by Carmen Caine
I rolled my eyes. Of course, I was partnered with an imp I never should trust. Just what had Lucian been thinking? Expelling my breath, I read the remainder of the paragraph:
In addition, some more advanced imps can detect spells (providing the spell-finder knows how to coax this skill out of his or her imp), and there are rumors that some of the fabled imp Elite Class may be able to protect their masters from a foreseeable curse. But, there are no documented cases of this ever recorded in all the entire history of the Charmed world. There is only a single mention of a single imp doing this for his or her spell-finder, and that imp may, or may not have been, an Elite.
A pair of steady green eyes peered over the top of my book. I jerked, dryly hoping it was just a nightmare, but it wasn’t. Of course, it was Ricky.
“What are you searching for in that?” Ricky asked, adopting an innocent-eyed expression.
“I’m at the part that says you only look out for your own interests,” I lied. Well, it wasn’t really a lie. While the book hadn’t explicitly said it, it sure had implied it plenty of times.
He tried to look at the page.
I slammed the book shut, accidently catching his fingers.
“Ouch!” he started out yelling but ended in a whisper. He pinned his ears down. He looked lost. Forlorn.
I almost fell for it. “Oh, is this the playing with human emotions ploy?” I called him out.
He gave a long, loud sigh. “It seems like it was only yesterday that you trusted me…”
“It was,” I interrupted. “Guilt trips don’t work on me. Especially fake ones.”
He glared at me with burning, reproachful eyes.
Ignoring him, I grabbed my phone from the nightstand, intending to search for flights home, but I was greeted by a message pointing out that I was almost all out of space and should clean up my Camera Roll.
I frowned, puzzled.
I wasn’t much of a photographer. In fact, I couldn’t recall ever having snapped a picture. Distracted, I touched the photos icon.
Pictures. Thousands of them. Ricky-selfies. Apparently, he’d spent his free time fascinated with his own reflection. The guide would have to be updated in the next version: Imps—may be addicted to taking selfies like a teenager.
“And I thought you were just sleeping all the time,” I said, shaking my head in annoyance.
He responded with a shrill, nervous giggle.
“You’re more trouble than you’re worth,” I charged, swatting at him with a frown.
“But I’ve been useful!” he was quick to say. “And Esmeralda. I’ve handled her. She won’t tell Lucian about, well, you know.” He pointed a smoke-finger up at the ceiling, indicating the marionette room.
That made me perk up. I raised a questioning brow. “Is she an imp, like you?”
He let out a loud ‘Pah’ and rolled his eyes. “Really, love!”
So we were back to love? So much for sadness and remorse.
“Esmeralda is a true demon,” he hissed in a conspiratorial tone.
I blinked and sat up on my elbow. “Really?” I gasped. Was Esmeralda the true key to Lucian’s power?
“Aye,” Ricky nodded up and down, clearly enjoying my rapt attention. “She’s a … cat.”
I really did swat him then. I kept swatting him until he dispersed into a formless cloud of smoke with just two blinking green eyes and no mouth.
When I finally allowed him to gather himself back together, he looked suitably contrite. “Cats are evil,” he said in his own defense.
I had to grant him that—I wasn’t a cat-lover either—but I wasn’t about to let him know it.
Instead, I opened my mouth to order him to bed—and to never touch my phone again—when there was a sudden sharp rap on my window.
A Kilted Vampire
A prickle of foreboding raced up my spine as the rapping on the window continued.
Ricky dashed under the pillow. I pulled him out by his foot.
“Go check it out,” I directed as the rapping grew louder.
He was my imp, right? Shouldn’t he take a few orders here and there?
I wasn’t about to open the curtains. What if it was Dorian? I didn’t want to risk getting that close to him. He was too much of an unknown for me.
The rapping turned insistent.
“Hurry up!” I flicked Ricky’s butt—or where I thought it was, anyway—with my fingers in the effort to spur him on.
