by Kat Ross
Anne prided herself on self-control, but his blind stubbornness shattered her calm into a thousand sharp pieces. Her hands trembled with rage.
“I was wrong,” she shouted at him. “There is a Hell. And you’re the Devil!”
Gabriel stared at her for a long moment. “You can stay in my bedroom until you’re well. Mr. Poe claims the death of a beautiful woman is, unquestionably, the most poetical topic in the world.” He gave Anne a vicious, wounded look. “But then you’d do me no good at all.”
“My brother will come for me,” she spat. “He’ll find me if it takes him a thousand years.”
Gabriel smiled bleakly. “I’m counting on it.”
The door slammed shut.
15
Alec Lawrence sat on the flagstone veranda of the Hotel Santa Catalina, his cane propped against a wicker lounge chair and a cup of tea steaming at his elbow. The waves of the Atlantic broke on a white sand beach in the distance. Beyond, he could see the dark peaks of volcanic islands and the triangular sails of yachts racing across the bay.
Another day in paradise.
The weather on Gran Canaria was hard to argue with. The temperature perpetually hovered in the mid-seventies and a gentle sea breeze nudged pillowy clouds along the horizon. Alec had tossed his coat aside and opened his collar, revealing a tan throat that made a pleasant change from his usual pastiness. He wished he could roll up his shirtsleeves too, but the gold cuff circling his wrist would draw unwanted attention.
Ah, well. He could live with that.
Alec took a sip of tea and basked like a cat.
The Hotel Santa Catalina specialized in catering to wealthy Britons fleeing the cold and damp of winter. The staff did a smashing teatime, with cakes and sandwiches and Darjeeling with fresh cream. Alec took a lemon cake from a tray and sighed happily. He’d only intended to stay for a week or so, but he kept finding excuses to prolong his holiday.
He knew he should send a cable to Vivienne. Every day, he resolved to do it. And every day, he somehow forgot until it was too late.
I needed some time away, he thought. I bloody earned it.
Alec smiled as a white-jacketed waiter refilled his cup and brought a fresh platter of sandwiches and pastries.
Three more days, he vowed. Then I’ll go back to London.
Just the thought made him vaguely depressed. Alec ate several custard tarts.
At least he might catch a glimpse of Anne. Such sightings were rare, he thought with wry tenderness, but she always came home for her birthday. No doubt she’d be haring off for someplace else within a matter of days. Sometimes he envied her complete freedom.
Alec’s routine was to wake early while the other guests were still sleeping off the previous night’s revelry and go swimming in the sea. Then he’d walk into town and prowl through the Mercado de Vegueta, stopping for lunch at one of the little open-air cafes along the corniche. A siesta followed, after which he’d claim a chair on the veranda and mingle with the other guests, most of them Brits and Continentals. Then came dinner — a sumptuous black-tie affair — after which he’d retire to his rooms and sit on the balcony, watching the stars wheel across the sky.
Alec closed his eyes, listening to soft buzz of conversation. He liked being anonymous, one of the holiday-making herd. He’d never indulged in anything resembling a vacation before, certainly not without Vivienne. They spent all their time hunting the endless tide of creatures that tore through the veil of the Dominion and made mischief in the world of the living. Things had gotten a bit better since they managed to close the last of the Greater Gates, but then they’d been called in on the case in New York last year.
What an utter nightmare that turned out to be.
Alec brushed crumbs from his hands and pushed away the plate before he polished off the whole thing. He resolved to insist on a holiday once a year — alone. As much as he missed Viv, it was healthy to take time apart and only distance would accomplish that.
The bond between them was much more than a physical connection. She lived in his head, just as he lived in hers. They couldn’t read each other’s thoughts — thank God — but raw emotions leaked through.
But when he got far enough away from her, Vivienne became a whisper instead of a shout. He could still vaguely sense her presence, and could have found her anywhere in the world simply by following the magnetic tug of the bond, but her emotions were no longer tangled up with his.
It felt … strange.
Alec picked up a copy of the local newspaper, El Liberal. The biggest news was the opening of a new theater called the Teatro Pérez Galdós. The rest of the front page was devoted to a bitter rivalry with the newspaper on Tenerife, which he read with amused interest until a feminine voice broke in.
