, to relax. But was this Omar a man, or a vampire?
“Yeah right.” Trys groaned in pleasure. “You’ve lured me into your bed with this friendly gesture one too many times. I won’t be fooled again.”
“Hey. You never complain.” His baritone dripped with suggestion.
“Besides, it’s awfully difficult to maintain the shield when I get, you know, orgasmic.”
“Poor Trys. You are making a heroic sacrifice for all of us.” His voice dropped even lower. “When this mission ends, I will reward you over, and over, and over again.”
Once upon a time, Gwen might have found his promise arousing, but now it left her unaffected. She tessellated the data again—Trys maintained the shield, which required her concentration. Was it controlled by the computer?
An electronic bell dinged, probably signifying a message of some sort.
“Huh. Look at this,” the witch said.
“Well, I’ll be. Converts.” Omar clicked his tongue. “Lucas’s crazy-ass plan might just work.”
Converts? Gwen sucked in a breath—too loud.
“What was that?” Omar asked, his deep voice penetrating the thunder of her blood in her eardrums.
She began inching toward the kitchen.
“I didn’t hear anything,” Trys replied.
“Well you wouldn’t, would you?”
“We’re all just jumpy, after—”
“Shhh.”
Gwen slipped into the open door as his heavy feet thudded on the floor. She darted through the unlit and blessedly empty kitchen into a dark hallway. An open door led into a pantry of some sort.
She entered just as Omar called into the kitchen. “Lena?” After an eternal silence, he muttered, “Gods of my father, I am jumpy.”
Gwen didn’t dare move until his footsteps were a distant creak on the floor. She slunk into the darkest corner, wedging into a crevice between a shelf and the wall that wouldn’t have fit a larger woman. And she thought some more.
Months—a witch—magical powers—orgasms—oh. Wow. The computer had nothing to do with it. Trys was somehow generating the shield herself, which meant if Gwen disabled her, Ethan could enter the estate.
She would have to risk calling him from the kitchen phone. Summoning up the self-control required to face Ethan, she swallowed her fear and crawled on her hands and knees through the kitchen. She examined the phone until she found its volume control and turned it as low as possible.
He answered after one ring. “Bennett.”
“It’s me,” she whispered.
“Is it done?”
“Soon. Be ready.” She wanted to tell him to keep his forces out of the vampires’ sight and not to alert them, but such advice would overstep her purview. She had to trust him, and live or die with the consequences if he did otherwise.
“Good girl,” he said, and the phone went dead.
She hung it in its base and then ran into the hall shouting at the top of her lungs. “Help! Help! It’s Lucas. Something’s wrong. He fainted!”
Feet pounded the floor from both directions as the entire household converged on the foyer.
“He’s in my room, and I can’t wake him up.”
Chapter 42
BEL STORMED INTO THE HOUSE, pushing past Pedro.
“Mierda, Bel. I’m sorry. I knew she was a psycho bitch.”
“Not helping.”
“I’m thinking this is a good time to go catch some rays. Do a little grapevine detective work. Hey, I like that. Grapevine detectives. Maybe I can have my own reality TV show.”
Bel ignored him. He beelined for the kitchen and began searching for anything alcoholic to consume. What had he been thinking, traveling halfway around the world with Uta sans bourbon? He should have commandeered one of her suitcases and brought a dozen bottles.
There was one dusty jug of raki, Turkey’s national spirit, under the sink, next to the cleaning supplies. He poured a glass half full and filled the rest from the slightly sulfurous tap water, watching it turn cloudy. The anise overpowered any foul taste in the H²0. He downed it all at once and poured another glass, this one to sip.
Outside, the booming sound of Pedro’s laughter traveled over the surface of the lake and echoed off the mountainsides. The windows practically shook with his joy at the feel of the sun. Bel swallowed his bitterness and raised his glass in the direction of his brother’s laughter.
Time to snoop around Ayal’s house. This trip would be a waste unless he found something here. It tormented him to think of getting close enough to Uta to collect his before-and-after data now. Shite. Maybe he’d man up to the task with enough raki. He’d been stupid to trust her, but he couldn’t let her ruin his chances at a breakthrough.
He found nothing noteworthy in the kitchen. Near her reading chair, a book shelf housed a collection of volumes
in various European and Central Asian languages. Hell, there was even Japanese poetry. Apparently Ayal had not been wasting her five-thousand-year lifespan watching TV. Bel would have to give Pedro a nudge in the right direction.