He folded his arms stubbornly. “That’s your job,” he countered. “You’re the leader.”
“Yes, I am,” I grumbled. “And I’m telling you to make a move!”
But Ricky wasn’t one to cooperate so easily. “Lor’ love a duck, if it’s your job to lead, then why are you telling me to do it?” he protested, digging his heels into the bedspread.
“Because it’s your job to follow orders, Ricky.” And I brushed him off the bed and halfway across the room.
He tromped the rest of the way to the curtains like a surly three-year-old. Gripping the bottom of the curtain, he heaved it back—but not much. About an inch.
I only caught a glimpse, but a glimpse was enough.
My lips parted in surprise.
My mother, Blair, twice in a month. Unusual, to say the least. Had she actually followed me to Venice? Why?
Or most likely, who was using her and why?
I could only think of two possibilities.
Emilio or Dorian.
Still, I was at the window in an instant, pointing to my phone. “What do you want?” I mouthed. “What is it? Why didn’t you just call me?”
She shook her head and pointed to the dim streetlight next to the canal. The next moment, she stood there, beckoning me with a crooked finger.
I frowned. Had she lost her phone?
I didn’t think she was really working for the Terzi. After all, she’d warned me of them to save her precious Emilio. And he wasn’t a Terzi. Putting me completely out of the picture, I didn’t think she was going to do anything that risked her relationship with him.
Maybe Lucian had spelled the place and she couldn’t knock on the door like a normal person.
I stood there, weighing my options, but in the end, she was my mother. I owed her a conversation, at least.
“I’ll be back,” I growled at Ricky.
He was mad at me; it was obvious. He sat in the middle of the bed with his long ears flat and his eyes narrowed into slits. He’d get over it. I’d find him some peanuts.
The cobblestones appeared blue in the moonlight as I cautiously eased out of the villa’s front door. My mother waited a little ways off, huddling under the streetlight.
“What is it?” I rasped at her in a hoarse whisper.
She shook her head and waved for me to join her. She couldn’t have been more than fifty feet away. I knew very well that she could hear me.
Exercising caution, I took a deep breath, searching for the slightest hint of mana.
Only Blair’s unique combination filled my nostrils.
It gave me enough confidence to skip down to the bottom porch step. “If you want to talk to me, you’ll have to come closer to me,” I whisper-shouted.
She cupped an ear to her hand.
I rolled my eyes. So much for playing hardball with my mom. Stomping off the porch, I crossed to where she stood at the canal’s edge.
She looked gorgeous, as usual, in a fashionable cream-colored suit. Plunging neckline. White leather ankle-boots.
“Just what is it?” I demanded in hushed tones. “It’s very dangerous here.”
“I know,” she said quietly, her bronzer and sheer lip gloss reflected the moonlight with every subtle move of her face.
Her voice trembled a little and I peered closer. Despite all her makeup, I could tell her face was paler than usual. Strained. Unhappy. But it was the shadow of sadness in her eyes that caught my attention.
A fatal mistake.
Before I even saw her hands move, she’d lashed out an
d pushed me into the canal.
I landed in the foul-smelling water with a loud splash. I could swim, but it wasn’t my favorite ‘to-do’ thing. And going swimming at night in a Venetian canal was most definitely not on my bucket list.
Outraged, I sputtered and bobbed to the surface of the reeking canal.
Almost at once, hands reached into the water, pulling me up and out in a single, swift motion.
Strong hands. Many strong hands.
I could smell them all now. Chosen Ones. At least a dozen different scents.
I knew now why Blair hadn’t just called me on the phone. She’d never really wanted to talk. She’d just wanted to entice me out to be caught like some kind of fish.
It was a new low for her, and it hurt.
The instant my feet hit dry ground, someone tossed a dark hood over my head and whisked me away.
It had all happened so quickly that there was no way even Lucian could have saved me.
In seconds, I’d been kidnapped—taken by the Terzi.