“Why, hello again, Mr. Lawrence!”
He squinted up into the light. A blonde woman with lightly sunburnt cheeks gazed down at him, her lips curved in a smile. Alec stood and bowed from the waist, leaning on the handle of his cane.
“Miss Carlisle.”
She beamed at him with a set of perfect white teeth. American teeth. Miss Carlisle wore a sleeveless gown with tiny lace gloves that were pointless and, Alec thought, extremely erotic. She had warm brown eyes and a lanky, athletic grace.
“Mrs. Mackenzie,” he said to the older woman with tightly curled hair and a steely gaze who stood at Miss Carlisle’s side. “What a pleasure.”
Miss Carlisle was heiress to an oil fortune and Mrs. Mackenzie was her chaperone. Alec had been seated across from them at dinner the night before. When her minder retired to the powder room, Miss Carlisle confided that she’d been sent off to Europe after a minor scandal with a suitor. In contrast to the stiff English girls, she was funny and forthright with a twangy drawl he found appealing.
“Won’t you join me?” he asked, sweeping his hat from an adjacent chair. “They’ve just served tea. I was a selfish pig and ate all the custard tarts, but there are still scones and watercress sandwiches.”
Miss Carlisle inclined her head and sank into the chair, crossing her ankles demurely though her smile held a hint of the devil. Mrs. Mackenzie’s lips tightened — her single task was to keep Miss Carlisle out of trouble and Alec Lawrence looked like trouble — but then her eye lighted on the tray of pastries and she softened a little.
“I suppose I could use some sustenance,” she muttered, settling into the chair to Alec’s left. She snagged a pastry and fanned herself with the other hand. “This tropical heat is exhausting.”
Alec exchanged a deadpan look with Miss Carlisle, whose eyes twinkled.
“It’s the humidity,” she said. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever been to the great state of Texas?”
“I haven’t had the pleasure.”
“Well, it’s awful hot, but more like a desert, you see. Poor Mrs. Mackenzie isn’t used to the wet.” She licked her lips as she said this, reaching for a watercress sandwich.
“Well, I’d trade with you in a heartbeat. London is a dreary place. Lord Byron said the English winter ends in July and recommences in August.”
Miss Carlisle pulled a face. “I wouldn’t like that. Though I’m looking forward to seeing Buckingham Palace.” She looked at Mrs. Mackenzie. “We’re planning a tour of England in April.”
Alec stared out to sea. He had a brief flash of a ghoul dressed as a second butler tottering toward Queen Victoria’s bedchamber. He’d been pursuing the thing when it got inside the palace through a side door. Alec had raced down the corridor and beheaded it moments before it reached the Queen, prompting a scandal that led to the creation of Scotland Yard’s Dominion Branch.
“Mr. Lawrence?”
“Sorry.” Alec turned back to her. “Wool-gathering. What did you say?”
Miss Carlisle eyed his cup of tea. “All your countrymen are having gin and tonic,” she said with a teasing smile. “Tell me you’re not one of those temperance sorts who preach against the evils of liquor.”
Alec sipped his tea and s
et it back into the saucer. “I’m afraid so, Miss Carlisle. I never drink spirits.”
She looked genuinely bewildered. “Whyever not?”
Alec sighed as he pondered a semi-truthful reply. “Because they make me feel warm and fuzzy.”
“And what’s wrong with that?” she demanded with a laugh.
“Nothing. I just prefer to keep my wits about me.”
“Well, I think it’s admirable,” Mrs. Mackenzie put in. “Drunkenness is unbecoming. The male species is idiotic enough without the assistance of alcohol.”
“Now, Mrs. Mackenzie,” Miss Carlisle chided.
“She’s perfectly right,” Alec said. “Bacchus hath drowned more men than Neptune.”
Mrs. Mackenzie shot him the first approving look he’d ever gotten from her. “Now that’s clever! I have to admit, you Englishmen have a way with words.”
Miss Carlisle studied him with a speculative gaze. “Are you really from England, Mr. Lawrence? You don’t sound like it. Your accent, I mean.”