His drink sloshed as he climbed the stairs to the loft—an art studio. Skylights in the A-frame bathed it with light. Oil paintings, sketches, and sculptures occupied every surface. They demonstrated a range of styles—some pieces realistic, and others abstract. But it was the most primitive, expressionistic paintings that drew Bel from across the room. They weren’t old by any means—the paint shone and the canvases stretched taut on their frames—but they were mythic.
Similar in composition to the illustrations Bel had already seen, some paintings depicted everyday life in the vampire paradise, and others showed its violent end. Yet these moved him in a way the others had not. In the tones of red, gold, and black, Bel saw that time through the eyes of a child drowning in awe, anger, and fear—a similar cocktail to the one keeping him afloat at the moment. If only she had stayed, Bel could have met her, another halfling, who had known the tyranny of blood bonds gone wrong even as a child.
Under one of the canvases, she had tucked a small bit of paper. This one was a highly detailed, precise line drawing. The horizontal line of the soil bisected the page. In the center of the page, a qvevri was buried underground. On both sides were the roots of what looked like trees, but proved to be people—or more likely vampires—rooted to the earth. One vampire had been chained to the unrooted humans in the picture. The other vampire was clothed only in vines.
Bel folded the paper and slid it into the pocket of his jeans.
Heavy footsteps slogged on the front deck and a moment later, the front door opened.
“We’ve got a match, Bel. Gold rimmed leaves.”
Bel came down from the loft and bent over the table where Pedro had laid out a brown leaf next to a photo from Andre’s vineyard. “Tell me what I’m looking at here.”
Pedro smoothed the crinkly five-pointed leaf. “You’re looking at Blood Vine, or a close relative.”
“And the wine?”
Leo pulled up a chair at the table.
“Not as tasty,” Pedro replied. “But a helluva lot stronger. I’d stake my honor on the fact it’s a cure.”
“Your honor? You sound like Andre.”
“Did you hear me, bro? It’s a win. We found another cure.”
“Cool huh?” Leo chirped. “Now tell him my question.”
Bel felt Uta without seeing or hearing her, and when he glanced up, she stood at the front door, a rosy glow on her cheeks. Somehow, with that kiss of sun on her face, she was even more beautiful, and he hated her for it.
He would never be able to think with all this fury pumping through him. He needed her to get the hell away from him, and he opened his mouth to bark out a command. But a sentiment tugged at him over their connection—gentle, the warmth of a wordless apology—not enough to inspire forgiveness, or heal what she’d broken, but an acknowledgment of his right to anger.
He sucked air down into the very bottom of his lungs, and on the exhale he found she’d given enough. He could now tolerate her presence.
“What’s your question, kid?”
“Why did they make the wine in the first place? If vampires were so cozy with the Hunters, they didn’t need a replacement for blood.”
Uta came to stand at the table. “On Šolta we drank Andre’s wine instead of blood—not entirely of course, but it freed us from relying so heavily on the household servants.”
Bel’s palm went to his back pocket and he slid his fingers inside, scraping his fingernails along the paper.
Pedro’s phone rang, jolting Bel out of his irate trance. At least this time it wasn’t all three phones buzzing at once.
Pedro slid his phone from his pocket. Andre’s name appeared on the screen.
“What’s up, big guy?”
“Brace yourself.”
That could only mean one thing.
“Is he dead?” Jesu Cristo, wouldn’t Pedro know, feel it? Wasn’t that how a bond worked?
“No. But he is sick, Pedro. Very sick. I blame myself.”
“What kind of sick?”
“It is cancer. I can smell it coming off his skin. But I did not notice because the Hunter scent was—”
“Cancer?” Fuck. Pedro must have smelled to too then, only he hadn’t recognized it. “Let me talk to him.”
Bel appeared at Pedro’s elbow, and lowered him to sit on a stool.
“He is weak,” Andre warned. “He was bleeding inside, and he collapsed.”
Bel held his hands up in question.
Pedro pushed him out of the way and shouted at Andre. “Hijo de puta, put him on the line.”
The phone was jostled for a few seconds before Lucas’s voice rasped like dry leaves. “Hey.”
“Let him turn you. Now.”
“Hello to you too.” A smile raised the pitch of his whisper.
It only made Pedro angrier, his chest tightening. “I cannot lose you. Do not be stubborn about this.” His gaze darted to Leo. “We will solve the feeding problem somehow.”