The hood covering my head was spelled. I could smell the mana infused into the weave of the cloth. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even open my mouth. Apparently, the hood was designed to keep its victims from crying out for help.
I don’t know how far they carried me. By the force of the wind blowing against my hood, I could tell they moved with incredible speed. Less than a minute later, I was lowered onto my feet and the hood yanked off my head.
A half dozen cloaked figures surrounded me. Chosen Ones. But before I could speak a word, they melted into the surrounding shadows to leave me alone with my mother.
Blair stepped forward to catch my face between her hands.
From the corner of my eyes, I could see that I now stood in a small courtyard ringed with dark trees and a crumbling stone wall. Dark branches obscured the view of the sky, but here and there, I caught patches of stars. It was strangely silent. No sounds of tourists. Not even a cricket.
My mother pressed my cheeks together, squeezing my lips into a fish kiss. It was her way of focusing my attention. I hated it.
“You must do as he commands,” she said, sounding as if she wanted to swallow her words.
“Who?” I spat viciously, furious at her betrayal. “Dorian Ramsey?”
I figured if Dorian could get into my head, he’d probably have no problem getting into my mother’s.
She shivered at the sound of the vampire’s name. She opened her mouth to retort but swiftly clamped it shut again as her eyes locked over my shoulder. An expression of terror crossed her face.
I had no doubt who had just arrived.
A moment later, I smelled him. Strong. Unique. Powerful. I could sense his green eyes boring through the back of my head.
Well, I might was well face him. There was no avoiding it now.
Slowly, I turned on my heel as a figure emerged from the night shadows. I recognized him at once.
Dorian Ramsey.
The tall, ruddy, medieval Scot with impossibly broad shoulders and the brightest green eyes dusted with gold, a green that matched the kilt slung low on his narrow hips.
Overwhelming. Up close, he could only be described as overwhelming.
Crud.
What was it with men from the Charmed world? First, I’d met a warlock as handsome as sin itself. And now, I stood in the presence of a vampire who just might make swooning fashionable again.
I’d refused to acknowledge it before, I could deny it no longer. I’d heard it in his voice the moment it whispered through my mind. I’d known instinctively that he’d be like this: attractive, hypnotic, and more than a bit fascinating.
Could I hold my own? Or would I succumb to his influence and become just another one of his minions?
“At last, we meet properly, lass.” His voice was deep, holding a distinct Scottish brogue.
As he approached me, I wondered how one is to officially greet a vampire.
Handshake? A curtsy? Kissing cheeks—no, surely, that would be a bit too dangerous, placing your neck voluntarily under their nostrils.
I settled for a curt nod of the head.
“I see it wasn't that hard to find you,” I bluffed. I wasn’t about to let this Scottish hunk-of-a-vampire think he had the upper hand.
His eyes seemed to crinkle in amusement, but I couldn’t be sure. He just replied, “But, I never was hiding, lass.”
He’d stopped, so I took the opportunity to approach. Clasping my hands behind my back, I craned my neck from side to side, evaluating him before quipping, “You must be feeling better! You’re looking decidedly morerestored than your picture!” I wondered if he’d understand my reference to the newspaper photo.
He did.
He was definitely sharp.
His square jaw shifted a little, and a distinct twinkle entered his jade-colored eyes this time. “Aye, and you, lass, you’re a bonny one yourself.” This time, he circled me, mimicking my appraisal with his hands locked behind his back. “Feisty. Brazen.” His eyes swept over my catsuit slowly, as if memorizing each of my curves before he added, “Ach, and a wee bit shameless.”
Only a wee bit? For a man from the sixteenth century, he seemed to be adjusting to modern-day customs rather quickly.
Stopping directly in front of me, he bent down until he was eye-level. “And just what manner of creature are you now, might I ask?” he whispered.
My heart thudded. He was a vampire. A real one—not some initiate like my mother hovering nervously behind me. What could I tell him? Surely, he knew I wasn’t really one of them.
Not knowing what to say, I decided to fake it. I simply bared my lips, just enough to show him my useless fangs.