Alec was used to this, but he played along. “What do I sound like?”
“I don’t know. French, maybe. Or Spanish.” She frowned. “Though neither is quite right. You sound like … like you grew up speaking another language but moved to England when you were a boy. I can hear traces of your mother tongue. Something softer.”
Alec made a noncommittal noise. She was dancing around the edges of the truth. He had indeed grown up speaking another language, but it was not French or Spanish or anything she would recognize. It was a language long dead, known only to a handful of scholars.
Miss Carlisle wouldn’t be put off. “Tell me, Mr. Lawrence, don’t be coy. Coy men are even more irritating than drunk ones.”
“You read me like an open book,” he said with a shrug. “I was born in Portugal. My family moved to London when I was six. My father’s a banker. But my mother always spoke Portuguese to me.”
Mrs. Mackenzie gaze him an appraising look. “Say something.”
Alec raised an eyebrow.
“In Portuguese.” She made a shooing motion. “Well, go ahead.”
Alec sighed. He had a sudden feeling of uneasiness and wished they’d leave him alone.
“O amor é uma amizade que pega fogo.”
“Which means?”
“Love is friendship set on fire.”
Alec knew this would provoke her. Mrs. Mackenzie scowled, though Miss Carlisle looked pleased.
“Come.” The older woman tried to stand and found herself impeded by the large quantity of cakes she’d consumed. “We’re due for a game of croquet on the lawn with the Davises.”
“Must we?” Miss Carlisle pouted.
The tone brooked no argument. “Yes, we must. It’ll do you good to spend some time with girls your own age.” Mrs. Mackenzie cast Alec a narrow look. “Good afternoon, Mr. Lawrence.”
“Good afternoon.” He held out a hand and levered her from the chair.
“Perhaps we can play a game of whist after dinner,” Miss Carlisle said hopefully.
“I’m not very good at cards.”
She lowered her voice to a murmur. “I’ll teach you.”
Her gaze promised to teach him any number of things. Thankfully, Mrs. Mackenzie was busy adjusting her skirts and failed to notice.
Alec opened his mouth to utter a flirty reply when a sudden burst of emotion shot through the bond. His bad knee jerked, knocking the teapot from the tray. It shattered on the flagstones, spewing a puddle of lukewarm tea. The ladies jumped back. Miss Carlisle exclaimed something, but Alec barely heard a word. His heart raced, his tongue suddenly dry.
The fear that gripped him was not his own.
Vivienne.
“What’s the matter?” Miss Carlisle asked, her brow creased with concern. “Are you all right?”
Alec murmured some excuse. The intensity was fading, but it didn’t matter. Something dire had happened and he needed to get back to London as fast as possible.
“I do apologize,” he said, pulling himself together enough to smile reassuringly, though he wanted nothing more than to run straight to the nearest ferry. “I think I’d best lie down. The heat. Perhaps we’ll see each other at dinner.”
Before she could reply, he gripped the silver falcon capping his cane and strode through the French doors into the cavernous lobby. Well-dressed guests gathered in a ragged line at the front desk, stacks of steamer trunks off to the side. A bellhop cast him a quick curious glance as he crossed the thick maroon carpet to the lift and waited impatiently while the arrow crept toward the lobby level.
The door opened on polished wood and mirrors. Alec told the short, moustachioed operator his floor and the lift began to ascend. He glanced at himself in the mirror, searching for some sign of the inner turmoil that raged just below the surface, yet he was neatly combed and pressed as usual. Brown hair and eyes, slender build, every inch the English gentleman. What a farce.
Vivienne.
Damnit.
She was fine. Of course she was fine.
The elevator reached the top floor and the door opened. Alec stepped out. He hurried down the deserted corridor, fumbling in his pocket for the room key. Number 513. Behind him, he heard the door close and the whir of the cable as the elevator began to descend.
He was a few feet away from the door to his room when he felt it, like a hard punch to the gut.
Not the bond this time.
No, this was different.
The sensation made his skin crawl.
Something dangerous.
Part of him was less worried about what the hell it was and more about why he’d suddenly developed this sixth sense. He’d never had it before.
Not until their last case.