“I know. I know.” Gracias a Dios, no hesitation colored his words. “But not Andre, okay? I want it to be you—I want you to turn me.”
Pedro blew out a breath. He wanted that too. “I’ll leave right away. We’ll be there by sundown tomorrow. Give Andre the phone.”
More thuds and crackles sounded as they passed the device.
Then Andre spoke. “Son, I am so sorry that I allowed this to happen.” Typical—just like Uta, just like Bel—he took responsibility for the whole world.
Good. Pedro needed him to be responsible. “Shut up and listen. You do not leave his side. Any sign he is weakening, slipping, you turn him, no matter what he says.”
“Of course. He belongs to my household, son. It is my duty.”
No, he belonged to Pedro. But they could argue that point later. “There’s something else.”
Andre waited, silent.
Pedro wished like hell he wasn’t delivering this news over the phone. “Uta walked in the sun—”
Andre roared. “Davo. Is she—”
“She’s fine. Unharmed. Puta has a tan. Or she did five minutes ago.”
“By the gods of my father. Are you saying—”
“She fed from Derek once, a month ago, and she can tolerate the sun.”
“We can tell no one.”
“Nada.”
“We cannot even risk being seen…” Andre had never sounded so forlorn.
“Big guy, you’ll get your chance, I promise. Now, we’ve gotta get on the road. We’re a long way from the plane.”
“Journey safely,” Andre said, as Pedro ended the call.
Leo and Bel both stared at him like they’d swallowed vinegar. “Don’t give me that pity shit. Load up the car. We’re gonna get there in time, and if we don’t Andre’s on it. Where’s Uta?” He looked around.
“I have loaded the truck.” She flew down the stairs carrying the gnarled stock of a vine. Dirt fell in clumps from its rootball. She jutted it toward Leo. “Carry this. I also want to return with one of these.” She dropped to her knees next to the qvevri.
The one out front was taller than her and from this one’s opening, Pedro guessed it would be the same size. He lunged for her. “Uta wait.”
He was too late. She twisted the nearest jar, dislodging it from the soil, and corkscrewed the thing right out of the earth. More than six and a half feet tall, it easily weighed five hundred pounds. Not a locomotive, but still—impressive.
She reached her arm high and knocked on the top of the amphora. “How tight is the seal? Will it spill in the truck?”
“Not if you hold it up between your knees, sweetheart.”
She hissed at him, and from some surprising place inside him, he found the ability to laugh. Yeah. He could laugh. Deep down, he knew Lucas would be okay. And his. Forever.
She hugged it to her torso and hefted it. “We will angle it upright with the suitcases in the cargo area and secure it with rope.”
She glanced at Bel and rubbed one wrist and then the other. Was the crazy bitch wishing she’d stayed put? Probably. Pedro scratched his head. Did living forever make everyone bonkers or just her? Most days, Andre was pretty sane.
It didn’t matter anyway. It was his fate, and now it was Lucas’s too.
Chapter 43
GWEN PRESSED HER SPINE to the wall outside of her cell while inside, Andre Marasović murmured to Lucas, who sounded dazed.
“That is quite a bruise developing on his abdomen.” The vampire raised his voice, presumably speaking to the others.
“An internal bleed.” That was the dark-skinned vampire, who sounded like a British Barry White. “Trys, can you try your thing on him?”
“Good chance I can stop the bleeding, but if you smell cancer on him—well, there’s nothing I can do about that.”
“Stabilize him, if you can,” Andre said. “I will call Pedro.”
They seemed to have forgotten about Gwen. On her bare toes, she sprinted to the other side of the workroom and ducked behind the long worktable. All she had to do was get the woman called Trys alone and…
And kill her.
Ethan hadn’t exactly prepared Gwen for that possibility. Killing a woman, face to face, was very different than simply leaving a household of vampires vulnerable to their enemies. Gwen had no inclination to do violence, found the idea of causing harm repulsive. But she did like violence done to her. She would have to draw on her lust for her own harm.
At just over five feet, she stood inches shorter than the other woman. She would need a sharp weapon and the advantage of surprise.
She backtracked to the kitchen in search of a knife. She found a box-cutter in a drawer of miscellany, and then wedged herself into a cabinet in the dining room. Curled up on her side, she rested her hands on her head. Not exactly a feather mattress, but she’d found far worse hiding places at Mason’s—a cleaning closet full of chemicals to mask her scent; a hot noisy, crevice behind the boiler to cover the sound of her breathing. He’d always found her, until she’d given up all hope of escape.
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