He shrugged. “I recognize my sister’s handiwork. Do you think me a fool?”
Sister? I scowled. What did he mean?
The howl of a wolf rent the night air.
Heath.
Was I going to be rescued? Relief coursed through me, or maybe two-thirds of me. The other third was fascinated and wanted to stay. I didn’t feel in any particular danger. Yes, Dorian was a dangerous vampire, but I actually felt … well, kind of … safe.
Heath howled again.
“They’re coming for me,” I said, searching Dorian’s face for traces of fear.
He didn’t seem too worried. Actually, he appeared only amused. “Daft fool,” he commented in a dry tone. “He’ll have the wretches searching for him now, aye?”
“Wretches?” I repeated, allowing curiosity to overcome me.
“Scalawags,” he answered with a slight frown. At my deepening confusion, he added in rapid succession, “Commoners. Masses. The herd.”
Apparently, the Charmed had quite a few pet names for ordinary humans. I wondered what Lucian called them.
“I get it,” I said, slightly amused in spite of myself. “Sheeple.”
“Sheeple?” he pondered a moment, stroking his chin, and the twinkle reappeared in his eyes. “Now, that’s a name I fancy. Sheeple.”
Yes, he was a powerful vampire—an ally of the Terzi. Someone I’d assumed was an enemy. But he was strangely interesting to talk to. Perhaps because I’d never met anyone from the sixteenth century before—that I knew of, anyway.
Heath howled again. Much closer.
“Shall we, my lady?” Dorian asked, extending a hand.
I didn’t know what to do, but it was moot to strategize because he didn’t give me a chance. Reaching down, he lifted me up and hefted me over a broad, muscled shoulder. And then with unholy speed and exceptional grace, he set off through the streets of Venice so quickly that the buildings passed by in an indistinguishable blur.
Spilling the Beans … and Then Some
Dorian stopped in an eerie dark alley and set me down in the crisp night air. Buildings and trees blocked the sky and any other sources of light so that I could hardly see. It made my hearing overly sensitive. The complaints of a few tipsy tourists searching for their hotel over in the next block rang unusually loud.
At first, by the way his eyes gleamed as he listened to them, I thought Dorian was going to hunt them down for a quick bite. He looked like a greyhound itching to dash away, but then in the wall next to us, a gate unexpectedly creaked open and someone thrust a torch into our faces.
I winced at the sudden light.
“Ach, ye gorbellied gudgeon!” Dorian swore, knocking the newcomer back. “Have a care! ‘Tis not a way to greet a lady.”
The vampire quickly stepped back. “Sorry, ma’am,” he murmured, bowing a hasty apology. He was young, freckle-faced, and of slight build. He looked no more than fifteen, but his fifteenth birthday could have been several hundred years ago.
With a grand sweeping gesture, Dorian signaled me to enter with the polite murmur of, “After you, my lady.”
I ducked through the gate and stepped into a neglected garden. It seemed a tad familiar. Dark trees shadowed the pathway. Weeds grew in the cracks of a broken sidewalk beneath my feet.
As my eyes adjusted to the dim circle of torchlight, I recognized where I was—the old house next to the archaeological dig.
The vampire lad lifted his torch and led us to a side entrance of the house. There was no sign of electricity. The place smelled of mildew and dust. I couldn’t really see much, but torchlight reflecting here and there revealed an interior in worse shape than the unkempt garden outside. I had no doubt that the entire property should be condemned.
We ascended an ancient staircase with creaking steps to take a sharp left before entering a small, windowless room. A fire crackled on the hearth, its smoke hanging in the air to give the place a woodsy, outdoors smell. Comforting. Adventurous. A large wax candle graced the mantle. Old furniture covered in cobwebs crowded the room, but someone had dusted off a large wing-backed chair near the fire.
In short, the place looked positively gothic. And with Dorian in his kilt standing by my side, I wondered briefly if I’d been transported back in time.