But that was a topic to be mulled over later.
Alec stopped walking and drew a slow breath through his nose. He flicked the hidden catch on his cane and the sheath fell away, revealing an iron rapier inside. Alec crept forward until he stood before the door to his room. The sensation lessened.
That came as a surprise.
He’d expected whatever it was to be waiting inside.
Moving silently on the balls of his feet, Alec approached the room next door, number 511. The feeling intensified, rolling over him in a dark tide.
He hesitated. A ghoul?
Only one way to find out.
Alec took a deep breath and slid into the Nexus, the place where all things were one, the source of elemental magic. He could hear the overlapping thump of two hearts beating beyond the door. Both male — he detected a whiff of testosterone.
Alec’s shoulder slammed into the door. It flew off the hinges with a mighty splintering of wood.
The room beyond was a mirror image of his own. It had a generous sitting area with a blue silk couch and two matching armchairs. The décor was Old World, the furniture heavily carved and embroidered. Dark landscapes hung on the walls. One side had doors leading to the terrace, which were closed and shuttered. The other opened to a bedroom and bathroom. Those doors were also closed. The only sound was a ceiling fan whirring overhead.
A young man in a bowler hat sat in one of the armchairs beneath a dramatic painting of a ship wrecked on a reef, storm clouds lit from beneath by a jagged bolt of lightning. He was smoking a cigarette and playing solitaire on a glass table. He looked up in almost comical surprise as the door sailed across the room. Alec was on him in an instant, seizing the lapels of his coat and hurling him against the far wall. He struck it hard and slid to ground, stunned.
Alec stepped over him and kicked open the door to the bathroom. The second man was waiting inside. He was a giant, easily six and half feet tall, with huge, wild eyes and very pale skin. He stood in front of the claw-footed bathtub with a crossbow pointed at the door. In the heightened clarity of the Nexus, Alec saw his hand shaking, smelled the waves of fear rolling off him.
Before the door had rebounded, the giant released the trigger. Alec whipped his head to the side. The
bolt sped past his face and buried itself in the wall beyond. The giant tossed the crossbow aside and pulled out a hunting knife. Despite the fact that he towered over Alec and had at least a hundred pounds on him, he had the look of a cornered animal.
Which meant only one thing: He knew Alec was a daēva.
The giant’s lips drew back from his teeth. He was girding himself to attack. Before he could move, Alec darted forward and knocked the knife from his hand, but the man was quicker than he expected, kicking Alec in his bad knee with a size fourteen boot. White agony exploded through the joint, along with fury.
They knew his weaknesses, too.
Alec heard the other man moving in the sitting room and decided it was time to end this charade. He reached for earth power, intending to crack some bones … and hit a wall. The Nexus popped like a soap bubble.
His power had just been blocked, trapped in the bond.
What the hell was Vivienne doing?
Alec flailed against the barrier, knowing it would do no good. If Vivienne were here, he’d scream at her to release him, but she wasn’t and he couldn’t worry about that now. He swept his sword in a deadly arc, slashing the giant’s throat from ear to ear. Blood sheeted down his body as he toppled. Alec spun around and limped into the sitting area, his knee still screaming. The second man was backing toward the balcony. Judging by the look in his eyes, he knew exactly what was coming for him.
“What are you?” Alec asked softly.
The man didn’t reply. He was a few years younger than his companion, mid-twenties, with dark hair and smooth cheeks. Decently dressed, neither rich nor poor. He looked like the fresh-faced students Alec would see streaming out of the buildings at University College in London. Yet Alec could sense the danger in him.
“I’ll spare your life if you tell me who sent you.”
Five stories below, the distant thunder of carriage wheels rattled along the seaside corniche.
The man smiled grimly. “Go to hell, daēva,” he said in a thick French accent.
“Why are you here? What do you want from me?”
The man’s eyes hardened. He turned and ran for the balcony. Alec lurched forward. His fingers brushed the man’s coat as he smashed through the shutters and vaulted over the wrought iron railing. Alec leaned out over the balcony in time to see him hit the street just ahead of a carriage. The horses whinnied, rearing up in their traces and nearly overturning the carriage as they danced to the side.
